The Palgrave Handbook of Screen Production

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The Palgrave Handbook of Screen Production Edited by Craig Batty · Marsha Berry · Kath Dooley Bettina Frankham · Susan Kerrigan The Palgrave Handbook of Screen Production Craig Batty • Marsha Berry Kath Dooley • Bettina Frankham Susan Kerrigan Editors The Palgrave Handbook of Screen Production Editors Craig Batty Marsha Berry University of Technology Sydney RMIT University Sydney, NSW, Australia Melbourne, VIC, Australia

Kath Dooley Bettina Frankham Curtin University University of Technology Sydney Bentley, WA, Australia Sydney, NSW, Australia

Susan Kerrigan University of Newcastle Callaghan, NSW, Australia

ISBN 978-3-030-21743-3 ISBN 978-3-030-21744-0 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-21744-0

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s) 2019 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprint- ing, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, express or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations.

Cover illustration: Richard Newstead

This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG. The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland Contents

Part I Conceptualising the Screen Work: Ideas, Intentions, Contexts 1

Creative Filmmaking Processes, Procedures and Practices: Embodied and Internalized Filmmaking Agency 3 Susan Kerrigan and Phillip McIntyre

Commission, Position and Production: Intent and Intervention in Minority Language Programmes 19 Diane Maclean

Having Something to Say and Saying It Well 33 Stephen Sewell and Ben Crisp

Understanding the Underlying Principles of the Short Film 49 Michael Sergi and Craig Batty

Two Screenplays, One Writer, National Voice 61 Rose Ferrell

Off-screen: Reimagining Animation 75 Rose Woodcock, Lienors Torre, and Eiichi Tosaki

The Dr Egg Adventures: Incorporating User-Generated Content and User-Testing Strategies in Pre-production Conceptualisation and Development of a Multi-Platform Storyworld 87 Catherine Fargher

v vi Contents

Taking Place, Screening Place: Studying Locations in Television Drama Production 103 Kim Toft Hansen and Anne Marit Waade

Wayfaring, Co-Presence and Mobility: Conceptualising and Re-Conceptualising with Smartphones 117 Jess Kilby and Marsha Berry

Part II Developing the Screen Work: Collaboration, Imagination, Distillation 129

Writing Bodies: Developing and Scripting an Embodied Feature Film Screenplay 131 Kath Dooley

Putting Theory into Practice: Structuring the Personal Essay Documentary, The Silences 145 Margot Nash

Work-in-Progress: The Writing of Shortchanged 157 Margaret McVeigh

Developing Baxter and Me: Maintaining Authorial Voice Despite Industry Pressures 169 Gillian Leahy

Writers, Producers and Creative Entrepreneurship in Web Series Development 181 Steinar Ellingsen and Stayci Taylor

Local Content Producers: Co-Creating Communal Stories and Community in the Big Stories, Small Towns Participatory Documentary Project 193 Martin Potter Contents vii

Part III Realising the Screen Work: Practice, Process, Pragmatism 207

Creative Practice: A Love Story 209 Phoebe Hart

Creating and Designing the Contemporary Soundtrack: A Case Study 221 Damian Candusso

The (Braided) Documentary Voice: Theorising the Complexities of Documentary Making 231 Willemien Sanders and Kate Nash

Editing the Observed: Evaluation and Value Creation Processes in the Editing of a Feature Documentary Film 243 Alastair Cole

The Beginning of a Beautiful Relationship: A Case Study of an Immersive Filmmaking Process 257 Shreepali Patel, Rob Toulson, and Luis Azuaje

“Make it in Post”: Digital Visual Effects and the Temporality of Creative Value in Post-Production 269 Tara Lomax

Trapped: A Case Study of International Co-Production 281 Rosamund Davies

Production Practices in the Filming of German Scripted Reality Shows 293 Daniel Klug and Axel Schmidt

Embracing the TV Commercial: Charms and Challenges of Selling on Screen 305 Ben Crockett and Chrissie Feagins viii Contents

Part IV Exhibiting the Screen Work: Places, Spaces, Ecologies 321

Producing the Other in International Film Festivals: Festival Fund, Address and the Making of Authenticity in Gabriel Mascaro’s Neon Bull 323 Humberto Saldanha

The Live Cinema Paradox: Continuity and Innovation in Live Film Broadcast, Exhibition and Production 335 Sarah Atkinson and Helen Kennedy

Digital Disruption and Innovation in Distribution: Opportunities for Research-Based Filmmaking in the New Global Screen Ecology 347 Sean Maher and Susan Kerrigan

Dispositifs at Play: Artist’s Moving Image in the Gallery 363 Ella Barclay and Alex Munt

Mobile Reception: Materiality and Locality with Small Screens 375 Bettina Frankham and Chris Caines

Appeasing the Trolls: Contextualising New Screen Practices with Smartphones 389 Patrick Kelly and Marsha Berry

Part V Teaching the Screen Work: Pedagogies, Practices, Approaches 401

There Is No ‘E’ in ‘Constraints’: Teaching Creativity in Higher Education Screen Production 403 Andrew Taylor

“Is this Degree Practical or Theoretical?” Screen and Media Education, Studio-Based Teaching and Signature Pedagogies 415 Brian Morris

Teaching Screen Arts in Australia: Challenges, Opportunities and Current Trends 427 Kath Dooley Contents ix

VR and Screen Education: An Approach to Assist Student Understanding of Narrative Emphasis, Spatiality and Structural Elements within Narrative VR 443 Megan Heyward

Teaching Screenwriting Through Script Development: Looking Beyond the Screenplay 459 Craig Batty and Stayci Taylor

Index 473 Notes on Contributors

Sarah Atkinson is Head of Department of Culture, Media & Creative Industries, King’s College London, and co-editor of Convergence: The International Journal of Research into New Media Technologies. Sarah has published widely on the impacts of digital technologies on film and cinema audiences and film production practices. She has undertaken extensive work into the Live Cinema economy and is currently working on a number of funded immersive media projects (Arts and Humanities Research Council/Engineering and Physical Sciences Research Council, Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council and Innovate UK). Luis Azuaje is Course Leader for the BA in Computer Games Art at Anglia Ruskin University. He teaches several topics related to contemporary digital content creation pipelines and is especially dedicated to research into real-time VFX creation and procedural content creation in VFX, film and video games. He is currently teaching 3D digital sculpting, character rigging and animation and digital compositing. Luis also works as a freelancer for the film, animation and apps industry. He holds an Engineering degree in Computer Science and a degree in Computer Games and Visual Effects, as well as an MA in Film and TV Production. Luis’ research focuses on topics that cover the implementation of procedural content creation in video games that draw on live action film techniques. Ella Barclay is a contemporary artist and academic based in Canberra, Australia. Working across installation, sculpture, electronics and moving image, she explores the terrestrial dimensions of network aesthetics and the impacts of these on information hierarchies. Recent exhibitions include Experimenta Make Sense, International Triennial of Media Art (2017–20), Curious and Curiouser, Bathurst Regional Art Gallery (2018–19), Soft Centre, Casula Powerhouse Arts Centre, Western Sydney (2018), Light Geist, Fremantle Art Centre (2016–17), Bodies Go Wrong, Orgy Park, NY (2016), That Which Cannot Not Be, Vox Populi, Philadelphia (2016), Almost, Instant 42, Taipei,

xi xii NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS

I Had to Do It, UTS Art, Sydney (2016). She is a Lecturer in Photomedia at the Australian National University and is currently completing her PhD at the University of Technology Sydney (UTS). Craig Batty is Head of Creative Writing at UTS. He is the author, co-author and editor of ten books, including Writing for the Screen: Creative and Critical Approaches (2nd edn, 2019), Screen Production Research: Creative Practice as a Mode of Enquiry (2018) and Screenwriters and Screenwriting: Putting Practice into Context (2014). He has also published over 50 book chapters and journal articles on the topics of screenwriting practice, screenwriting theory, creative practice research and doctoral supervision. Craig is also a screenwriter and script consultant, with experiences in short film, feature film, television and online drama. Marsha Berry is Associate Professor in the School of Media and Communication at the Royal Melbourne Institute of Technology (RMIT) University. She is author of the book, Creating with Mobile Media (Palgrave Macmillan, 2017). Marsha supervises postgraduate research students across a range of topics concerned with new media arts, narrative, creative writing and mobility. She has published her research extensively in international scholarly journals such as New Media and Society and New Writing as well as in edited books. She is an ethnographer, writer and artist whose practice includes filmmaking, participatory art projects and poetry. Chris Caines is an interdisciplinary artist who has been working internationally in a variety of digital and electronic media including video, locative media, radio and sound for over 20 years. His work has been collected by and seen at many museums and festivals, including ACMI, the Queensland Art Gallery, Museum of Modern Art, New York, Tate UK, the Art Gallery of NSW and the Berlin, Venice and Cannes festivals. This work has been supported by numerous arts grants, commissions and international residencies. He is currently Senior Lecturer in the Media Arts programme at UTS. Damian Candusso is an international multi-award-winning sound designer and Head of the School of Creative Practice at Queensland University of Technology. He has extensive industry experience in film, television, animation, games, music and immersive media, with notable credits including Safe Neighborhood, The LEGO Movie, The Great Gatsby, Australia and Happy Feet. Damian’s research includes remote collaboration and all aspects of sound for screen. His practice-led research investigates contemporary film sound including 3D cinema, 360° film and VR, including sound design, the spatialisation of sound, the relationship between soundtrack and imagery, and the use of sound to convey narrative and evoke imagery. Alastair Cole is a Lecturer in Film Practice at Newcastle University, UK. He is a documentary filmmaker and practice-based researcher whose current work focuses on enquiries situated broadly within linguistic anthropology, as NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS xiii well as elements of documentary film practice such as subtitling and editing. His work aims to embrace the potential of creative documentary film to foster new insights into the social and political aspects of language use. His most recent documentary film as a director,Colours of the Alphabet, premiered at the Glasgow Film Festival 2016. It was shortlisted for Best Newcomer at the 2016 Grierson Awards and has since had over 30 international festival screenings and has been released across Africa in 30 languages. His previous short documentary films have also been broadcast in 27 countries and screened at over 40 festivals around the world, including at both the 2011 and 2012 Cannes Critics’ Week film festivals. Ben Crisp is a screenwriter and stage and screen actor with a PhD in Creative Writing from the University of Adelaide, where he also taught film studies and his thesis ‘The Writer as Mapmaker’ was awarded the Dean’s Commendation for Doctoral Thesis Excellence. He is the recipient of the Colin Thiele Scholarship for Creative Writing and was nominated for the 2016 Western Australia Premier’s Book Awards and AWGIE Awards for interactive media. His feature film screenplays have been optioned by Dancing Road Productions and Gravity Films, and he is the screenwriter and creator of the forthcoming ABC iView original comedy series Goober. Ben Crockett is a lecturer at the School of Communication and Creative Arts (Advertising) in the Faculty of Arts and Education at Deakin University (Melbourne, Australia). He is undertaking a PhD. Crockett has a strong industry background as a creative practitioner with 20 years’ experience in the advertising industry working as an Art Director and Creative Director. He has created and been responsible for multi-million dollar campaigns that have taken him all over the world and has worked on many well-known brands such as Stella Artois, Fosters, Coca-Cola, IOC, Holden, Pacific Brands, APT, Lend Lease, AWB, Property Council of Australia and Cobb & Co to name a few. He has developed numerous TV commercials working for agencies like Grey Worldwide, OBM Advertising and The Fuel Agency. Rosamund Davies has a background in professional practice in the film and television industries, in which she worked with both independent production companies and public funding bodies. As script editor and story consultant for Film London, she oversaw the development of around 100 projects. Rosamund is currently a Senior Lecturer in Screenwriting at the University of Greenwich. Her research encompasses both theory and practice, and her publications include ‘Screenwriting Strategies in Marguerite Duras’s Hiroshima Mon Amour (1960)’, Journal of Screenwriting (2010); ‘Digital Intimacies, Aesthetic and Affective Strategies in Online Video’, in Ephemeral Media (Ed. P. Grainge) (BFI/Palgrave, 2011); hypermedia narrative indexoflove (2010); and (with Gauti Sigthorsson) the book Introducing the Creative Industries (SAGE, 2013). Kath Dooley is a filmmaker and academic in the Department of Screen Arts at Curtin University, Western Australia. She completed a creative PhD exploring xiv NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS portrayals of the body in the work of contemporary French directors Claire Denis, Catherine Breillat and Marina de Van. Kath has written a number of short and feature-length screenplays and has directed several award-winning short films and music videos. Her research interests include screen production methodology, screenwriting and screen education. Steinar Ellingsen is Senior Lecturer in Journalism, Communication and Media at the University of Wollongong, Australia. Before moving to Wollongong, he was Head of Department of Communication and Media at La Trobe University. Steinar is a co-founder and former Director of Melbourne WebFest, Australia’s international web series festival. He is an internationally recognised expert on web series, whose practice-based PhD thesis included the creation of a multi-award-winning travel series, The Inland Sea: An Australian Odyssey. Steinar is currently developing a research project on the value of the web series to the screen industries. Catherine Fargher is an AWGIE award-winning scriptwriter, whose scripts have been produced for radio, multi-platform, puppetry, hybrid performance, theatre and children’s theatre by companies including Sydney Opera House, Redmoon Theater Chicago and ABC Radio National. In 2014/15 she was awarded a Literature Board New Work Grant to develop interactive texts for The Dr Egg Adventures, and travel to South by Southwest in Texas to research immersive and interactive writing. Recent theatre developments include The Merchant: A Sydney Document, for Bell Shakespeare’s Mind’s Eye programme, and Springtime in Kabul/Shawshini, a play about parenting in conflict zones with Griffin Theatre and Urban Theatre Projects. As a lecturer and adjunct researcher at the University of New South Wales School of Arts and Media, she is currently researching multi-platform storytelling and interactive production strategies. Chrissie Feagins is an advertising practitioner with over 40 years’ experience in the industry. Currently Creative Director at Rainmaker Enterprises, Chrissie is a significant member of the advertising community both nationally and internationally. As copywriter and creative director, she has won many awards, including Advertising Woman of the Year. Beginning her career in Adelaide, Chrissie moved to London and was Group Creative Director for Y&R (originally Young & Rubicam) and responsible for Heinz baby foods, Oil of Olay, Jamaica Tourist Board, House of Fraser and Johnson & Johnson across Europe. Returning to Melbourne after 18 years abroad, she became Creative Director for Y&R, JWT (J. Walter Thompson) and OBM Advertising, respectively. Rose Ferrell has a PhD in screenwriting from the Western Australian Academy of Performing Arts and is an adjunct lecturer at Edith Cowan University. She has 20 years’ experience as a technician and writer working on feature film, television drama series and commercial production. Her specific research interests have been the screenwriter’s voice and national inflection in voice. She is NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS xv author of a journal article introducing the concept of voice in screenwriting (Journal of Screenwriting, 2017) and a chapter on voice in the Disney-Pixar transnational film,Big Hero 6 (2017b). Rose currently lives in regional West Australia, where she constantly finds inspiration for madcap characters and off- beat adventure in the stunning frontier: the wild Australian west. Bettina Frankham is a practice-led researcher in digital media. She has a background of industry experience that spans multiple forms of media, including television, radio and web production. Her creative projects have screened at international media arts festivals, including Videobrasil International Electronic Art Festival, Stuttgart Filmwinter Festival for Expanded Media, Berlin Asia-Pacific Film Festival and Flickerfest International Short Film Festival Australia. Her research interests include art and documentary intersections, expanded documentary practice and the impact of digital culture on creative production. Bettina teaches digital media arts and production in the Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences at UTS. Kim Toft Hansen is Assistant Professor at Aalborg University. He is the co- editor-in-chief of the journal Academic Quarter. His recent research projects include work on Danish and Scandinavian television and film, early Danish film theory, Danish independent cinema, place and location in television, Nordic Noir, and regional media production. He has published widely on Scandinavian crime fiction. Currently, he is participating of the research project ‘What Makes Danish TV Travel?’ (2014–18). Recent publications include ‘Taming the Cowboy’ (Historical Journal of Film, Radio and Television, 2016) and 1864: TV Series, History, Critique (DK, 2016). Phoebe Hart is a writer, director and producer of documentaries, factual content and children’s television. She is also a lecturer in film, television and digital media at the Queensland University of Technology (QUT), and principal of Hartflicker, a video and film production company. She is known particularly for her autobiographical road trip movie, Orchids: My Intersex Adventure. Hart completed her Film Studies degree at QUT in 1995. She has worked for Network Ten and the Australian Broadcasting Corporation (ABC). Megan Heyward is a digital media artist and educator whose creative practice operates at the intersection of storytelling and new technologies. Working across interactive narrative, electronic literature, locative media and augmented reality, Megan has created innovative media works fusing moving image, literary, game and interactive aesthetics into pioneering digital projects experienced by diverse audiences. Her creative works have been exhibited in Australia and internationally, including Europe, Japan, Canada and the USA. Megan continues to investigate new and emerging formats, most recently exploring the storytelling and artistic applications of VR. She is a Senior Lecturer in the Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences, UTS. xvi NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS

Patrick Kelly is a Lecturer in Media in RMIT University’s School of Media and Communication. He is a filmmaker, media producer and artist, and has served as a Co-Director of Critical Animals creative research symposium and exhibition, as part of This Is Not Art festival. His screen works have been exhibited by The Lock Up Gallery and MARS Gallery, and at international film festivals, such as the Canada International Film Festival, Queensland New Filmmakers Awards, Tropical Alternative Film Festival, Sightlines: Filmmaking in the Academy and the International iPod Film Festival. Helen Kennedy is Head of the School of Media, University of Brighton, UK. Her research interests are feminist interventions into games culture, experience design, the ludification of cultural experience and the cultural evaluation of live and immersive experiences. She is currently principal investigator in an AHRC-funded immersive experience project, XR CIRCUS, and is industry lead in an international project aimed at the wholesale diversification and transformation of games (REFIG.ca). Susan Kerrigan teaches screen production in the Bachelor of Communication at the University of Newcastle, Australia. She is an Australian Research Council scholar and is the current recipient of an ARC Linkage Grant entitled ‘Creativity and Cultural Production’. As a screen production scholar and practitioner, Susan’s research into creativity and documentary practice has been internationally published as journal articles and book chapters. Susan was the President of the Australian Screen Production, Education and Research Association in 2012, and she has convened their annual conference, edited special issues of journals and examined PhDs in Screen Production. Susan’s research is closely aligned with her past television employment at the ABC (1987–2003) as a producer/director/writer, where she worked across a variety of productions using multi-camera and single-camera approaches. Jess Kilby is an American-Australian artist and sessional lecturer with RMIT University’s School of Media and Communication in Melbourne, Australia. Her multidisciplinary practice incorporates photography, video, site-responsive street art and creative writing. Grounded in a phenomenology of urban walking, this research practice both enacts and articulates a relationship with place through dialogue with its encoded semiotics and enduring ephemeralities. Jess holds an MA in Creative Technology from the University of Salford and a PhD in Media and Communication from RMIT University. Daniel Klug is a faculty member at the Institute for Software Research at Carnegie Mellon University, Pittsburgh, USA. His research focuses on Media Sociology, Human-Computer Interaction, and computer-based analysis of audiovisual media artifacts. From 2008 to 2018 he was a research assistant at the Seminar for Media Studies at the University of Basel, Switzerland. He has written numerous journal articles and book chapters on reality TV, music vid- NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS xvii eos, and methods of popular culture analysis. His current research deals with social media communication in open source communities. Daniel Klug co- developed TRAVIS GO, a freely accessible tool for simple and collaborative video annotation. Gillian Leahy is Associate Professor in Media Arts and Production and Deputy Head of the School of Communication, UTS. Recent works include The Chikukwa Project (2012), filmed in Zimbabwe, about a successful permaculture project in a community of over 7000 Shona Africans, using bottom-up social organisation and permaculture agriculture methods, and Baxter and Me (2016), a feature documentary about human–dog intimacy. Leahy produced and directed Our Park and the multi-award winning, My Life without Steve, among 16 other films. She teaches documentary, drama and mise en scène at UTS. Tara Lomax is a Sessional Lecturer in the School of Film and Television at the Victorian College of the Arts, and is completing a PhD in Screen Studies at the University of Melbourne. Her research examines contemporary Hollywood entertainment and the global VFX industry. She has presented research on the Australian VFX sector at conferences and invited seminars and has published on editing and world-building in the journals Quarterly Review of Film and Video and Senses of Cinema. Diane Maclean is Associate Professor and Head of Journalism, Publishing and Creative Writing at Edinburgh Napier University. Her professional background is as a filmmaker and she worked at the BBC for 15 years. She is a director of a Scottish production company and directs and produces documentaries for BBC Alba, the Gaelic-language channel. Her PhD looked at the collection of oral stories and generation of ethnographic content through commissioned and broadcast documentaries and considered how the commissioning process acts on knowledge. Her present funded-research project investigates the role of the interview setting in documentaries in identity construction. Sean Maher is Senior Lecturer in Film, Screen & Animation in the Creative Industries Faculty of QUT, where he is Head of Documentary. He is a researcher and practitioner in screen production and in 2013 he was President of ASPERA. He has received an Australian Postgraduate Award for his PhD on Cinema and Urbanism conducted at the ARC Centre of Excellence for Innovation in the Creative Industries at QUT. He has been an award-winning filmmaker and taught at the Australian Film, Television and Radio School (AFTRS), UNSW as well as a policy researcher at the Communications Law Centre, UNSW. Phillip McIntyre is an Associate Professor in Communication and Media at the University of Newcastle, Australia, His research interests focus on creativity and innovation, and he has been a video maker, music journalist, record producer and songwriter and musician. He is chief investigator on an ARC research project investigating the creative industries in the Hunter Region xviii NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS in NSW and his book Creativity and Cultural Production: Issues for Media Practice (2012) has been published by Palgrave Macmillan in the UK. Margaret McVeigh is Head of Screenwriting and Contextual Studies at Griffith Film School, Brisbane, and a member of the Screenwriting Research Network Executive. She holds a Master’s in Screenwriting by Creative Practice and a PhD in Film and New Media Narrative. Margaret has extensive national and international industry experience in public relations and post-production. She has worked as a commissioning editor for Wiley and as a writer for the Australian National Broadcaster’s ABC Splash and is co-editor of Transcultural Screenwriting: Telling Stories for a Global World (Cambridge Scholars, 2017). Margaret has published and presented at conferences in Asia, Europe, the USA, South America and Australia on the creative process and the writing and making of transnational films. Brian Morris is a Senior Lecturer in Media at RMIT University, Melbourne. His current research focuses on the intersections between media and education in formal and informal institutional contexts. Previous areas of research include urban place, identity and media technologies, television studies and cultural studies, with individual and co-written publications appearing in prominent academic journals and edited book collections. He has been a co-chief investigator on an ARC Linkage grant (with Parks Victoria), a creative fellow at the Victorian State Library, and has successfully supervised a number of PhDs (creative and thesis-based). He’s still excited about teaching in a university setting. Alex Munt is a screenwriter and director of feature films. In addition, he works across artists’ moving images, photography and VR in a contemporary art context. He has published in film, fashion, design, screenwriting and emerging media. His work has been screened, distributed and exhibited in Australian and abroad including at SXSW, Sydney Film Festival, Sydney Underground Film Festival, Vivid: Festival of Light, Music & Ideas; ISEA (formerly Inter-Society for the Electronic Arts) Vancouver Art Gallery, Mosman Art Gallery, Galerie Pompom and Alaska Projects. Alex is a Senior Lecturer in Media Arts and Production in the School of Communication at UTS. Kate Nash is a Lecturer in Media and Communication at the University of Leeds, School of Media and Communication. Her research has focused on documentary production and questions of ethics, grounded particularly in the relationship between the filmmaker and the participant. Her work has been published in a number of leading journals including Media International Australia, Mass Media Ethics and Media, Culture and Society. Her PhD, ‘Beyond the Frame’ (University of New England, 2010), explores the lived experience of documentary production with a particular focus on questions of ethics. She has also written extensively on interactive documentary. NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS xix

Margot Nash is a filmmaker and a Senior Lecturer in the School of Communications at UTS. She has produced, written and directed a number of award-winning films as well as working as a cinematographer and a film editor. Her credits include the experimental shorts Shadow Panic (1989) and We Aim to Please (co-filmmaker 1976), the feature documentary For Love or Money (co- filmmaker, 1982) and the feature dramasVacant Possession (1994) and Call Me Mum (2005). In 2012 she was Filmmaker-in-Residence at Zürich University of the Arts where she began developing The Silences. Shreepali Patel is Director of the StoryLab Research Institute at Anglia Ruskin University. She previously led the Film and Television Production degree at the Cambridge School of Art. She is a British Academy of Film and Television Arts award-winning filmmaker and a former BBC producer/director with over 25 years of filmmaking experience. Her academic research builds on her professional, creative and technical experience with a focus on existing and emerging audio-visual technologies, end user experience and distribution platforms. Her research has been recognised as innovative and boundary testing and includes both traditional and practice-based moving image publications. Martin Potter is a director and producer of documentaries and participatory media. His focus is on facilitating work that supports marginalised communities to tell and share their stories. In addition to producing more than 20 hours of broadcast documentaries, Martin has developed and produced internationally acclaimed participatory works including SXSW award-winning Big Stories, Small Towns (www.bigstories.com.au), The White Building (www. whitebuilding.org: Cambodia) and Island Connect (Sri Lanka). He researches and lectures at Deakin University, Australia, and is an Associate Investigator with the Centre of Excellence for Biodiversity and Heritage (www.epicaustralia.org.au) and board member of EngageMedia (engagemedia.org). Humberto Saldanha is an Irish Research Council postgraduate scholar and a PhD candidate in Film and Screen Media at University College Cork, where he is developing a study of the cosmopolitan aspect of contemporary Brazilian cinema. He completed a BA in Communication Studies and an MRes in Communication and Contemporary Culture at Universidade Federal da Bahia, Brazil. His research interests include theories on world cinema, cosmopolitanism and cinema, cinema and the (post-)nation, Brazilian cinema, film festivals and sites of film circulation and distribution. He is a member of the editorial board of Alphaville: Journal of Film and Screen Media. Willemien Sanders is a Lecturer in Film and Television in the Department of Media and Culture Studies at Utrecht University (UU). Her research focuses on film and television production and on the reuse of digital media archival material. In her PhD thesis, ‘Participatory Spaces: Negotiating Collaboration xx NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS and Conflict in Documentary Projects’ (UU, 2012) she brings together the experiences of both filmmakers and participants with ethical issues in documentary filmmaking. Her research has been published inMass Communication and Society and the New Review of Film and Television, for which she served as a guest editor. Axel Schmidt is a research assistant at the Institute for the German Language at the University of Mannheim, Germany. His main areas of research are media sociology and media production studies. Recent work focuses on the analysis of television and theatre production and on the format and genre analysis of reality TV especially. His latest publications deal with the interplay of fact and fiction in reality TV formats and authenticity in televisual reality. Michael Sergi is the Director of Film and Television at Bond University, Australia. Michael has directed over 100 hours of television drama in Australia and New Zealand, including Home and Away, Neighbours, Pacific Drive, Breakers and Shortland Street. He co-wrote and produced the feature film 10 Days to Die, and associate-produced the feature filmThe Fear of Darkness. Michael co-founded the Canberra International Film Festival and was its artistic director for 13 years. He is currently a programmer for the Gold Coast Film Festival, and a regular judge for the Australian Directors Guild Awards and the TV WEEK Logie Awards. Michael has published numerous papers on the film and television industry. Stephen Sewell is well known as one of the most celebrated and experienced writers in Australia for his film and theatre work, including his American Film Institute award-winning script of The Boys (1998), as well as plays such as The Blind Giant is Dancing, It Just Stopped and Kandahar Gate (Parade Theatre, 2014). His work has covered a wide variety of fields and activities, from cabaret through to musical theatre and drama, and he has had an extensive screenwriting career, being involved as screenwriter or script editor with some of Australia’s most significant films, such asTrue Love and Chaos, Chopper and numerous others. Sewell is currently Head of Writing for Performance at the National Institute of Dramatic Art, in Sydney. Andrew Taylor is a Senior Lecturer in Media Arts at UTS and has a background as an animation director, documentary filmmaker and cinematographer. In 2009, Taylor completed Siberia, a short lyrical documentary based on photos he took in Russia in the early 1990s. Siberia has since been selected to screen at over a dozen international events including the Oberhausen and Edinburgh Film Festivals and an event at the Pompidou Centre (Paris). Andrew’s most recent film,First Person Kodachrome (2014), screened nationally on ABC TV. The film combines a history of Kodachrome with a personal memoir exploring family photos, memory and loss. NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS xxi

Stayci Taylor explores gender, comedy and screenwriting through creative practice, incorporating her industry background as a screenwriter, actor and playwright. She has recently extended her research interests to online content, presenting on web series and script development at the 2015 Aspera Conference in Adelaide, Australia. With work published in Senses of Cinema, Philament, Journal of Creative Writing Research, Journal of Writing in Creative Practice, New Writing and TEXT, Stayci is a lecturer in media and screenwriting at RMIT. She has co-edited special issues of Networking Knowledge and the Journal of Screenwriting. Lienors Torre is a Lecturer in Animation Production, History and Theory in the School of Communication and Creative Arts at Deakin University, Melbourne. Her research investigates the nexus between screen and object. She is co-author of the book, Australian Animation: An International History (Palgrave, 2018). Lienors is also a glass artist and has taught multiple masterclasses at Pilchuck Glass School, Seattle, USA. Eiichi Tosaki is an artist, philosopher and art historian based in Melbourne. Eiichi’s first PhD theorised Piet Mondrian’s visual rhythm (Philosophy & Art History, Melbourne University, 2002). His second, creative practice-based PhD contextualised bi-manual drawing methods within diverse cultural contexts (Monash Art Design & Architecture, Monash University, 2016). Eiichi has published widely on Japanese culture and aesthetics, phenomenology, analytic philosophy and Modernism. Eiichi regards (manual) awkwardness as a fundamental driver of human creativity: his research into the psychology and cognition of two-handedness in creative practice includes investigating the connections among animation, Japanese aesthetics and robotics. His book on Mondrian’s visual rhythm was published in 2017 (Springer). Rob Toulson is Professor of Creative Industries: Commercial Music at the University of Westminster, London. He was previously Director of the Cultures of the Digital Economy Research Institute at Anglia Ruskin University, Cambridge, UK. Rob is a research leader in the field of commercial music and audio technologies, having collaborated with many international organisations in the music and audio industries. He is a successful music producer and sound designer, as well as an experienced mobile app developer. He is the inventor of the novel iDrumTune percussion tuning application and the innovative variPlay interactive playback system, in collaboration with Professor Justin Paterson of the University of West London. Anne Marit Waade is Associate Professor of Media and Journalism, Aarhus University. Her main research interests include mediated places, creative industry and promotional culture, for example, how locations are used in TV series production, place branding, landscapes and cartographic aesthetics in travel series and travel journalism. More recently she has been focusing on the export of Danish TV drama, location studies, transnational television xxii NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS drama industry and media tourism. Among her recent publications are ‘Nordic Noir Production Values’ (2013, co-author), ‘Medier og turisme’ (2010, co-author), Wallanderland (2013), ‘Armchair Tourism’ (2014, co- author) and ‘When Public Service Drama Travels’ (2016, co-author). Rose Woodcock teaches animation in the School of Communication and Creative Arts at Deakin University in Melbourne. Her research activities include investigating the possibilities of ‘broken’ stereography, animation as movement, non-human phenomenology and robotics, the role of hand drawing in animation and animation pedagogy, and the inherent ambiguity of pictorial surfaces and their objects. She has recently published articles on 3D stereo-imaging and perception in cinema, and on the ontology of motion capture. Rose is also working on a project about horses, madness and the affordances of poetic language to reconcile the two. List of Figures

Two Screenplays, One Writer, National Voice Fig. 1 Logline for Cashflow 63 Fig. 2 Cashflow title sequence with highlighted terms 64 Fig. 3 Mind map: Writer’s impression of character nationalities in Cashflow 65 Fig. 4 A ‘Framework for Screenwriter’s Voice’. (© Copyright 2015 Rose Ferrell Rosie Glow Pictures) 66 Fig. 5 Sc. 102 Caroline escapes being raped. Excerpt from Calico Dreams 69 Fig. 6 Sc. 103 Madame Dream is attacked by Francine. Excerpt from Calico Dreams 71 Fig. 7 Sc. 53 Nathan Honeycombe struggles with his gambling addiction. Excerpt from Calico Dreams 71

Off-screen: Reimagining Animation Fig. 1 Still from Craft’s Council film by Jim Le Fevre. (Photography Mike Paterson. Ceramicists Roops and Al Johnstone (RAMP pottery) 2013 78 Fig. 2 Akinori Goto ‘toki- BALLET #01’, 2016 79

The Dr Egg Adventures: Incorporating User-Generated Content and User-Testing Strategies in Pre-production Conceptualisation and Development of a Multi-Platform Storyworld Fig. 1 Alpha Game Test and Science Puzzle Workshop with Dr Egg Digital and Queenwood School Catalyst Program students, at Macquarie University Incubator Hub, Science Week 2017 96 Fig. 2 Fan-fiction stories on Twinery.org software from interactive writing workshop, NT Writers Festival 2014 97

Taking Place, Screening Place: Studying Locations in Television Drama Production Fig. 1 Model of the different layers of location studies. (Reworked from Hansen and Waade 2017, p. 62) 105

xxiii xxiv List of Figures

Fig. 2 off-screen factors influencing the choice of location. (Hansen and Waade 2017, p. 57) 107 Fig. 3 one of the stills used for conceptualising and marketing the series’ second season, showing the deconstructed interior of Grønnegaard as well as the deconstructed modern family living together. From the left, Emil with his father’s little daughter, the father’s girlfriend, the newly acquainted two sisters Gro and Signe, and their father Thomas and his lover. (DR Fiktion undated, p. 6. Permission given by the production designer Mia Stensgaard. Photograph: Camilla Hjelm) 110 Fig. 4 Production designer Mia Stensgaard’s set design showing the flowers and the deconstructed, dissolved interior as presented in the concept book. (DR Fiktion 2014, p. 25. Permission given by the production designer Mia Stensgaard. Photograph: Erik Molberg Hansen, DFF) 113

Putting Theory into Practice: Structuring the Personal Essay Documentary, The Silences Fig. 1 Ethel and Margot from Our Mums and Us series, 1976. (Photograph: Ponch Hawkes) 148 Fig. 2 Ethel and Diana Nash, 1946. (Nash family collection) 153

Developing Baxter and Me: Maintaining Authorial Voice Despite Industry Pressures Fig. 1 Baxter and Gill in bed from the opening sequence 170 Fig. 2 ‘When I sit on the ground with Baxter …’ 178

Creative Practice: A Love Story Fig. 1 Publicity still image for Orchids: My Intersex Adventure. (Copyright Hartflicker Moving Pictures 2010) 210 Fig. 2 Publicity poster for Handbag: The Untold Story of the Fag Hag. (Copyright Handbag Enterprises Pty Ltd 2018) 211

Editing the Observed: Evaluation and Value Creation Processes in the Editing of a Feature Documentary Film Fig. 1 Breakdown of the evaluative process to reach a three-hour assembly in Colours of the Alphabet 248 Fig. 2 Six images of the introduction sequence 252

The Beginning of a Beautiful Relationship: A Case Study of an Immersive Filmmaking Process Fig. 1 Shard numbering system from digital simulation to final delivery 261 Fig. 2 Colour-coded simulation, including fragmentation and dust 262 Fig. 3 Logic Pro arrangement of the breaking-glass sequence, with the Soundtoys FilterFreak processing tool highlighted 266 List of Figures xxv

Production Practices in the Filming of German Scripted Reality Shows Fig. 1 Chronology of the filmed events versus episode chronology 302

Embracing the TV Commercial: Charms and Challenges of Selling on Screen Fig. 1 Screen-based advertisement team structure 315

Dispositifs at Play: Artist’s Moving Image in the Gallery Fig. 1 Apparitional Charlatan: A Revisionist Account of an Arbitrary Historical Category of Dance Film is a Performance of our Time Together on Stage Before Class ... (Brian Fuata (2015). Photo: Zan Wimberly. Courtesy of the artist) 367 Fig. 2 Biljana Jancic, Surface Tension (2017). (Courtesy of the artist and UTS ART. Photo: Biljana Jancic) 370

Mobile Reception: Materiality and Locality with Small Screens Fig. 1 A user experiencing The City of Forking Paths via mobile phone in The Rocks, Sydney 378 Fig. 2 Schedule of Karen episodes showing spread of instalments over nine days 384

VR and Screen Education: An Approach to Assist Student Understanding of Narrative Emphasis, Spatiality and Structural Elements within Narrative VR Fig. 1 Single-scene VR wireframe diagram of Autism TMI by Megan Heyward, 2017 454 Fig. 2 Student VR wireframe diagram from in-class exercise by Elizabeth Dominis and Eloisa Justa, 2018 456 List of Tables

Work-in-Progress: The Writing of Shortchanged Table 1 The creative process 158 Table 2 What is Eliza’s dramatic line? Creating the character spine 164 Table 3 Story outline/treatment 165 Table 4 The scene breakdown: Self-editing questions 166

Creating and Designing the Contemporary Soundtrack: A Case Study Table 1 Various roles commonly involved in sound for screen 223

xxvii Introduction

As we approach the end of the second decade of the twenty-first century, we bear witness to a diversity of screen production practices that continue to evolve on a global stage. While linear productions still dominate mainstream conversations around cultural production, more and more breakthrough examples of innovative screen production experiences are appearing. Developments in streaming technology and improvements in internet infrastructure are delivering increasingly frictionless, choose-your-own-adventure- style narratives to mobile and larger domestic screens. These interactive story experiences, which have their antecedents in novels with multiple endings and then CD-ROM-based branching narratives, were trialled for television through children’s content such as the Netflix series,The Adventures of Puss in Boots (2015–18). More recently, the form has been taken to another level with the ‘Bandersnatch’ episode of Black Mirror (2011–), also on Netflix, requiring invention across all stages of the production process in order that the programme could be realised (Rubin 2018). It seems that the age of autonomous screen work may be waning, with content creators now highly aware they are creating experiences which need to be activated by an audience. Evolving funding models, different screen types, shifting viewing patterns and fragmenting audiences necessitate new approaches to content creation that rethink what screen work can be, as well as how, when, where and to whom it can be delivered. This book provides insights into such contemporary screen production practices, interrogating a diversity of approaches to moving-image making where, in reality, no one size fits all. Targeted at both undergraduate and postgraduate courses, the book covers all aspects of the screen production journey. It comprises 35 chapters by authors from Australia, the USA, the UK and Europe, and, given its strong grounding in creative practice research, has been designed as an essential creative-critical guide for those studying and teaching the production of screen content—fact, fiction and everything in between. An underpinning premise of the book is that of creative agency—from a screen practitioner’s point of view, how their role is influenced by the roles

xxix xxx Introduction played by others, and how they act as a mediator or interpreter of screen ideas in collective pursuit of the production of a screen work. In this way, the chapters promote a strong pedagogy of collaboration and respect for others, which can often be a challenge for screen and media production education. This premise also represents the fluid and connected ecology of making a screen work that faces us in today’s industry, in an increasingly democratised and networked world where notions of the ‘auteur’ are problematic. We thus propose the practice of screen production in this way:

The creation and mediation of screen ideas for intended audiences, enacted by individual practitioners who work collaboratively and connectedly on a shared journey to transform ideas, concepts and words into images and sounds for consumption as screen products.

Key to the fabric of this book is the combination of theory and practice. This is not a screen studies book, nor is it a how-to book: it is a critically informed and intellectually rich guide to screen production, shaped by the needs of students and educators working in higher education environments where ‘doing’ and ‘thinking’ co-exist. Research thus features heavily in the book, contributing to international developments in research about, for and through creative practice (see Batty and Kerrigan 2018). While such developments have been prominent in disciplines such as art, design and creative writing, in screen production they have generally been less present. With this book, then, we aim to fill an important gap in the creative-critical nexus, while also clearly providing a robust account of screen production practices for future content creators.

What Is Screen Production? Screen production incorporates all forms and genres, as well as various stages of the creative process, from ideation and development to actual production and distribution. Screen production activities include the creation, production and distribution of ‘screen ideas’ (Macdonald 2013), through fiction and non- fiction feature films, short films and web series, television and multi-platform screen works. Films and screen works as cultural products might be more identifiable when described as Hollywood blockbusters, socially responsible documentaries, commercially entertaining television series, screen-based advertising, digital and social media forms such as YouTube, and avant-garde and experimental films. This book incorporates and analyses all of these types, using research into practice and research through practice, including many insights from practice-based/led researchers. It delves deep into the creation process and explains what filmmakers, screenwriters and multi-platform practitioners do as they embark on producing culturally and commercially engaging screen works. We have found, in our own creative practices, teaching experiences and in compiling this book, that there is considerable blurring among the various stages of screen production. Perhaps intensified by the affordances of digital Introduction xxxi methods, the path to exhibition is rarely linear and more often the approach is iterative, with the matrix of creative choices impacting outcomes. Recent definitions of screen production have offered four stages of the journey from screen idea to screen work: conceptualisation, development, production and reception (see Kerrigan 2016). These stages theoretically appear to be linear and discrete, but in practice they are messy, with considerable blurring of boundaries and with overlapping stages that occur throughout the ideation, development, production and distribution process. As a consequence, earlier production decisions may need to be revisited and revised as each screen production project develops within the reality of contemporary software, and as hardware provides opportunities for the screen producer to refine and rework their screen ideas through the stages of production. The contemporary screen producer understands these opportunities. As such, what appears to be a waterfall model of production is in reality an iterative and recursive process that continues to tolerate the traditional film- scheduling labels of development, pre-production, production, post-production and exhibition, because they persist and provide an effective starting point and organising principle through which to consider the complex interaction of contexts, creativity, practicalities and audiences involved in producing screen- based media. An appreciation of the fluid nature of the stages of screen production allows a more sophisticated analysis of them, as well as a recognition that each stage can be expanded further into various sub-stages where additional stakeholders exist, such as the script rewriter and the script consultant; the production manager, the editor and the composer; and the cinema, gallery or online programmer or curator. Such fluidity can also be seen to benefit thinking around the timing of input from key creatives. Rather than approaching craft roles as siloed, discrete and confined to only specific parts of a schedule, there are opportunities to add nuance and complexity through the interrelatedness of a range of aesthetic and practical choices when key crew from across the stages of production have input on how their specialisation can deepen or enrich the overall vision through a process of creative collaboration. It is these stages and sub-stages, as well as the wide variety of stakeholders involved in a screen production, that this book explores. International case studies and personal experiences offer new insights and definitions in a way we hope will be appealing to students and educators at various levels of the higher education sector, with varied experiences and expectations.

Screen Production Scholarship Scholarship around screen production, namely that which focuses on creative practice, has increased since 2014, particularly in Australia. Following disciplines such as art and design, performance, music and creative writing, there have been many journal special issues, edited collections and monographs that discuss aspects of screen production through an academic lens, which for those studying and working in universities and colleges is a welcome addition to xxxii Introduction discourse. Popular journals such as Media, Practice and Education (formerly the Journal of Media Practice) and the Journal of Screenwriting have made strong efforts to build knowledge about practice-based research in the screen discipline, and this has been supplemented by innovative audio-visual and creative writing journals such as the International Journal of Creative Media Research, Screenworks, Sightlines: Filmmaking in the Academy and TEXT: Journal of Writing and Writing Courses, which publish films and screenplays as research artefacts, usually accompanied by a supporting research statement. Subject-based peak body associations such as the Australian Screen Production Education and Research Association (ASPERA), Europe’s International Association for Media and Communication Research (IAMCR), the UK’s Media, Communication and Cultural Studies Association (MeCCSA) and the University Film and Video Association (UFVA) in the USA have also contributed to these debates through refereed conference proceedings and reports—all of which should be investigated by students and academics in their respective regions. The rising popularity of production studies and media industries studies has also ignited interest in the practical aspects of the discipline, though these are more often about studying production from a variety of disciplinary and methodological approaches than embracing production as a mode of research. Nevertheless, in the contemporary academy there is a flour- ishing interest in blending theoretical approaches with creative practice, and, as is clear from the chapters in this book, this is something we see as essential to the study of screen production at university or college level. We encourage readers to be mindful of this creative-critical journey as they work through the book, and indeed, as they work through a screen production project.

Navigating the Chapters in this Book Comprising five parts, the book guides readers through the various processes of a screen production project, from initial ideas and development, to production, exhibition and distribution. The chapters have been chosen carefully to represent key stages and milestones in the screen production ecology, and also to add new knowledge about them. The authors of the chapters span a range of cultural and professional contexts, from mainstream feature films to experimental installation works, and represent a truly international perspective. Countries of origin include Australia, New Zealand, the UK, Ireland, the USA, Switzerland, Germany, Denmark and the Netherlands. Many of the chapter are co-authored, which is intended to bring a rich combination of theory and practice to the discussions being offered. Part I, ‘Conceptualising the Screen Work: Ideas, Intentions, Contexts’, explores what it means to be a screen practitioner, and how ideas, intentions and contexts shape how a screen work is conceptualised from the outset and then continually re-conceptualised throughout the life of its production. It asks questions about and provides examples of how screen practitioners can think about their work pre-development in both practical and philosophical ways. Introduction xxxiii

The authors in this section consider filmmaking as a creative practice and look at how initial ideas and intentions are developed into treatments and scripts, and how the boundaries of screen production are being extended by new mobile and multi-platform technologies. Part II, ‘Developing the Screen Work: Collaboration, Imagination, Distillation’, uses the lens of development to probe the screen work, highlighting the importance of spending time ‘in development’ so as to get the most out of a story idea. Through a series of case studies that examine aspects such as story research, script development and practices of collaboration with producers, editors, actors and other participants, the authors offer insights into what contemporary development looks like, how it can be experienced and the benefits of spending time on it. While traditional notions of development have most often referred to the redrafting of the screenplay, contemporary practices evidence an array of creative and collaborative techniques that practitioners utilise to give form to a screen idea. In Part III, ‘Realising the Screen Work: Practice, Process, Pragmatism’, the practices, processes and pragmatic decisions of screen producers underpin an exploration of what it means to make for the screen. It begins with filmmakers writing about how their practice-led research accounts for their filmmaking decisions through the creation of documentaries and feature films. This part also provides commentaries from screen production researchers looking into the processes and practices around visual effects (VFX), serial television productions, advertising and the teaching of screen production. Each chapter has a specific focus that is framed by the filmmaker-researcher’s speciality, which highlights the different components of working in screen production, and which explain the logistical and creative boundaries that exist for those working in fiction films, documentaries, serial television programmes and screen advertising. Part IV, ‘Exhibiting the Screen Work: Places, Spaces, Ecologies’, discusses the ecologies of exhibition and how the places, spaces and people that are involved in bringing the screen work to an audience have an impact on the way screen content is conceptualised and made. Focusing on the constellation of factors that define the particularities of exhibition outlets, Part IV investigates how choices around who will see the work, as well as where, when and how it will be seen, influences creative decision-making throughout the process of screen production. It covers traditional and emerging areas of screen exhibition, from film festivals and art galleries, to live cinema and the distribution of academic screen research, through to mobile devices and social media platforms that enable digital participation. Finally, in Part V, ‘Teaching the Screen Work: Pedagogies, Practices, Approaches’, authors reflect on their teaching practices and recent research projects to offer insights into how screen production is being, and could be, taught. This includes a discussion of creativity and using constraints pedagogi- cally to help students develop powerful stories; encounters between theory and practice and how this can enhance the ability of students to make a screen work xxxiv Introduction with meaning; and an examination of current screen production curricula and how changes in technology and the industry might influence the future of teaching in the discipline. The final two chapters focus on strategies for teaching spatiality and narrative techniques for virtual reality (VR) production and for teaching screenwriting through the broader lens of script and story development. Whether you are a student or an academic, or even have a general or industry background, we hope this book provides you with a wealth of ideas, insights, frameworks, tools and advice that help with your screen production projects— creative or educational. We encourage you to work through the chapters in your own way and at your own pace, and make connections between chapters and across parts, creating a pathway for your own learning and practice. We have been inspired and motived by the authors and their willingness to share their work, and we hope this extends to you as our reader.

References Batty, C., & Kerrigan, S. (Eds.). (2018). Screen Production Research: Creative Practice as a Mode of Enquiry. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Kerrigan, S. (2016). Reconceptualizing Creative Documentary Practices. In P. McIntyre, J. Fulton, & E. Patton (Eds.), The Creative System in Action (pp. 125–138). Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Macdonald, I. W. (2013). Screenwriting Poetics and the Screen Idea. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Rubin, P. (2018, December 28). How the Surprise New Interactive Black Mirror Came Together. Wired. Available at: https://www.wired.com/story/black-mirror-bandersnatch-interactive-episode/. Accessed 4 Feb. 2019. PART I

Conceptualising the Screen Work: Ideas, Intentions, Contexts

This part explores what it means to be a screen practitioner, and how ideas, intentions and contexts shape how a screen work is conceptualised from the outset and then continually re-conceptualised throughout the life of its production. It asks questions about, and provides examples of, how screen practitioners can think about their work in both practical and philosophical ways, pre-development. The authors in this part consider how initial ideas and intents are developed into treatments and scripts, and how the boundaries of screen production are being extended by new mobile and multi-platform technologies. The authors approach screen production as a creative practice through a variety of lenses. Some chapters within this part show how disciplines such as psychology and sociology may be drawn upon to both inform and analyse the creative processes involved in screen production. Other chapters present case studies that illuminate how an initial concept may be developed into a screen idea that may take the form of a script, a treatment or a set of experimental films that interact with a theoretical underpinning or a philosophical proposition. Conceptual development is an emerging area of study and practice and is positioned as fundamental to future screen production. The chapters in this part cover a rich array of topics, including documentary, animation, video art and poetry, and interactive storytelling. Susan Kerrigan and Phillip McIntyre begin by providing an understanding of how a filmmaker can apply work from other disciplines to bring new insights into ways of seeing filmmaking as a creative practice. Their chapter is followed that of Diane MacLean, who considers how commissioning practices mediate and influence the conceptual development of documentary production. Stephen Sewell and Ben Crisp then provide a more pedagogical focus, exploring a framework through which screenwriters can be trained to thrive in a media ecology that is in constant flux. This pedagogical approach is continued by Michael Sergi and Craig Batty, who explore the short film form through the lens of how it can be taught and practised. Rose Ferrell then presents a detour into the importance of the screenwriter’s voice, through case studies of two of her own screenplays. By doing so, she 2 Conceptualising the Screen Work: Ideas, Intentions, Contexts creates a framework for screenwriters to consider how their ‘voice’ might influence their craft. Following this, Rose Woodcock, Lienors Torre and Eiichi Tosaki delve into the world of animation and present a thoughtful and philosophical discussion of screens and movement. The focus on objects and movement is continued by Catherine Fargher, who explores the conceptual development of her interactive screen work, The Dr Egg Adventures. Kim Toft Hansen and Anne Marit Waade then consider the important of screen locations in their study of Danish television drama Arvingerne/The Legacy. Here they argue that studying location setting and world building has implications on screen production practice. Finally, Jess Kilby and Marsha Berry write on their experiments in mobile media art to unfold evidence of how the extreme accessibility of the means of production is moving screen practice into new forms. Collectively, these chapters show how the field of screen production has expanded in an age where the means of production are constantly changing with advances in technology. The chapters are pertinent to those who teach conceptual development to both undergraduate and postgraduate cohorts, with frameworks and methods providing a wealth of material that can be applied to different contexts and new projects. Creative Filmmaking Processes, Procedures and Practices: Embodied and Internalized Filmmaking Agency

Susan Kerrigan and Phillip McIntyre

Introduction Filmmakers have carried out research through specialized filmmaking roles— these include the screenwriter (Taylor 2014), director (Berkeley 2011, 2018), cinematographer (Greenhalgh 2018), editor (Pearlman 2016), documentary filmmaker (Kerrigan 2016) and fictional filmmaker (Knudsen 2016). As creative practice researchers, these filmmakers have produced highly specialized filmmaking accounts that draw on their intuitive professional industry practices described through the lens of creative practice research. These practice research accounts contribute to the broader context of filmic creativity by revealing how a filmmaker’s processes are influenced by both external conventions and his or her own agency. Through a critical examination of these accounts, similarities, particularly in terms of embodied filmmaking practices resulting from intuitive creative processes and procedures, illustrate how the embodiment of practices can be researched. These research findings describe how filmmakers made daily filmmaking decisions, which were both conscious and tacit, regarding how a spectator might make meaning from a yet-to-be-completed film. This awareness, of how the audience might read the film, became one of a number of factors that shaped each filmmaker’s daily decisions. When brought together and critically examined against creativity theories (Sawyer 2006; Csikszentmihalyi 1999; Boden 1990; Bastick 1982), these individual accounts corroborate research on creativity and creative filmmaking practice that describes practices as being

S. Kerrigan (*) • P. McIntyre University of Newcastle, Callaghan, NSW, Australia e-mail: [email protected]

embodied, intuitive and tacit creative experiences that are constrained and enabled by the codes and conventions of the filmmaking context and the filmmaker’s own agency. Filmic creativity has been defined ‘as essentially an artistic/cultural process which is structured by material constraints’ (Petrie 1991, p. 1). This chapter extends these ideas to include not only the material constraints of filmmaking, which can be seen as enablers of creative action, but also the immaterial constraints, that is, the embodied codes and conventions that have been described as the rules of the domain and the opinions of the field by Csikszentmihalyi (1999). The idea that immaterial constraints can and do shape daily filmmaking or screenwriting practices is supported by creativity theories that describe embodied, tacit and intuitive understandings, whereby filmmakers absorb rules, conventions and audience expectations to the point that these contribute, often unconsciously, lead to creative practice. Sawyer argues that all persons acting within a creative field draw on a shared history of the domain, which results ‘in the body of existing works that is known and is shared knowledge among creators in the area’ (2006, p. 106). This research corroborates the intentions of six filmmakers who describe their creative practice in similar ways. The similarities among these experiences become evident when the experiences are critically examined, and point to generic descriptions of processes, procedures and practices that shape each filmmaking context as well as the filmmaker’s ability, knowledge and skill to make decisions and their assumed understanding of their audience or spectator. As such, these professional filmmaking research accounts describe similar experiences concerning the types of decisions filmmakers face daily, which occur as a result of a deep understanding of the conventions, rules and symbols that make up this creative domain and allow for that deep engagement to become intuitive. Kerrigan (2016) argues that the systems view of creative practice can be used to explain the actions of the filmic agent as someone who holds knowledge of both filmmaking and spectating. This framework does not favour one creative activity over another; rather it adopts a systemic understanding that allows creative individuals to draw, simultaneously, on numerous domains of embodied knowledge, allowing such knowledge and skills to co-exist as agency manifesting through practice. In this context, creative agency becomes filmic agency, which permits the deeply interconnected positions of the filmmaker and the spectator to influence decision-making through daily practice. The conclusion of this critical analysis of multiple filmic agencies reveals that a mature filmic agency is an essential component of creative practice, as it allows for the stimulation, selection and transmission of novelty.

Creative Filmmaking Practice as a System in Action The creative system (Csikszentmihalyi 1999, p. 315) offers a large-scale perspective of how an individual contributes to the production of culture through bringing novelty into being. The novelty that is produced must comply with CREATIVE FILMMAKING PROCESSES, PROCEDURES AND PRACTICES: EMBODIED… 5 sets of rules and social practices that are relevant to the domain, in this case filmmaking, and be recognized by other filmmakers as valuable. Once peers identify the novelty, as they see it, in someone else’s film, then those ideas move ‘beyond their original instigator and become part of a larger paradigmatic shift in thinking. Each person who supplies confirmation of the ideas may add something new to it, thereby giving the initial idea a life of its own’ (McIntyre et al. 2016, p. 2). This systems-based understanding of creativity was extended to create the systems view of creative practices (Kerrigan 2016, p. 127), which sees filmmaking research as systemic and identifies a set of creative principles used by filmmakers researching ‘creative magnitude and scale, filmmaker or spectator and product or experience’ (Kerrigan 2017, p. 9). Filmmaking creativity has often been undertaken through examining the film as a product, and by examining the success of the finished product, whereas the approach here is to examine creative experiences by researching filmmaking practice. The emphasis is on how practitioners internalize their creative systems, which affords them an opportunity to stimulate, select and transmit novel variations as a shared cultural understanding. Initially applied to documentary filmmaking practice (Kerrigan 2013, 2016), the same theoretical approach can be used to frame the work of others, that is, those who have examined their own experiences of making films in other genres and taken on other creative filmmaking roles. An examination of six filmmaking researchers’ creative experiences is possible because the filmmaking process occurs as a predictable staged process of concept development, pre-production, production, post-production and distribution that is consistent for both fictional and non-fictional film productions. It is the form of a film’s production and the practice of that form, not the content of the film, that is being examined here as a creative experience. The form provides a consistent approach to filmmaking practice (including its conventions, rules, patterns and processes) ‘that has been developed over decades and that resides in the practices of the film-makers and the attitudes of audiences’ (Kerrigan and McIntyre 2010, p. 117). Exactly how these six researchers conducted their work will be addressed in the next section, “Screen Production Research Enquiries”.

Screen Production Research Enquiries Screen production research allows professional filmmakers to turn their filmmaking experiences into rationally identifiable practices (Batty and Kerrigan 2018); for them this is about uncovering and articulating ‘knowledge that contributes to the broader practice’ (Berkeley 2018, p. 31). This chapter embraces filmmaking as a unique interdisciplinary and transdisciplinary practice (Knudsen 2018). The understanding of this practice is strengthened by refining research methods and the methodologies specific to screen production. As Kerrigan et al. argue: 6 S. KERRIGAN AND P. MCINTYRE

Research in screen production is by no means a homogenous activity but usually involves the production of a film (or other screen work), an interactive process of practice and reflection by a researcher who is also the screen practitioner, and a theoretical perspective that informs the overall research. (Kerrigan et al. 2015, p. 106)

Screen production research projects have specific aims which generate outcomes that are ‘aligned with the problems and issues that are of concern to practitioners’ (Berkeley 2018, p. 31). The practices described through these research accounts present experiences in key creative roles that are nuanced around the creation process of screen content. Instead of drawing on other disciplinary practices and thereby reinforcing antecedent research traditions, such as, for example, creative writing, theatre and photography, it is hoped that, instead, these accounts present authentic research reflections from filmmakers’ own experiences and creative practices. Each of the accounts here include the use of established methodologies such as practice-based research (Taylor 2014), reflective practice (Berkeley 2011), practice as research (Knudsen 2016), practitioner-based enquiry (Kerrigan 2013) or ethnography (Greenhalgh 2018). As such, these accounts describe similar filmmaking experiences which illustrate how deeply immersed each filmmaker is in their embodied practice. To expand these ideas a number of screen production research projects have been selected for examination. Each has been realized through methodologies and methods oriented towards investigating and exposing the conscious and intuitive processes of creative filmmakers. These insights depended ‘on the researcher’s observations, experiences and aesthetic choices that are tied to specific times and places, co-existing with the creative work’ (Middleweek and Tulloch 2018, p. 234). Each account describes a range of daily decisions faced by those who fill these highly specialized filmmaking roles. All six cases explore the creative experiences of screen production researchers, including a screenwriter, a director, a cinematographer and an editor. The last two cases provide examples of researchers who have taken on multiple filmmaking roles. We will begin this discussion at the point that all film practice generally starts—the script.

Creative Screenwriting Practice Screenwriter Stayci Taylor (2014) wrestles with the common assumption that creative processes appear to be pitted against structural forms—in her case an intimate understanding of those structural forms being necessary to write a screenplay. Taylor’s account of her screenwriter’s experience explains how she found a way to appreciate and respect these external conventions. Her research identifies the dominant screenwriting models that favour technical and industrial concerns through exploring the relationship between structure and creativity by writing a female-centred comedy screenplay. In her research account, she describes how she faithfully followed a treatment writing model (Gigilo 2012) that was initially believed to constrain her imagination. CREATIVE FILMMAKING PROCESSES, PROCEDURES AND PRACTICES: EMBODIED… 7

Taylor eloquently describes the screenwriter’s challenge, which is to create a screenplay that ‘is never read by the audience but must be understood by those on the list of many readers, the committee, who become the disseminators of the information that makes up one’s story’ (2014, p. 3). Her practice-based research explores the application of traditional models of screenwriting that allow her as a screenwriter to identify the creative act of screenwriting, which she describes as being dexterous with prose, action and dialogue combinations so ‘that they should not put any obstacles in the way of the reader’s experience of the story’ (Taylor 2014, p. 7). This led Taylor to recognize the relevance of the art versus craft debate in relation to her exploration of screenwriting practice, and ponder, ‘whilst the screenwriter is writing from this place between the story and its chosen platform, [she wants to explore] what this might mean for the writer’s intentions and values?’ (Taylor 2014, p. 7). The research as practice is focused on an exploration of screenwriting codes and conventions that make it possible for Taylor to write funny female protagonists who are conveyed to the audience as she intended. A comprehensive review of the screenwriting literature and those who critique three-act structures, particularly those who have developed rules around writing male protagonists, serve as conventions to be understood yet challenged. As Taylor writes, ‘I have not yet regretted pushing up against these counter-intuitive structures, which have challenged my imagination into working out how to take my protagonist through them, or have her respond to them’ (2014, p. 12). Taylor realized her creative process helped in ‘defining the protagonist’s perspective [as] crucial to a comedic screenplay, because a reader and eventual audience need to know from whose “usually expected” events, from whose “truth”, we can expect to experience those comedic departures’ (2014, p. 10). Her final word on working within the codes and conventions, the symbol system of a screenplay which featured a funny female protagonist, was these constraints could be seen as being enabling, as they were ‘also potentially useful in exploring new ways into those existing models’ (Taylor 2014, p. 15). In conclusion, she developed an appreciation of these models as beneficial to screenwriting practice, as they helped her incorporate screenwriting rules and conventions ‘without rejecting all that has gone before’ (Taylor 2014, p. 15). This position also sits well with cognitive psychologist and creativity researcher Margaret Boden’s summation that constraints, ‘far from being opposed to creativity, make creativity possible’ (Boden 1990, p. 79). Thus, the creative screenwriting conventions and practice experienced and observed by Taylor that affected her practice were contextual and were both enabling and constraining.

Creative Directing Practice Leo Berkeley made a fictional feature film calledHow to Change the World (2008). As the director, his focus was on improvised performances in screen production. Berkeley points out that a script was not written for the 70-minute 8 S. KERRIGAN AND P. MCINTYRE film but substantial preparation, premeditation and filming strategies were used to prompt and generate dialogue to ensure that the film would unfold along the right lines. For example, ‘there were two separate two-page outlines written, describing the stories of the main characters […]. These outlines provided a framework for the characters and plot, although neither described an ending’ (Berkeley 2011, p. 4). There was some preparation in terms of discussing a scene, but very little rehearsal. This type of preparation shows Berkeley’s professional and mature understanding of the medium and how the fictional film form needs to meet some pre-conceived notions that mean it will be accepted by film audiences. Berkeley describes his approach:

The majority of the dialogue scenes were based on whatever the actors ‘came up with’ in the first take, without prior rehearsal. That first take was then used as the basis for some additional coverage of the scene. (2011, p. 4)

While the dialogue may have been based on ‘whatever the actors came up with’, Keith Sawyer presents evidence to suggest that a process of collaborative emergence may have been at work. Sawyer suggests that diverse pre-existing structures guide improvisation and that many actors use improvisation in a dialogic situation to come up with dialogue that is comprehensible, so as to construct a novel yet dramatically cohesive performance. Despite the dialogue not being scripted in such cases, a highly structured performance does emerge. As ‘each line of dialogue is uttered this constrains the next line and the potential actions of the next speaker’ (2003, p. 230). In other words, what each comes up with is in some way predisposed to limit the next actor’s range of possible choices. Using Bakhtin’s notion of heteroglossia, as Berkeley does also, Sawyer demonstrates that ways of speaking and the use of certain cultural symbols are peculiar to specific times, and that any given speech act, such as dialogue, will contain many of these pre-structured forms. It is not that actors are overtly constrained by these structures but in order to make sense of a conversation they must adhere to these pre-existing linguistic and cultural forms. Sawyer suggests that despite these ‘multiple layers of downward causation, participants are never fully constrained. Their creativity is required at every dialogue turn’ (Sawyer 2003, p. 241). Although Berkeley’s actors may have started a scene with only a brief discussion of what it was about, in producing it they were complying with the codes and conventions of improvisation through dialogue. As Sawyer argues: ‘In both conversation and improvised dialogues, participants must balance the need to creatively contribute with the need to maintain coher- ence with the current state of the interactional frame’ (2003, p. 242). In exploring this improvisation in the film he directed, Berkeley used a reflective practice methodology (Schön) that included a research journal, video recording by others of the production process and screening with audience feedback. A number of ideas from theorists (Fischlin and Heble 2004; Smith and Dean 2009), including Bakhtin and Holquist’s (1981; Bakhtin1986) dis- CREATIVE FILMMAKING PROCESSES, PROCEDURES AND PRACTICES: EMBODIED… 9 cussion of dialogism, were used reflectively to tease out the practice around decision-making and screen production improvisation that was being researched. Berkeley concluded his research method by focusing on a ‘centrifu- gal approach to narrative, with multiple dramatic components addressing the audience in a range of voices, rather than a focused, linear one’ (2011, p. 11). Berkeley’s research saw him focus on how meaning in film occurs through a collective practice. For him,

meaning is not fixed but rather created through a process of constant and shifting negotiation between multiple participants; essentially that the creative process is like a conversation between the people involved in the production, in the same way that meaning in the final screen text can be seen as a dialogue with the audience. (2011, pp. 11–12)

Berkeley’s findings are similar to Taylor’s in that they are both aware of their capacity as a creative practitioner, shaping, if only intuitively, the film’s narrative through the processes and practices of their role so that it can meet audience expectations.

Creative Cinematographer’s Practice Taking the role of cinematography as a further example, Cathy Greenhalgh defines cinematography as the act of ‘writing with light in motion’ (2018, p. 143). In her research she describes the job of cinematographer and links it to many material constraints which occur as a result of coordinating ‘the camera, grip and lighting teams in different crew combinations on a film to implement a visual strategy for a project’ (2018, p. 143). Greenhalgh’s insider perspective of this profession, which she has practised and taught for decades, as well as researched using an ethnographic approach, allows her to write with an intimate knowledge of the daily repetitive activities experienced in her professional role that illuminate what it means to practise cinematography. Greenhalgh also describes cinematography as a creative practice using Aristotelian terms, that is, ‘poiesis (making), phronesis (practical wisdom), praxis (reflection on action),techne (craft) and episteme (knowledge)’ (2018, p. 143). Scattered among this list is a set of what can be called immaterial constraints. These immaterial aspects just as readily shape decisions as material ones do. Their interaction with decisions that are made by a cinematographer point, again, to how a filmmaker internalizes practices, that is, as Kerrigan suggests,

their knowledge so that they can behave intuitively. This includes their intuitive responses to spectating, which inform their understanding of the field’s expectations and the domain rules. By internalizing the spectator’s knowledge, a filmmaker will try to meet those expectations through creative practice. (2016, p. 5)

Cathy Greenhalgh describes the role of the director of photography (DP or DoP) as someone who, through lighting, camera movement and composition, 10 S. KERRIGAN AND P. MCINTYRE designs a film’s cinematography by ‘working to the vision of the director. It varies widely how much the directors involve themselves in this. Work involves managing the lighting and electrical crew, grip and crane (camera movement) crew and the camera crew’ (2010, p. 304). For a cinematographer to visualize a film Greenhalgh cites a number of understandings which include the creation of storyboards, shooting plans and knowing how to ‘cheat’ the positions of props, furniture, vehicles and even actors so that the dramatized action can be composed and framed specifically to the lenses’ point of view (2010, p. 318). These aspects of a cinematographer’s practice come together when working in a film-set environment and are difficult concepts to convey in any other place. For her, this kind of knowledge

needs bodily learning as much as knowledge of point of view, film grammar, optics and so on. One cannot know the likelihood of being able to transform a visual idea from two dimensions to three dimensions and then back again to two dimensions—[...]—without knowing whether things on set can be cheated into position. (Greenhalgh 2010, p. 315)

Greenhalgh’s primary research method is ‘cinematography praxis’ (2018, p. 156) and her practitioner’s attitude reveals ‘cinematography is a particular form of thinking and collaborative activity, and a specific form of praxis that combines visual enskilment processes and a community of practice culture’ (2018, p. 156). Greenhalgh emphasizes that a cinematographer’s process has to be practised, and that as a beginner one may only be aware of the procedural operations ‘until one has the sense of repeating an action procedure. The inter- relation of understandings of practice, process and procedure may develop at different speeds according to how a series of practiced events occurs’ (2010, p. 310). Indeed, every film requires different combinations of cinematographic practices because each film’s content requires a different procedural approach. Greenhalgh’s intuitive understanding of the practice of cinematography can be seen through her acute awareness of the differences and interrelationship among practices, processes and procedures.

Creative Editor’s Practice While cinematographers work largely on set, film editors working on scripted dramas do more than cut out the bad bits in the edit suite, they ‘shape the film’s final structure and rhythm’ (Pearlman 2017, p. 69). Karen Pearlman’s research into her own editing practice (2009, 2016) argues that film editing is also an intuitive practice described as a ‘cognitively complex artistry of shaping time, energy, and movement, particularly the movement of events, emotions, image, and sound to create cycles of “tension and release”’ (Pearlman 2017, p. 68). Pearlman notes that:

Editors’ processes require responsive, embodied, and distributed thinking about how the mass of moving material in front of them might be pieced together to CREATIVE FILMMAKING PROCESSES, PROCEDURES AND PRACTICES: EMBODIED… 11

make a dynamically structured and rhythmically engaging whole. (Pearlman 2017, p. 69)

Pearlman (2016, 2017) focuses on the editing conventions of time, space and continuity. Using a reflective method to research her own tacit and intuitive editing practice, Pearlman has critically examined examples of her own work as well as the work of other film editors. In total, Pearlman’s research led to a proposition that ‘there is a cognitive complexity to creative decision making in film editing beyond creation of the impression of continuity of time and space’ (2017, p. 86). As such, she argues that editors intuitively strategize by creating complex affects and cuts which demonstrate ‘purposefully developed expertise and cognitive capacities’ (Pearlman 2017, p. 84). Pearlman tests the rhythm of her editing with each project she undertakes as she describes the assembly, rough-cut and fine-cut processes as first, second and third versions of a hypothesis showing ‘selection, placement, and duration of shots [and how they] will affect an audience. ... Iterations of edited versions of the same material may number in the dozens sometimes, and these could perhaps be used as data’ (Pearlman 2016, p. 79). From this perspective, film editing can be described as an iterative process:

We edit, it doesn’t feel right, we go back, recut, and feel again until it does. Each version of a cut reveals the editor’s process of shaping the timing, pacing, and trajectory phrasing of the movement of events, emotions, images, and sounds to create an affective experience that goes beyond conformity to the rules of continuity and becomes the art of editing. (Pearlman 2017, p. 82)

Pearlman argues that the feeling of getting it right is ‘an editor’s conscious and nonconscious creative processes’ (2017, p. 68) that is dominated by more complex considerations which ‘have a significant impact on audience narrative comprehension and emotional alignment with characters in film’ (2017, p. 68). For her, these complex cognitive and precognitive processes are intuitive, they are an ‘embodied simulation’ (2017, p. 84) which is not a metaphysical or paranormal process beyond rational grasp. Instead, for her, intuition develops over time and through experience. In other words, it is learned:

Scientists, educators, and even artist are clear: the knowledge and analysis that underpins expert action has to be gathered. Explicit knowledge is an essential support to intuition. It is the learned knowledge that gets transferred from working memory into intuitive action. The more that is explicitly known, the more readily accessible intuitive responses will be. (Pearlman 2016, p. 10)

Pearlman’s research encapsulates an editor filmic agency, described as her editor’s intuition developed through her engagement with and manipulation of external storytelling conventions that are specific to the craft of film editing. This reinforces the broader context that filmic creativity is shaped by external rules and social conventions through a filmmaker’s agency. 12 S. KERRIGAN AND P. MCINTYRE

Creative Practice of a Documentary Maker While these accounts of discrete individual crew roles reveal filmic agency, other filmmaking researchers have taken on more than one professional crew role and can provide additional insights. For example, Susan Kerrigan, one of the authors of this chapter, researched her own documentary creative practice and, in doing so, assumed the multiple roles of writer, producer and director. Kerrigan (2016) used practice-led research to examine her creative practices and daily decisions as a documentary producer/writer/director. She used reflective practice (Schön 1983) applied through another method of documentary screen production, which allowed her to directly test the systems view of creativity (Csikszentmihalyi 1999). Kerrigan explored her daily decision-making practice through the making of a community-based documentary about a historical site in Newcastle, Australia. The project documented the history of the site and its restoration (Kerrigan 2013) and collected data through a reflective learning journal, production documents, shot film and edited sequences, which showed that the documentary was shaped by logistical constraints, budget and the film’s crew, who were made up of professionals and students (Kerrigan 2018). This filmmaking context provided an opportunity for Kerrigan to examine her own intuitive creative practices (Kerrigan 2013) as her practice was tested against the creative systems model (Csikszentmihalyi 1999). She found her filmmaking choices were being made in relation to her habitus (Bourdieu 1993), which was linked to her ability to act intuitively through the ‘social, cultural and contextual conditions of practice’ (Kerrigan 2013, p. 124) with which she engaged. She argued that in this process creative individuals internalize their creative systems (Kerrigan 2016). This internalization occurs as practitioners immerse themselves in their production context or environment; in this case filmmaking, and their aspirations and accumulated story or narrative knowledge enables them to consciously and intuitively, tacitly and without conscious thought make decisions that help move the film towards completion. Frequently this means, as filmmakers, they are faced with making a series of creative decisions that are staged or procedural and that the creative stages ‘overlap and recur several times before the process is completed’ (Csikszentmihalyi 1996, p. 83). Kerrigan’s practice was critically analysed and she found that her intuition and tacit knowledge, derived from her domain knowledge and understanding of the opinions of her peers, was acquired through a 13-year film and television career. One of the underdeveloped areas of her past career was craft skills: she had never worked as a camera operator. Kerrigan kept a 149-page journal reflecting on her practice, where examples of her embodied tacit knowledge were documented. The journal provided accounts of filming days where her low level of skill combined with a high level of challenge resulted in the recording of substandard film footage. Kerrigan had never trained as a camera operator and, on a key oral history recording, her CREATIVE FILMMAKING PROCESSES, PROCEDURES AND PRACTICES: EMBODIED… 13 limited skills became evident. There were a few unfortunate reframing errors that appeared at essential moments of the interviews and which could not be edited out because of the relevance of the story being told (Kerrigan 2008, Using Fort Scratchley, DVD, see 12:18 minutes). Consequently, these aesthetic compromises exist as evidence of the constraining production context that was experienced by herself as a documentary filmmaker, and these errors also exist as proof of her low-level skills when faced with a high level of challenge. At this stage of the production the work did not flow. As the documentary moved through its production stages Kerrigan immersed herself in the codes and conventions of documentary practice (Kerrigan 2011, p. 51), some of her technical skills improved, and her expert skills as a producer and director meant that she successfully assembled a team of 30 documentary participants who worked as crew and on-camera participants or advisors (Kerrigan 2018). In conclusion, Kerrigan found that her rational approach to creativity as mapped against the creative systems theory did demonstrate to her how she had, over a period of time, internalized the rules of the domain and the opinions of the field:

The fact that the intersection of my own agency with the social, cultural and contextual conditions of practice had produced intuitive actions confirms that I had internalized the Fort Scratchley documentary system. These learnt dispositions had become ‘second nature’, my habitus, and for a practitioner who is already operating as a conditioned agent, they can give the feeling of being able to ‘freely’ make choices about contextual practices. (Kerrigan 2013, p. 124)

Kerrigan’s internalization of the Fort Scratchley creative system did provide an accurate description of her embodied creative filmmaking practice (Kerrigan 2013).

Creative Practices of a Feature Filmmaker Kerrigan’s work can be aligned with the research accounts of Erik Knudsen. Knudsen researched fiction filmmaking through multiple roles as screenwriter, director and editor. While Kerrigan and Knudsen undertook their research independently of each other, they both focused on intuitive and tacit decision- making within an industrial filmmaking model. Knudsen describes the research context as being ‘exclusive and largely determined by technological and financial constraints, [which] shaped divisions of labour along technological and procedural fault lines’ (Knudsen 2016, p. 110). Erik Knudsen mounts a similar argument to Taylor when describing the purpose of a screenplay and the creative approach that a screenwriter should take: ‘screenwriting is not an end product, but a particular developmental phase in a creative process whose end is a moving image product’ (Knudsen 2016, p. 109). In his article ‘The Total Filmmaker Thinking of Screenwriting, Directing and Editing as One Role’ (2016), Knudsen acknowledges that the 14 S. KERRIGAN AND P. MCINTYRE industrial filmmaking model needs large complex teams holding designated roles and undertaking highly specialized responsibilities in order to move a film through its stages of production, including ‘idea, proof of concept, development, production, post production, testing and compliance, distribution and exhibition’ (Knudsen 2016, p. 110). Knudsen points out that ‘with so many people involved, and so much at stake for everyone, the status quo is reinforced and progress is measured primarily in terms of refinement’ (2016, p. 110). Therefore, the environment of a film’s production, its production context, has a significant impact on what is produced and on the quality of the practices that shape the film. Through his experience, Knudsen acknowledges the importance of collaborative filmmaking:

The transdisciplinary contribution made by the production team and the performers, who each in their own right are, in a sense, undertaking their own creative explorations, provide an important context. Not only is the creative context they bring to the project important in the context of creative research, but they also provide the industrial context in which the film sits. (Knudsen 2018, p. 122)

This insider observation describes how Knudsen’s film was shaped by those who worked on it and how they were all constrained by the production context. Reflecting on his multiple roles whilst makingRaven on the Jetty, Knudsen describes the daily decisions he made as screenwriter, director and editor:

Decisions about what we see and what we don’t see; what scenes are necessary and in which order; what needs to be said and what could be conveyed through sound or looks; all these considerations were influenced by my understanding of how I wanted to incorporate aural and visual components in the film. Even the very narrative structure was guided by this interplay between the writer, director and editor in me. (2018, p. 127)

While working on multiple crew roles simultaneously, Knudsen recognized that many decisions occurred ‘organically—even, in some cases, mindlessly—in response to financial, logistical, social and political circumstances, curiosity, conscious and unconscious aspirations and creative imperatives’ (Knudsen 2018, p. 122). In this case, we can assert that it is the embodiment of decision- making processes that becomes internalized which supports the psychological descriptions of what creativity is.

Conclusion The similarity of these researcher accounts lies in how the participants describe the practices and processes they experienced. At their core, these creative practices describe how filmic agents make decisions inside filmic structures that both constrain and enable their activity (Kerrigan 2016, p. 10). These latter two filmmakers not only provided research accounts that extended the singular CREATIVE FILMMAKING PROCESSES, PROCEDURES AND PRACTICES: EMBODIED… 15 accounts from the screenwriter, director, cinematographer and editor, they also set themselves a slightly more intensive research tasks as, throughout their productions, they had to perform as multi-skilled filmmakers undertaking multiple tasks simultaneously. The creative filmmaking described through the prior four exclusive, highly specialized accounts of screenwriting, directing, cinematography and editing practice and process, corroborates a similar intention to create, through the filmic medium, a novel representation of a story that will be appreciated by those who also understand and appreciate filmmaking practice. Creativity theory aligns with these filmmaker’s intentions as the similarities identified through these accounts describe the creative processes and practices which can be mapped on to, and are consistent with, creativity theories that describe creativity as occurring when ‘one must internalise the rules of the domain and the opinions of the field, so that one can choose the most promis- ing ideas to work on, and do so in a way that will be acceptable to one’s peers’ (Csikszentmihalyi 1999, p. 332). By bringing together six screen producer accounts from roles that are determined by the industry to be key creative decision-making ones—screenwriter, director, cinematographer, editor, or combining these roles into one person when making a documentary or fictional feature film—it can be seen how such creative practice is shaped by the filmic structures, practices and contexts these filmmakers immerse themselves in, embody and engage with. As has been argued elsewhere about filmmaking creativity:

These three elements [structures, practices and contexts] align with current understanding of creative practice because the agent has been conditioned through their spectatorial and creational knowledge of film production which allows them to practice—engage in procedural processes as they are exposed to film production structures and contexts. A filmmaker’s creative practice occurs at the level of embodiment, through the internalization of skills, knowledge and socio-cultural positioning. (Kerrigan 2016, p. 8)

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Diane Maclean

Introduction This chapter uses two of my own documentaries produced for BBC Alba, Scotland’s Gaelic-language channel, to consider how programme treatments, once approved, develop through pre-production into production. It looks at how the documentary filmmaker’s ideas and intention are mediated and changed by commissioning practices and production constraints. In so doing, it asks who mediates and constructs the final programme andhow this construction is negotiated creatively. Nichols (2001) suggests that in order to understand what documentaries are about, one needs to look at how three stories intertwine: the story of the filmmaker and an understanding of why the film was made; the story of the text and what it reveals about the relationship between the filmmaker and subject; and finally the story of the audience. This chapter examines these in terms of the effect they have on ideas, pre-production and production, and on the role of the filmmaker as ‘creator’. The chapter is framed by discourse around intervention and intention and how these act on production decisions. My approach in this chapter is self- reflexive, using the two documentaries produced for BBC Alba as case studies. One of these is a drama documentary, the other an observational documentary completed without voice-over. These allow for an exploration into the different genre of the two broadcast works, where the vexed question of dramatic reconstructions and the issues they raise in terms of manipulating reality

D. Maclean (*) Edinburgh Napier University, Edinburgh, UK e-mail: [email protected]

(Winston 1995, 2008; Rosenthal and Corner 2005; Paget 2011) are explored. It also allows for an investigation into the role genre plays in the commissioning process and the expectation of the audience. Ideas of subjectivity are explored through considering voice, in the context of Bruzzi (2000) and Nichols’ (1991, 1993, 2001) writing on subjectivity and the ideology of authenticity (Grierson 1979). Finally, the chapter considers intention through the lens of theories around authorial intention (Gaut 1997; Livingston 1997; Ponech 1997).

The Commissioner: BBC Alba The third side of Nichols’ triangulation of story is the audience. BBC Alba’s audience is the Gaelic-speaking community of Scotland. The channel was launched in September 2008, as part of a strategic intervention to halt language decline (Cormack 2008) and bring Gaelic to a wider audience, and has been available on Freeview since June 2011. Programmes have English subtitles and the channel has an annual budget of around £12 million. The service remit of BBC Alba is to ‘reflect and support Gaelic culture, identity and heritage’ (BBC Trust 2016). This remit imposes, or results in, commissioning requirements that influence production decisions. BBC Alba is a multi-genre channel, averaging around 530,000 viewers each week, although much of this number represents non-Gaelic speakers who are drawn to the channel to watch its sports provision. Currently, there are less than 60,000 Gaelic speakers in Scotland. Given that the demographics of the core audience (aside from sport) are so well known, the commissioning editors can be forensically specific about the genre of programming they are looking for. As a result, viewers know when to tune in for specific programmes, or genre of programmes; at 9 pm there will be the ‘heritage’ documentary, whilst at 7 pm they can expect a cookery programme, and then late at night, Gaelic music. By deciding on a genre, the filmmaker is opting for certain conventions and signals whereby the viewer will understand the ‘text’ within this genre. The filmmaker does this in the knowledge that they are helping the audience make a decision as to whether to watch the programme, based on their expectations and ability to engage in genre-based viewing (Altman 1999). Neale writes (of genre in the cinema, but his point is equally valuable for television):

Genres do not consist only of films: they consist also, and equally, of specific systems of expectation and hypothesis that spectators bring with them to the cinema and that interact with films themselves during the course of the viewing process. (2000, p. 158)

If genre is a formula, label (Altman 1999) or a ‘set of conventional and highly organised constraints on the production and interpretation of meaning’ (Frow 2005, p. 10), then it is acknowledged that it is both useful as a theoretical COMMISSION, POSITION AND PRODUCTION: INTENT AND INTERVENTION… 21 position and also integral to the pitching and pre-production process of a documentary, especially where the audience demographics and expectations are as well understood as they are on BBC Alba. Programmes on BBC Alba describe genre clearly through the broadcaster’s publicity, marketing, TV listings and trailers, all of which help to create expectations for the audience and need to be met by the producer/director.

Documentary Truth There is now a general consensus amongst documentary theorists that, because of the agency of others, documentaries can never be anything other than a representation of reality, interpreting the world through the eyes of the filmmaker. They cannot attain the objectivity that was once claimed for them, and to which it was previously suggested all documentaries should aspire (Godmilow and Shapiro 1997; Bruzzi 2000). Ponech (1997) suggests that audiences, more than theorists, understand that it is impossible to provide an undistorted view of reality. Rouch (1978, 2003), although a practitioner of cinéma vérité, admitted freely to subjectivity, and extended this by encouraging and facilitating the subjectivity of the subjects too. All documentaries can do is leave an impression of authenticity (Nichols 2001, p. 85). Given this, it is the role of the documentary maker to construct reality by giving the documentary a form and structure that speaks to the audience in a way that is easily and quickly understood. Thus, by collecting material, framing and editing, the maker changes the programme from being a record of actuality into being a documentary (Kilborn and Izod 1997). The work that goes into transforming actuality into a documentary ought not to hide the relationship that the film has with the real world, so that the completed documentary will still represent the ‘fragments of reality’ that Vertov (1992) described. As both programme makers and theorists have come to accept the inherent subjectivity and intervention that documentary-making brings, the discussion has widened to look at ‘truth’ and ‘validity’, and whether this necessarily results in a subjective ‘truth’. Bruzzi (2000) did not consider truth and reality to be lost by intervention, nor did Nichols, who argued that documentary ‘is reality re-presented to us’ (2001, p. 3), where the filmmaker is a participant-witness and ‘an active fabricator of meaning’ (2001, p. 18), in opposition to those who consider that intervention results in a loss of integrity (Barnouw 1974). Given the role of the filmmaker as the constructor of meaning, it is necessary to understand what shapes his or her practice, in order to establish documentary voice.

Situatedness and Voice When Nichols speaks of the documentary voice, he is setting out the relationship among the filmmaker, subjects and the audience. For him, a documentary should persuade and the voice provides the ‘informing logic’ (Nichols 2001, 22 D. MACLEAN p. 43). The voice is established by aesthetic choices around editing, lighting, shot choice, use of archive and so on, and, where used, the addition of voice- over. The voice ‘testifies to the character of the film-maker’ (Nichols 2001, p. 43), although it can itself be constrained by generic forms and modes. In order to understand voice it is therefore essential to consider the situatedness of the filmmaker in order to better illuminate the relationship among the filmmaker, the subject and the audience. I joined BBC Scotland in 1989, working initially on English-language programmes before moving into Gaelic programming. Although my parents were both born and brought up in the Hebrides, an island off the west coast of Scotland, and both spoke Gaelic, I was brought up in Edinburgh and am not fluent in Gaelic. I am therefore both an insider and outsider to the community. This position has led me to adopt a somewhat rose-tinted view of the islands, similar to Flaherty’s romantic approach to the Inuit whom he filmed forNanook of the North (1922) and the Irish islanders in Man of Aran (1934). I share his melancholy over a way of life that is disappearing, a culture that is precarious and a language that is in decline. This nostalgic engagement is evident in my documentary voice, as will be discussed in the section that looks at Balaich na h-Àirde. Gaelic television has a strong resonance with its audience, and the practitioners have a strong affinity with the audience too. BBC Alba expects a percentage of the staff working on a programme to be Gaelic speaking, so, often, the director/producer will share the same collective memories as the audience. It is perhaps unsurprising that directors have, over time, built up a set of informal protocols of how Gaelic documentaries should be shot and edited, look and feel. Interviewees are often situated in their crofts and interview clips are left long in order to allow the audience to appreciate story and ‘good Gaelic’, rather than a need to have a particular incident told succinctly. Many non- Gaelic films and television programmes elevate the majestic, and still today largely unspoilt, landscape of the Highlands and Islands to a primary character in their work, giving it heroic status, but perpetuating a perception that the area is both ‘wild’ and ‘romantic’. Blaikie (2001) describes how photography captured the Hebrides as an ‘antique curiosity held in aspic’. This is further explored by Petrie (2000), who considers islands to be both literally and figuratively used to suggest both an isolation from the mainland and the wild romanticism of an untamed savage, bypassed by civilisation. In English-language media, the Highlands and Islands often represent a ‘paradise lost’. The landscape is often raised to heroic status in Gaelic programmes too, frequently becoming an additional ‘character’ in programmes. This is partly because it is so filmic, but also because the land is important to Gaelic culture, where the notion of Dùthchas, a nebulous concept that involves hereditary rights over land, but also a sense of the ‘spirit’ of belonging to the land, prevails. Stories are frequently framed by the scenery. As Martin-Jones acknowledges, the placing of stories within the landscape allows for an examination of how ‘the periphery’s past remains active in the Gàidhealtachd’ (Martin-Jones 2010, p. 156) (Gàidhealtachd being the geographic and cultural COMMISSION, POSITION AND PRODUCTION: INTENT AND INTERVENTION… 23 area of the Highlands and Islands of Scotland where Gaelic is spoken). Although I would argue against any suggestion that the importance of the land in my documentaries has to do with a suggestion of ‘wildness’ or ‘savagery’, I do concede that I romanticise the land, and by extension, the lives of the people I interview.

Intention Situatedness does influence voice, as we have seen, and voice can determine who is considered to have authored the film; in other words, establish the intent of the filmmaker. Film theory often favours an anti-intentionalist stance, where, crudely put, it is all about the text. For Foucault, Barthes and Derrida, intention is a historically necessary form of criticism, which defies the author and marginalises the audience, given that the intended message may never arrive. Arguments against admitting an empirical author share an anti- intentionalist reasoning that only attributes meaning at the point of reception. Post-structuralist theories against authorship argue against the idea that intention and meaning are meant to be understood. But theories around producer intent (Gaut 1997; Livingston 1997; Ponech 1997; Carroll 1996, 1997) countered this discourse by arguing, first for an author, and further, for the potential for multiple authors. At the heart of this debate is the question as to whether one needs to understand the author and their intent in order to interpret the film, and indeed, whether a film can ever be regarded as a text. Livingston (1997) argues against Foucault’s historical criticism, with Livingston concluding that current academic discourse which favours the traditional conception of authorship is irrelevant for the cinema and film because authorship in film is fundamentally different to literary authorship. Gaut, agreeing with Livingston, considers the notion that some films are authored to be ‘one of the most powerful and pervasive views in current thinking about cinema’ (1997, p. 149). He acknowledges that the idea of film authorship is elusive and then describes a ‘hermeneutic claim’ that construes films as ‘products of their makers (usually taken to mean the directors’ (1997, p. 150). This understanding sometimes ascribes intent to the filmmaker, but not always. Sellors too supports the idea of an author with intent, suggesting ‘at the point that we abandon authorship, we abandon concern for the intention behind the production’ (2007, p. 264). Livingston set out what he believes defines an author, describing an interpretation that showed the author/s as ‘the agent ... who intentionally makes an utterance, where “utterance” refers to any action, an intended function of which is expression or communication’ (1997, p. 134). By making an utterance, the author is acting on an intention. Sellors (2007) expands on this point in his argument that meaning is expressed intentionally and that therefore the ‘utterance’ conveys attitudes that the filmmaker holds. Gaut (1997) goes on to examine various options for authorship, including a single author—the dominant theorist view—or multiple authorship, with one ‘dominant author’. He 24 D. MACLEAN suggests that works are made collectively, but aesthetically dominated by one person. In 1962, when Sarris was setting out his ‘auteur’ theory, he posited that an ‘auteur’ had to show a certain technique and a defined personal style, and be responsible for the interior meaning of a film. Although not without its critics, the theory does offer another insight into what could be considered single authorship, especially within the context of a body of work. I conceived, wrote and produced the drama documentary, but the team included a director, director of photography (DoP), sound recordist and many other craftspeople who contributed to the dramatised elements. I conceived, wrote, produced and directed the observational documentary, working with the same DoP. I would argue for my role as the dominant author, not (as Sellor would maintain) because of the aesthetics of the two films, but because my situatedness as both insider and outsider determines the voice, and that across the body of my work, my subject choices and execution suggest a personal style, and, further, that the interior meaning of the film is predicated on my engagement with the geographical area. This is not to negate the aesthetic influences brought by other members of the team, but rather to suggest that they are of less importance to the intention and voice than my subjective stance towards the place and people of the Hebrides.

The Commissions I suggest there are two intentions in the films that I make for BBC Alba. The first is to find oral stories, or potentially forgotten history, and capture them before they are lost. Martin-Jones talks of the recurrence of storytelling in Gaelic broadcasts and demonstrates the importance of the ‘act of mythologis- ing Gaelic culture and folklore in these films’ (2010, p. 162). The second identifiable intent in my documentaries is to consider the Gaelic question ofCo Leis Thu?—literally translated as ‘who are you?’ but involving the much more fundamental question of to whom you belong, connoting a sense of history and ‘clanship’. Leasan sa Bhàs (Lessons in Death) is a one-hour drama documentary that was broadcast in 2011. The process of the commission began in the early 1990s when I was told the story of a nineteenth-century murder on Scarp, a now abandoned island in the Hebrides. The unsubstantiated story held that in the 1880s a sewing mistress murdered the schoolmaster, as he was about to discover that she had been embezzling school funds to pay for her opium addiction. The murder was committed by shaving the tops of matches into the schoolmaster’s supper, which led to his slow and agonising death. Balaich na h-Àirde (The Aird Boys, 2015) is a one-hour documentary about three brothers who have all made significant contributions to the cultural and creative arts both within the Gaelic-speaking community and beyond. The documentary looked to their past to identify how place shaped and influenced their lives. It was filmed after the completion of my PhD, which significantly COMMISSION, POSITION AND PRODUCTION: INTENT AND INTERVENTION… 25 changed my engagement with my practice, as I was interested in examining the filmmaker’s construction of identity and use of landscape in films from the Highlands and Islands. This unquestionably changed my voice, as it was now additionally informed by academic discourse on constructing identity, mediat- ing memory and the role of landscape in Gaelic films and broadcasts. Both of these programmes were filmed in the Hebrides. Shooting in remote, unspoilt and beautiful areas brings production benefits. However, with approximately 15 shooting days per programme, travel and accommodation accounted for a significant amount of the budget. These budgetary constraints of getting a crew to a location and accommodating them there for nearly three weeks drain resources from other areas. The additional problem of visualising oral stories or history informed the treatment of both, and resulted in the drama- documentary elements in the first programme and an aesthetic use of archive in the second. Providing programming for a minority-language channel brings specific requirements. There is an expectation that approximately 70% of the content will be in Gaelic. This can limit production choices. If, for instance, a number of interviews are in English, there is a greater imperative to include a voice- over, as this will increase Gaelic content. Leasan sa Bhàs contained a number of interviews in English, and therefore had to have a Gaelic voice-over in order to satisfy the commissioners. Interviews in the second documentary were conducted entirely in Gaelic, so no voice-over was necessary.

Leasan sa Bhàs The budget for Leasan sa Bhàs was £80,000, which, for a high-quality drama documentary, was a challenge, and ultimately led to changes between the treatment as pitched to the commissioner and the delivered programme. I wrote and produced the documentary and worked with an established director and DoP, neither of whom had any connection to the geographical area. I originally conceived of the work as a fiction film and had planned to examine themes of loneliness, desperation and a clash of cultures through invented characters and narrative. This approach was abandoned as it became clear that the programme would work equally well as a drama documentary. After all, both non-fiction and fiction start and end with telling stories and use fictional devices (Renov 1993). During pre-production, I pre-interviewed every islander who was willing to meet with me in order that I could choose people to interview on screen from this pool. I chose those whom I considered genuine, trustworthy, articulate, and who also had something slightly different to say from other interviewees. This is a standard production decision to ensure plurality of voices, but becomes problematic when one starts asking questions about who is telling whose story and how collective memory is being mediated. During my first recce to the island, on a beautiful June day, I walked through an abandoned village. This inspired the visuals for Leasan sa Bhàs, and also 26 D. MACLEAN informed a strong theme of people drifting, washing up in lonely places further and further away from urban life. This notion of isolation, of people adrift, is woven throughout the programme. It also became clear that by uncovering the origins of this oral story, much could be revealed about the Hebrides of the nineteenth century, and by investigating the consequences of such an event for a small community more than a hundred years ago, in the 1880s, much could also be learned about present-day islanders. A substantial time during the pre-production phase was spent trying to verify the allegation of murder from a time and place where records were scant. I accessed genealogical records to check births, weddings and deaths and discovered some empirical ‘truths’ about the lives of the people involved. A school log book from 1888, written by schoolmaster John Abercrombie, gave particularly valuable insight into both the running of the school and his character. The obvious deterioration in Abercrombie’s handwriting confirmed he was suffering from ill-health, but could not establish whether this was due to poisoning. Although this log book provided a brief account of Abercrombie’s life, the sewing mistress, Annie Jane Murphy, was more elusive. Interpreting what can be gleaned from public records (Murphy’s bigamist marriage, children born out of wedlock) gave an insight into her behaviour and personality. The information gathered from this historical research resulted in the drawing up of casting notes, which were prepared for the casting director. At this point, the two ‘real’ people were transformed into ‘characters’, that is, constructs, conceived through my historical research and highly subjective interpretations. Suggesting possible life trajectories for them both formed a significant intervention in the original oral story and illustrates the power of films to mediate and ‘fix’ stories. The known, or filmable, elements were covered in a standard documentary way, with interviews and visual sequences shot on location. The dramatic reconstructions filled in the imaginatively realised elements of the story; that is, the past, which accessing archives and memories suggested. These reconstructions would also supply motivation, in the absence of any written records, for why these people behaved as they did. The treatment of the dramatised elements changed from pitch to execution. To help the audience understand that the dramatised elements were not meant to give closure to the story, I treated these differently to other footage. The film used cinematic devices to blur distinctions between ‘evidence’ and ‘re-creation’: the drama was given a different colour grade and the scenes were slowed down in the edit, so that the footage had a jerky, step-printed quality which I felt gave it even more of a sense of being distant from reality. The actors never spoke, and the dramatised elements had a dreamlike quality to them. This approach was suggested by the director, who wanted to reference the oneiric approach of Andrei Tarkovsky’s Mirror (1975). The aesthetics and execution invite the viewer to understand that this is a ‘suggestive’ truth, to be interpreted differently to the conventionally shot documentary elements of the programme. COMMISSION, POSITION AND PRODUCTION: INTENT AND INTERVENTION… 27

Originally, the intention was to treat the interviews in a stylised way too, in order to further enhance the feeling of dreamlike separation between real and unreal, memories and truths. To further this, the director proposed recording the interviews as sound only, so that we never cut to the interviewee’s face, and the interview remained audio only. However, the concerns of the commissioner, wary that the treatment was too ‘arty’ for the Gaelic audience, and my own sense that the audience would feel deprived if they did not see the people being interviewed, resulted in this idea being disregarded. The finished documentary is less experimental and less visually challenging than originally considered—the needs of the commissioner and the audience limited the extent to which we could experiment.

Balaich na h-Àirde This is the story of three brothers from Ness, a village at the northern periphery of the Hebridean island of Lewis. By the time of shooting, I was writing journal articles examining the role of the interview setting in documentary to construct identity. I had observed that my practice was often to situate interviewees within their geographical landscape, and I wanted, in this film, to interrogate my reasons for this—whether this arose because of my own nostalgic longing for the land and romantic view of the Hebrides, or whether this was suggested to me by the subjects. During pre-production, I met the three brothers and other interviewees and it was clear that all the interviewees placed the same importance on the physical location in which they were brought up as I do. In effect, they subconsciously colluded in a construction of people for whom the land was of defining importance. One brother took me to his favourite place in the world—the moorland behind his house, which he described as his ‘church’, the place he came to find a spiritual peace that he could not find anywhere else. Their engagement with their village, Ness, was profound, as described by one interviewee in the final clip of the programme:

They are a Gàidhealtachd family. And the culture and the language wove all of that together, and the lifestyle they had, which is very important to them as far as I could ever tell. And Ness. Ness. Ness is where they are from. And that is in their blood. (Maggie MacKinnon, Balaich na h-Àirde, 2014)

Consequently, Ness became the fourth ‘character’ in the documentary. This reflected my own subjective treatment of the Hebrides and the programmes that I make there, and suggests that if I have what Sarris (1962) described as an internal meaning, it is derived from my own background, which has many similarities with those of the people I interview. It would be incorrect and sim- plistic to extrapolate from this that my programmes share authorship or voice with the subjects, but it does offer some reassurance that my treatment is not fallacious, but indicative of the shared meaning and experiences of people who make Gaelic programmes and those who watch them. 28 D. MACLEAN

Balaich na h-Àirde was interview-driven, with archive film of Ness and the Hebrides from the 1960s and 1970s used to stand in for how the village would have looked in the first half of the twentieth century. Family photographs supplemented the film archive. Like my other documentaries, the film has a nostalgic gaze, one shared by the interviewees themselves. It is very much a film of memory. The stories of childhood describe long days of summer, freedom and a regrettably lost innocence. Here BBC Alba functions as a repository for archival and collective memory. Given the lack of compulsion to use a voice-over, I was committed from the outset to completing this documentary without one and shot it accordingly. Non-voiced documentaries are held by many practitioners to be the ‘holy grail’ of documentary-making, letting the film speak for itself and allowing the audience to reach their own conclusions. Bruzzi (2000) blames the tarnished reputation of the voice-over on theorists who have condemned it for being didactic. Robert Drew, a pioneer of direct cinema, thought that only films without voice-over could ‘soar’ (2006, pp. 271–3). Youdelman (2005)) argued that voice-over suppressed the voices of the documentary subjects. Balaich na h-Àirde lent itself well to the treatment, and did achieve the appeal of appearing to be the brothers’ voices, unmediated by anyone. Yet the production process can never be removed from the authorial voice of the director/producer. So, the pace, editing, interview clips and music used were all aesthetic evidence of my voice. The music that I chose and was used under archive materials and acted as a bridge between thematically different elements of the programme, arguably increased the sentimental and nostalgic tone of the programme. The author can never be anything other than the primary voice, irrespective of the inclusion of voice-over, and even considering and acknowledging a shared culture between filmmaker and subjects.

Conclusion If, as Bruzzi (2000) suggests, documentaries have traditionally meant completion, then the journey can be said to begin in pre-production and end in broadcast. The journey in Leasan sa Bhàs was to uncover a past crime and travel through an island’s history. In Balaich na h-Àirde the journey was to better understand how place and community shape people. This chapter has explored the commissioning process and the role of the commissioner, in order to make explicit the degree of influence broadcasting constraints, budget and commissioner have on the production process. The chapter acknowledges that a producer has to work within these constraints, but argues that their subjectivity is still the defining motivator in the execution of the programmes, which results in a very particular voice. The chapter contends that my voice reflects nostalgia for a lost culture, and that my situatedness as insider and outsider authors the programmes. If we accept that documentaries cannot be made without intervention, and therefore cannot ascribe to tell the ‘truth’, then, if the documentary has a COMMISSION, POSITION AND PRODUCTION: INTENT AND INTERVENTION… 29

‘truthful intent’, it can stand as a representation of truth. All documentary film can be said to represent memory and history, in that everything is in the past, ‘filming an essentially ephemeral event, a vanishing custom, a disappearing species, a transitory occurrence is the motivation behind most documentary images’ (Rabinowitz 1993, p. 120). Leasan sa Bhàs attempts to make what Ponech describes as a ‘direct motion picture confirmative’ (1997, p. 210) in that it tries to find out the ‘truth’ about the murder. And, if the way to achieving this truth is through dramatic reconstruction, then we ought to agree with Renov when he asks ‘Is spoken word not a reenactment in its own right’ (1993, p. 177)? Leasan sa Bhàs not only records an oral story in danger of being forgotten, but also describes my understanding of universal truths about living in the Hebrides. These same truths are displayed in Balaich na h-Àirde, despite the differences in genre and delivery. The production processes of the two programmes encompass varying degrees of intervention. Investigating the two documentaries has allowed for a consideration as to whether the intervention has affected their degree of authenticity or truth. This chapter argues that all programmes are constructed and narrativised and that intervention is inevitable. In production terms, it is problematic to deliver an hour’s documentary based on a nineteenth-century story from an oral community with virtually no archive from the time. Options for visualising the story are limited, so it is inevitable that some elements have to be dramatically reconstructed. If, as we have already seen, what is important is intent, then this chapter has argued that my intention—to capture and interrogate an oral story and find a truth—justifies the inclusion of dramatic reconstruction. It further argues that dramatising content does not constitute any greater degree of intervention, given both programmes can only offer a truth arrived at through my voice. Leasan sa Bhàs conforms to an oeuvre of Gaelic filmmaking that values storytelling and then places this narrative within the context of the landscape, in a similar way to other Gaelic films such asAn Iobairt (1996) and Seachd: The Inaccessible Pinnacle (2007). As such, the programmes capture ‘a world imagined by the film-maker’ (Nichols 2001). Balaich na h-Àirde also places emphasis on the landscape; a considered decision arrived at through negotiation with the subjects rather than being entirely imposed by the producer. The chapter acknowledged that whilst the subjects articulate an affinity with the land, the editing decisions, including the choice of final clip, re-emphasise the character of the village and frame the idea of land within a nostalgic gaze. By interrogating voice, situatedness and intent, and arriving at the conclusion that these programmes have a single author, supplemented by the collective decisions of the creative team, the chapter argues that the programmes are mediated by the author, albeit an author sympathetic to the language, culture and people of the Hebrides. 30 D. MACLEAN

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Paget, D. (2011). No Other Way to Tell It: Dramadoc/Docudrama on Television (2nd ed.). Manchester: Manchester University Press. Petrie, D. (2000). The New Scottish Cinema. In M. Hjort & S. Mackenzie (Eds.), Cinema and Nation. New York/Oxford: Routledge. Ponech, T. (1997). What Is Non-fiction Cinema? In R. Allen & M. Smith (Eds.),Film Theory and Philosophy (pp. 203–219). New York/Oxford: Oxford University Press. Rabinowitz, P. (1993). History, Documentary and the Ruins of Memory. History and Theory, 32(2), 119–137. Renov, M. (1993). Theorizing Documentary. New York: Routledge. Rosenthal, A., & Corner, J. (2005). New Challenges for Documentary. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Rouch, J. (1978). The Politics of Visual Anthropology: An Interview with Jean Rouch. Cineaste, viii(4), 16–24. Rouch, J. (2003). Ciné-Ethnography. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Sarris, A. (1962). Notes on the Auteur Theory in 1962. Film Culture, 27, 1–8. Sellors, P. (2007). Collective Authorship in Film. The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, 65(3), 263–271. Stevenson, G. (dir.). (1996). An Iobairt (The Sacrifice). Camus Productions. Tarkovsky, A. (dir.). (1975). The Mirror. Kino Video. Vertov, D. (1992). Kino-Eye: The Writings of Dziga Vertov. California: University of California Press. Winston, B. (1995). Claiming the Real: The Documentary Film Revisited. London: British Film Institute Publishing. Winston, B. (2000). Lies, Damn Lies and Documentaries. London: British Film Institute Publishing. Winston, B. (2008). Claiming the Real: Documentary, Grierson and Beyond (2nd ed.). London: British Film Institute Publishing. Youdelman, J. (2005). Narration, Invention, History. In A. Rosenthal & J. Corner (Eds.), New Challenges for Documentary (pp. 397–408). Manchester/New York: Manchester University Press. Having Something to Say and Saying It Well

Stephen Sewell and Ben Crisp

Introduction Screenwriting, as research-led creative practice within the academy, must respond to the continually evolving screen production industry, and offer opportunities that build on and evolve beyond existing popular doxa as found in screenwriting manuals, non-accredited courses and online resources, which tend to emphasise craft elements based on contemporary convention over artistic elements such as creativity and voice. Higher education is uniquely placed to provide specialised training in creativity itself, and so offer training that goes far beyond the popular orthodoxy of screenwriting, by providing graduates with the tools both to develop their own personal creativity, and to navigate the complex relationship between creative and artistic expression and the practicalities of the screen production industry. There remains a tension between the output of highly skilled and creative artists and the apparent demands and politics of the screen industry. By com- plementing craft with training in interdisciplinary skills and the fostering of creative process, such as through critical thinking and the teaching of the neuroscience of creativity, the academy can position the research-led creative practice of screenwriters both within and beyond the expectations of the screen production industry and deliver practitioners who are not merely trained func- tionaries, but artists capable of making the creative decisions necessary to a business in which innovation is central.

S. Sewell (*) • B. Crisp National Institute of Dramatic Art, Kensington, NSW, Australia e-mail: [email protected]

Screenwriting Research in Higher Education Screenwriting—and filmmaking generally—remain attractive career paths for many young people. Like music, and pop music in particular, the promise of big money and fame are intoxicating ingredients which have spawned countless books, courses, intensives and weekend workshops fuelling a largely unlicensed and unproven industry run by self-appointed experts. Against all this activity, there are countless critically and/or commercially successful screenwriters who never completed a screenwriting course of any description, so what can higher education offer that innumerable other courses—or none at all—cannot or do not? There are some obvious professional advantages offered by higher education in screenwriting. Ideally, higher education offers the student access to the most relevant contemporary industry practice, personally curated mentorship and feedback from active practitioners and a dedicated peer group, and access to a network of staff and graduates who may provide recommendations, guidance and introductions into an industry infamous for its closed circle of working professionals and high barrier to entry. However, even with access to rigorous training in contemporary craft, and a professional and collaborative environment for practice, early-career graduates face an industry in which the effective orthodoxy of screenwriting craft must be applied to original and authentic ideas. When researchers position their work entirely within development and demonstration of industrially normative craft, rather than exploring new ways of thinking, communicating and storytelling, there is a risk that the creative output will stagnate—neither satisfying the demands of the industry nor providing new pathways for the art form. Change may enter from the outside, in the form of new voices either invited or forcing their way through the doors or finding new ways of expressing themselves and introducing change into the art form through innovation. The tertiary sector, with its existing cross-disciplinary access to fields such as neuroscience and psychology, offers a clear advantage, as well as a duty, to develop demonstrable pedagogical models that nurture creativity and innovation, as well as technical expertise, of the forms that can generate innovation from the inside. Within the academy, screenwriting as creative practice increasingly offers the opportunity not only to more deeply explore industry methodology between core and niche areas within the discipline, but to test and breach these boundaries to create new pathways beyond screenwriting orthodoxy. This has been evidenced by recent research in screenwriting practice that challenges traditional norms of, among other things, sex, gender, race and culture (Kerrigan et al. 2015, p. 97). This exploration is imperative for a discipline that is so deeply embedded within a cultural system heavily imbued with commercial and ideological functions—a cultural system that suffers severely from biases that restrict the accepted styles and trends of storytelling on a mass scale (Taylor 2017, p. 10). HAVING SOMETHING TO SAY AND SAYING IT WELL 35

Screenwriting—especially within the academy—cannot afford to merely respond to the cultural environment that shapes the core of its industry. Rather, it must break new ground and challenge the existing norms, in order that the field reflects the voices of its diverse and individualistic artists, rather than shaping artists within a normative definition of practice. This shift within the academy is reflected by a shift in industry practice from the screenwriter as a specialist distinct from other key creative roles, to overlapping and combined roles within screen production:

Screenwriting in the academy needs to provide an education about how to embody the opinions of the field in order to understand how the medium and the industry can shape their work. This is not a simple process, and the professional practice has for some decades been moving away from the specialisation of being just a screenwriter, to that of a multi-skilled screenwriter who can also operate as a writer-producer or writer-director. (Kerrigan and Batty 2016, p. 140)

As screenwriter and TV producer Dara Creasey (I Love Dick, Shooter) says of her experience teaching at leading screenwriting academies University of Southern California (USC), University of California, Los Angeles (UCLA) and University of California, Riverside (UCR):

The common thread in all my conversations with Braun, Krieger, and other writers was that students’ early work is too often focused solely on craft. Craft is important. But it’s relatively easy to teach. What’s much harder to impart is how to make stories and scenes visceral [...] The most important thing each of us brings to our creative work is who we are. Our individual perspectives. I realized it was my job to help each of my students to find their voice. I structured the class as a safe place where my students would focus on what was unique to each of their life experiences and emotional points of view first, and I talked about craft and technique second. (Creasey 2014)

Screen production is an expensive enterprise. Screen productions exist within a spectrum between two often conflicting roles—as artistic culminations of technical, cultural and creative collaborations, and as commercial products that are expected to generate mass marketing attention, advertising revenue or box office and digital download revenues. This places the screenwriter in a position of tension between originality (uniqueness, distinctiveness of voice) and effectiveness (industrial reality, market awareness) (Macdonald 2003, p. 33). The exploration of fundamental questions about personal identity, as well as the fostering of “safe spaces” within which these explorations can freely and effectively take place are just some of the pedagogical approaches to promoting authenticity of voice beyond the craft of screenwriting. But before considering this, let us look a little more closely at the creative process itself. 36 S. SEWELL AND B. CRISP

The Importance of Voice There are significantly more screenwriters, whether trained or untrained, than there are original screen productions. But with the explosion of content on digital media platforms, such as Netflix and Amazon, original content is reaching record numbers. There are more opportunities and pathways into the profession than ever before, and demand for original, diverse, authentic and risk-taking screenwriting has never been higher—putting training that emphasises creativity, risk-taking and innovation at a premium. As the traditional seat of learning and critical thought, the academy would seem the perfect place for such training to take place.

The academy thus functions as a training ground for new thought and practice, resulting in critically informed screenplays that ask important questions, deepen practices of development, and push the boundaries of form, content and craft. (Batty et al. 2015, p. 11)

It is not only early-career screenwriters, but all writers, and indeed all artists operating within a market economy, who face a tension between an expectation of authenticity of voice and the flexibility to situate their voice within a constantly changing industry paradigm. What is this “authenticity of voice” that we are referring to? It is that spark, that touchstone of genuine personal truth, that distinguishes the individual from the mass-produced and that consequently retains what Walter Benjamin termed the charisma of art, and so is highly valued in a world dominated by assembly-line inhumanity. This “authenticity of voice” is what reminds us that we are free and unique, and so is both crucial to and antagonistic towards the production process of (studio) filmmaking itself. Without an authentic voice, the films, television shows and—let us say—the narrative digital games that are increasingly challenging the dominance of films as storytelling platforms, become suffocatingly generic and emotionally empty and so, while technically professional—even superb—fail to engage and consequently sell, which is the sole purpose the whole enterprise has been set in motion to achieve. This is the central dilemma facing not only the academy, but what has come to be known as the entertainment industry, and is one that must be addressed.

Cultivating Voice Voice is born out of a combination of craft, personal experience and understanding based on knowledge. As will be explored in the sections Cultivating Voice and The Creative Unconscious, knowledge is the fuel for creativity: combining old ideas into new associations is what defines a recognition of creative expression (Pavlik 2002). The higher education screenwriting course may therefore benefit its students by incorporating training in the acquisition and curation of the wide knowledge sometimes referred to as a “liberal education”, HAVING SOMETHING TO SAY AND SAYING IT WELL 37 which in contemporary society their previous education may have neglected as a result of a narrow vocational focus being adopted in some school systems, and which has coincided with the apparent decline in creativity in some disciplines, at least in the United States (Kim 2011). Creative thinking and innovation in the arts relies less on the acquisition of formal knowledge (i.e. the formal systems and structures as might be found in the hard sciences) than what Arne Dietrich calls “emotional knowledge” (Dietrich 2004, p. 1021). Writers must have broad knowledge and appreciation of foundational elements of their own society, and the societies of their audiences. These may include areas of knowledge universities seem uniquely capable of providing, for example: introductions to psychology, philosophy, history, literature, politics and world cultures. These fields form the foundation of both storytelling craft and the content of stories, both in a contemporary context and in the history of dramatic arts stretching back to the classical era. By example, within the National Institute of Dramatic Arts (NIDA) MFA Writing for Performance programme, students engage in studies in psychology and philosophy with the aim of encouraging critical thinking and the stimulation of debate and argument deeply informed by contemporary thinkers. As screen production technologies and audience engagement evolves beyond the case studies explored within screenwriting manuals, it is imperative that students learn the principles of critical thinking and persuasive communication as they relate to adaptive storytelling. In addition to providing writers in general and screenwriters in particular with challenging intellectual material as part of their formal training, the academy is also in a position where training in other writerly skills, such as journalism, interviewing, and interdisciplinary academic research can be undertaken in a rigorous fashion. Something like this does take place at the moment, with the nature of the training dependent on how the screenwriting course is situated within a wider programme of study: some courses form part of a screen production programme, others are part of a wider liberal arts programme. The more isolated the course of study, the more important that interdisciplinary research is encouraged. Beyond these skills and the general environment of inquisitiveness and curiosity, which the academy seems uniquely capable of providing, is the establishment of that “safe space” to facilitate the cultivation of voice. This is a much more difficult and subtle task, especially in the context of a system driven by the demands of assessment and critical engagement. How can aspiring screenwriters cultivate a voice in an environment where assessment of creative work can inevitably feel like an assessment of personal worth? Early-career screenwriters need to be encouraged to mine their own personal histories, which invariably provide the reasons for their desire to write in the first place (at least for writers who will persist, after the dreams of money and fame are shown to be illusory), and to acquire the skills to defend their voice when they do expose themselves, skills which will be crucial to their success as writers. Screenwriting requires flexibility: changes in market trends, 38 S. SEWELL AND B. CRISP technologies and industry health, along with the many competing creative and professional voices on any screen project, mean that the screenwriter and their work will be constantly challenged—and not only on aesthetic or formal grounds. It is up to the writer to understand themselves and their work sufficiently to know when to be flexible, and when and how to stand their ground.

[B]eing unable or unwilling to show independence of judgment, to stand for a foundational idea and thus against other ideas that would derail the project from its underlying creative core, was a detriment to the script’s success. (Ferguson 2009, p. 439)

Fields of knowledge such as dialectical thinking and the techniques of classical rhetoric have been overlooked in some institutions, despite their role in the practical application and historical development of the dramatic arts—for example, the Aristotelian dialectic of protagonist and antagonist which persists in contemporary screenwriting discourse. Education in these fields helps screenwriters identify, interrogate and express their own points of view, and gives them a sense of perspective and distance with regard to their work. It is pointless for a screenwriter to simply write characters who voice the writer’s own opinions or convictions—for these ideas to have any emotional or dramatic connection with the audience, the writer must be able to explore coun- terargument, cross-examination, to test their ideas from other perspectives with honesty and integrity. In Story, screenwriting “guru” Robert McKee notes:

For an artist must have not only ideas to express, but ideas to prove. Expressing an idea, in the sense of exposing it, is never enough. The audience must not just understand; it must believe. You want the world to leave your story convinced that yours is a truthful metaphor for life. And the means by which you bring the audience to your point of view resides in the very design you give your telling. As you create your story, you create your proof; idea and structure intertwine in a rhetorical relationship. (McKee 2010, p. 113)

Aristotelean principles of rhetorical persuasion—logos, ethos and pathos— remain at the heart of the screenwriter’s response to the question “Why will the audience care about this story?” The screenwriter makes the audience care, through a variety of techniques, but the strongest tools appeal to the emotional proclivities of the audience (pathos), creating an internally consistent logic to the story-world (logos), and demonstrating a thematic point of view or truth about the world (ethos). Wayne Booth, in The Rhetoric of Fiction, recognised that it is no longer appropriate to consider the audience as sharing one universal system of values:

[A]ny story will be unintelligible unless it includes, however subtly, the amount of telling necessary not only to make us aware of the value system which gives it HAVING SOMETHING TO SAY AND SAYING IT WELL 39

its meaning but, more important, to make us willing to accept that value system, at least temporarily. (Booth 2010, p. 112)

The study of such thinking can serve the screenwriter not just in the construction and defence of authentic creative voice and point of view, but in their overall capacity to think creatively:

New modes of thinking continue to emerge during adolescence and through adulthood and influence the quality of creativity. Postformal reasoning abilities, including dialectical thinking, may be important for creativity through enhanced problem finding and qualitative changes in the nature of creative productions. (Guignard and Lubart 2006, p. 279)

The cultivation of voice and its protection and defence within a safe space can be contradictory to the rigorous critical and academic assessment of work and thought demanded by the academy—an assessment that can risk diminishing the creative freedom and courage desired of students. However, there have been significant developments in the understanding of creativity training, and it is to these that we will now turn our attention.

Training for Creativity Higher education screenwriting courses have variously emphasised creativity as a requirement for entry, an assessment criterion and a graduate attribute, but it is now widely recognised that creativity itself is a teachable skill, with the pioneering work of researchers such as Guilford, Mackinnon, Torrance, Shekerjian and Staw now being used by educators to reinvigorate their writing courses. Both nationally and internationally, screenwriting courses have begun to incorporate specialised creativity training in addition to formal craft training, with programmes such as Margaret McVeigh’s Creativity Workshop for Screenwriting at Griffith University using newly validated techniques such as meditation, journaling, and inconclusive and non-specific research tasks in order to stimulate creativity. One of this chapter’s authors, Dr Stephen Sewell, heads the MFA Writing for Performance at NIDA, which teaches not only rhetoric and philosophy, but has an extensive creativity programme incorporating practices and exercises aimed at promoting what Dr Sue Woolfe has termed the “lull”: a state of “loose construing” or non-goal-oriented thinking that she and Sewell believe stimu- lates creative thought (Sewell 2017; Woolfe 2013). This technique is currently being researched by a team of neuroscientists and psychologists to determine its efficacy, with preliminary results showing significant improvements in creativity. In addition to such approaches, the cultivation of creativity should cau- tiously encourage those characteristics identified by studies of highly creative people, which include non-conformity and defiance of authority andconvention 40 S. SEWELL AND B. CRISP in favour of new ideas, as well as persistence, resilience, flexibility and adaptive- ness in the face of failure, and obsessive commitment—sometimes even over personal or familial responsibilities (Staw 1995, p. 476). What hinders creativity? Lack of persistence is one factor, and is often caused by a lack of belief in personal creative potential (Lucas and Nordgren 2015, p. 242). Persistence may be encouraged by fostering trust in the creative process—a process supported by exposure to the results of neuroscience. That is to say, when writers are taught the foundational neuroscience of creativity, it has a positive impact on their confidence and creativity and a surprising effect on their work, as much of the science provides encouraging validation of the torment and triumph of the writer’s experience (Onarheim and Friis- Olivarius 2013). If defiance of convention is an indicator of creativity, where does craft fit with creativity? Craft and convention make creative insights accessible to a wider audience; the teaching of craft is not only useful, but essential in demystifying the mechanics of screen storytelling, and dispelling the myth that creative work is the product of an ineffable and innate talent (Waitman and Plucker 2009, p. 296). However, as will be demonstrated, an overreliance on craft can sometimes inhibit creativity. This may be particularly prevalent when a writer feels creatively or physically exhausted, and resorts to convergent over divergent thinking (Aronson 2010, pp. 6–7). When a practitioner simply turns the handle of craft to produce something that resembles art, they may exclude the central ingredient: passionate engagement with the material.

The Creative Unconscious The role of the unconscious in creative thought has been attested to by writers including such methodologically diverse figures as Stephen King and Ernest Hemingway. As an early researcher of the unconscious, Freud was a strong proponent of the role it played in creativity, believing that creative writing had developed as a socially acceptable way in which writers purge themselves of the neurotic fantasies that might otherwise manifest in unhealthy or dangerous outlets (Freud 1907). Increasingly, neuroscientists such as Nancy Andreasen are exploring the concept of the unconscious in her elucidations of the brain’s function and anatomy, especially as they relate to creativity (Andreasen 2005). Such considerations have led to work on how creative productivity can be improved through psychoanalytic techniques, such as free association, and curated cycles of open and closed mode thinking, or movement between uncritical free association of ideas and focused and decisive implementation of creative solutions. “Flow” is the name coined by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi for another technique, the deep immersion in a task, when creativity and productivity seems to require little or no conscious effort (Csikszentmihalyi 1996). In Writing in Flow, Susan Perry interviewed writers in an effort to illuminate the mysterious HAVING SOMETHING TO SAY AND SAYING IT WELL 41 nature of this process (Perry 2001). In The Psychology of Creative Writing, Kaufman and Kaufman locate Perry’s work among several studies of the ways in which writers invoke the creative muse (Kaufman and Kaufman 2009). Many writers describe a variety of rituals and processes, including the use of deliberate distraction such as music or background noise, or drugs such as caffeine and alcohol. The common theme appears to be control over or subjugation of the conscious, analytical and critical modes of thinking that interrupt the free flow of creative productivity. This is indeed the central aim of Woolfe’s “Lulling” process, which could be described in Freudian terms as the subversion of the ego defences associated with the pre-frontal’s domination and repression of unconscious thought, allowing unusual, unconventional and even shocking repressed memories and associations to be made. The invocation of the subconscious or unconscious is also part of what screenwriter, actor and creativity consultant John Cleese teaches in a process of creativity based on Mackinnon’s principle of repeated open-closed-open-closed thinking cycles (Cleese 1991). The UK Design Council labelled this type of creative cycle the “double diamond”, emphasising the divergent–convergent shapes of thought involved (Design Council 2018). Studies of working screenwriters have demonstrated that this cycle of open idea generation, closed implementation, open creative revision and closed feedback implementation benefits from curated alteration between unconscious and conscious thought modes (Bourgeois-Bougrine et al. 2014; Gulino and Shears 2018). This is probably because creative thinking is the way in which the brain creates novel and unfamiliar associations between existing knowledge (Zhong et al. 2008). Some studies frame the brain’s approach to problem-solving as a reaction to conventional stimuli (prior knowledge) and unconventional stimuli (a novel problem), thereby invoking a specialised conventional processing system (conscious thought) in coordination with a non-specialised unconventional processing system (unconscious thought) (Kenett et al. 2015, p. 10). When conscious concentration fails to generate an acceptable solution to a problem, resulting in an impasse, a solution often “pops” into consciousness unexpectedly during a later unrelated task—probably as a result of the period of unconscious “incubation” during which time the formal constraints of the problem are relaxed (Dietrich 2004, p. 1019).

Invoking the Unconscious Distraction, procrastination, daydreaming, meditation, alcohol: the rituals of creative writers appear to support the contention that relaxation of the conscious, analytical and critical faculties unleashes creativity. In fact, studies show that the more creative thinkers are inherently less able to ignore irrelevant information during problem-solving tasks and are more likely to be distracted by information that is known to be unconnected to the task at hand because 42 S. SEWELL AND B. CRISP they are not so focused and consequently imprisoned by the specifics of the problem (Friis-Olivarius et al. 2017). Some creativity rituals appear to be preferable to others in the context of the higher education screenwriting course. While the use of alcohol and other drugs has been linked to creativity (though, interestingly, not caffeine), reliance on such methods has obvious dangers, and their use by creatives has been shown to diminish both quality and quantity of creative output over time (Carson 2011). Beyond its mental and physical health benefits, certain types of meditation have been shown to improve the conditions necessary for creative thought. Open monitoring meditation (Lutz et al. 2008), where the focus is on a receptiveness to any and all physical sensation, emotional and cognitive experiences, has been demonstrated to reduce the competition for cognitive control and allow for free association of thought as required by divergent thinking (Colzato et al. 2012, pp. 4–5). Prominent screenwriters across a variety of creative styles have publicly attested to the creative benefits of meditation, including David Lynch, David S. Goyer, Martin Scorsese and Justin Theroux, and meditation is taught to and practised by the NIDA MFA Writing for Performance students. While the use of the unconscious in creative thinking can be trained and cultivated through the development of a personal creative process, there is evidence that overemphasis on craft training can inhibit creativity.

Creativity tends to increase with increasing levels of reasoning skills and domain knowledge, but at the very highest levels of creativity there may be optimal levels of domain-specific skills and knowledge, beyond which increased domain expertise may hinder more than help further creative performance. (Baer and Kaufman 2006, p. 354)

Clinical studies into creativity within the context of mental health have suggested “that deliberate language-based focus can inhibit spontaneous creative thinking and that the absence of these constraints may enable the dynamic processes which lead to the novel recombination of ideas” (Vartanian et al. 2013, p. 128). As the early-career writer gains experience, both in their creative practice and in life, it is important that they maintain the ability to think divergently and exhibit a flexibility of thought. Over time, screen technologies change, audiences become more diffused and diverse, and the writer grows older.

It seems that, as we age, a certain version of reality becomes so “hardwired” through decades of reinforcement that the continuously diminishing ability for cognitive flexibility is overpowered. Or in Nietzsche’s words, “convictions are greater enemies of the truth than lies.” (Dietrich 2004, p. 1022)

The challenge of creativity therefore remains a permanent one requiring the artist’s constant attention, lest they slip into the tired repetition of familiar and HAVING SOMETHING TO SAY AND SAYING IT WELL 43 comfortable tropes, and this is perhaps the key to the demands of art. It is only by subjecting ourselves to confrontation, questioning and provocation that we can remain creatively alive.

The Role of the Unconscious in Important and Truthful Screenwriting Beyond fostering creativity, defined here as constructing novel connections between previously unconnected ideas and thoughts, the unconscious plays a role in both the generation and the recognition of emotional, important and truthful screenwriting. “Truthful storytelling” may perhaps seem a quaint or purist ambition in an industry where tent-poles of commercial screen narrative are routinely criti- cised for their seeming attempt to “please everyone” at the expense of nuance or authenticity. Consider the enormous success of multimillion-dollar digital spectacles such as the Mission Impossible or Marvel franchises, broad network television sitcoms and police procedurals such as The Big Bang Theory or NCIS, and blockbuster video game franchises such as Call of Duty or Grand Theft Auto. However, in order to engage their mass audiences, such commercially driven screen productions ultimately rely on a seed of human truth—a universally recognisable thematic core, such as the recurring Oedipal conflicts ofStar Wars for example—that triggers a personal connection between the audience and the material, and which motivates audiences to participate in the collective experience of the blockbuster phenomenon. Whether their writing is destined to form the basis of a highly commercial and broadly accessible franchise, or a deeply complex and exclusionary piece of non-commercial artistic expression, a key element of the screenwriter’s training must be the development of techniques to unlock their own individualistic psyches. Screenwriting paradigms such as Christopher Vogler’s The Writer’s Journey and their exhortation of story structures like the hero’s journey find their origins in Jungian conceptions of the unconscious. Screenwriting guru Michael Hauge attributes the experience of theme in screenwriting to the unconscious of the writer, the character and the audience, in a warning to writers not to attempt to consciously impose theme on their writing in the early stages of their work:

Theme grows out of the writer’s unconscious (creativity), is delivered through the characters’ unconscious (inner motivation and conflict), and is received by the audience’s unconscious. It is, if you will, a soul-to-soul communication between screenwriter and audience. (Hauge 2011, p. 88)

This idea is supported by evidence from neuroscience. Unconscious emotional neural structures or thoughts evoke neurologically “loud” or important signals in consciousness, which overpower conscious and non-emotional neural structures for attention in the mind. The perceived significance of these 44 S. SEWELL AND B. CRISP thoughts, combined with the apparent unintentionality of their appearance, or origin in the unconscious, gives rise to a sense of some “universal truth” being encountered (Dietrich 2004, pp. 1019–1020). This supports the revelation shared by many writers: that the deeper into themselves they go, the more universal their insights become—as James Joyce famously observed, within the specific is the universal. Given the delicate balance between craft and creativity in the expression of original and effective screenwriting, it appears that higher education screenwriting courses can benefit students by helping them to cultivate a personal creative process that frames free creativity within the rigour of craft. Without craft, ideas cannot be expressed effectively. In the context of screenwriting, there is an understanding of screenwriting orthodoxy and screen storytelling logic required to translate ideas into a text that (within the context of the imagined reader or audience) is sufficiently consistent, coherent and believable (Nelmes 2007, p. 112). When craft is ignored or rejected too freely, the screenwriter risks losing their audience—who need the signposts of convention to understand the story being told—and thus becoming unwittingly alienating or incomprehensible. But while this is true, it is equally true that new artistic breakthroughs can only come about by overthrowing convention, and consequently alienating a part of the audience that values only the familiar, so there is an insoluble tension at the heart of the artistic enterprise with which every writer must contend. The question of whether or not one is being “too obvious” plagues most writers, and is a recurrent conflict between writers and producers, to which there is no objective solution. In the Australian context, writer Louis Nowra expressed concern that writers of Australian films often seem to “mistrust these basic elements of screenwriting because they seem too commercial and knowing” (Nowra 2012, p. 251). Craft is easy to teach, and best taught as a framework, within which creative thought takes place. Principles of story structure, character development or dramatic action do not answer questions for the screenwriter, they ask them, framing the problems to be solved and the challenges overcome. Divergent thinking raises multiple and varied solutions to these problems; the screenwriter must learn to choose their preferred solution and implement it deci- sively, switching between open and closed modes of thinking as they work. They must learn to allow their creativity to take them far beyond the confines of the formal orthodoxy of craft, but also to employ their craft to bring them back to a place that is further than expected, but not so far as to lose comprehension or connection for the reader or the audience. The role of the higher education screenwriting course, therefore, is to help students shape their personal creative process—a process through which they can generate original, effective and authentic expressions of their voice through their writing, and one that can be summoned on demand whenever necessary, at any time, and wherever the writer finds themselves throughout their career. HAVING SOMETHING TO SAY AND SAYING IT WELL 45

Conclusion This is not the end of the story—it is perhaps not even the beginning. There are politics of creativity that must be addressed, and can be addressed in an academic setting. Creativity is not a problem for the capitalist society in which Western screen culture finds a dominant centre, but thecontrol of creativity is. The implicitly subversive nature of the creative imagination, encapsulating as it does the secret promise that “things might not be what they seem”, makes it a dangerous and potentially explosive force. Contrary to the possibilities offered by the creative industries, much effort in society is directed into suppressing creativity, and controlling who and in what circumstances creativity may be expressed. Creative expression, even in regions where “freedom of expression” is most highly prized, is still hindered by government and industry censorship, a deeply embedded and highly problematic lack of diversity (sexual, racial, socio-economic, and more) at every level of production, and the corporate cowardice of many key decision-makers in the face of the often nebulous and fleeting whims of popular opinion. Some of the most interesting creative opportunities occur when writers or other artists are confronted with the limits of their creative freedom, both internal and external. For screenwriters especially, the external limits are closely related to the politics of their environment—typically a commercial system, with aims and values that may well be in opposition to those of the uniquely voiced, independent, fiercely honest and authentic artist. Who gets to tell the stories, and what stories get to be told, are crucial questions. The academy has the opportunity to address these questions carefully, with an emphasis on the encouragement of courageous, creative, bold, innovative, honest and skilful storytelling. If the academy does not respond to these questions, they will not go unanswered—rather, they may continue to be answered by decision-makers whose priorities are the maintenance of the political and cultural status quo, the profit margin, and the paralysing fear of change that is the hallmark of the uncreative mind. Perhaps, alternatively and more encouragingly, they might be answered by those who have traditionally felt excluded from participation in the creative industries. The academy may then support the pursuit of that which has, in some sense, always been the goal of art: the liberation of the human spirit. This is certainly a challenge worthy of the times, and one we would be foolish to ignore.

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Michael Sergi and Craig Batty

Introduction University-based screen production education is an unusual pedagogic activity in that educators commonly seek to prepare students to work in the feature film industry yet use the short film—and other short forms, such as the web series, mini-documentaries, music videos, television commercials and so on—as the dominant mode of production project students undertake during their education (see Charleson 2014). Similarly, students entering a university screen production course tend to express an ambition to work in the feature film industry (see Bell 2004; Bennett 2009; Thornham and O’Sullivan 2004) and, generally speaking, have grown up on a diet of feature films (and increasingly, long-form television series) as opposed to short films. By the time these students arrive at university, they have no doubt seen hundreds of feature films, but nowhere near as many short films, let alone ‘quality’ short films. Consequently, students are in many ways unfamiliar with the parameters of short form film narratives and how they differ from feature film narratives. Furthermore, the feature films students have seen are typically those released by major distribution companies, or streaming services such as Netflix, Apple iTunes and (in Australia) Stan, which even with a contemporary focus on popular stories, are still somewhat risk averse in terms of narrative style. In essence, these distribution outlets act as quality control gatekeepers, meaning that the

M. Sergi (*) Bond University, Gold Coast, QLD, Australia e-mail: [email protected] C. Batty University of Technology Sydney, Sydney, NSW, Australia e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s) 2019 49 C. Batty et al. (eds.), The Palgrave Handbook of Screen Production, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-21744-0_4 50 M. SERGI AND C. BATTY feature films students have seen prior to beginning their screen production education are of particularly high quality. Unfortunately, however, these feature films typically follow popular story and genre formulae, meaning students are unlikely to have been exposed to many non-‘Hollywood’ films that might experiment with narrative forms and cinematic language. Criteria for such quality are open to debate, of course, but in a more general sense, these films have passed gatekeeping of one type or another, whether this is determined by multinational conglomerates or local cinema operators. The same cannot always be said for the short films that students might have seen, which has typically been through open-access platforms such as YouTube, where there is no quality control gatekeeping. This, then, leads to a situation where students have a more comprehensive, if implicit, understanding of the fundamental structures of a (successful) feature film than they do of a short film, which can be problematic when they are required to produce short form work as part of their degree programme. After all, ‘the short script offers writers the opportunity to develop their creative skills and hone craft, as well as a way of having work produced to gain a greater understanding of the script-to- screen relationship’ (Batty and Waldeback 2019, p. 103). It is this imbalance of understanding between how feature films and short films function that this chapter addresses, as well as providing a series of underlying principles that are intended to assist students and educators in developing a stronger understanding of the parameters of a short film story. Considering four key cinematic pillars—location, cast, time frame and dramatic problem— this chapter also uses examples of award-winning short films to illustrate the principles presented. Before turning to these principles and how they can be seen in a sample of produced films, we discuss some definitions of the short film and, in particular, how this type of film differs from the feature film.

Defining the Short Film In their book, Writing the Short Film, Pat Cooper and Ken Dancyger help to define the short film by touching on some of the key differences between it and the feature film:

The long-form, or feature-film, has a definite set of qualities beyond its physical length. There are particular expectations of character, complexity of plot, presence of a subplot, or secondary story line, and a particular structure (generally called a three-act structure) ... [and] there are numerous secondary characters. (Cooper and Dancyger 2000, pp. 4–5)

Cooper and Dancyger’s idea of ‘particular expectations’ is framed from an audience perspective. Audiences, they argue, come to feature films with certain expectations regarding the psychological and emotional complexity of the characters and the depth of emotional problems characters need to overcome by the end of the film. Furthermore, they believe that audiences have similar UNDERSTANDING THE UNDERLYING PRINCIPLES OF THE SHORT FILM 51 expectations regarding the complexity of the overall narrative and that a significant amount of time is required for the questions posed by the narrative to be fully explored and resolved. When we add to this secondary characters, who each might have minor story arcs, the two-hour duration is quickly consumed. In summary, Cooper and Dancyger argue that it is both the nature and quantity of internal elements that determine the length of a film. Linda J. Cowgill (2005) shares these views. She argues that it is not uncommon for short film writers to unwittingly begin projects with story ideas that are far too big to fit the short film form. Stories that are overly complex and multi-layered take far more time to unravel and build to a satisfying ending than the short film form is able to offer.

Many of the concepts for the short film screenplay (1 to 40 pages) are the same for writing a feature (90 to 130 pages), but there are major differences. Not only do shorts differ from the feature films in the size and scope of the drama, but in plot structure, too [...] Short films can focus on the conflict in one incident to great effect, but features focus on any number of incidents. (Cowgill 2005, pp. 10–11)

Here Cowgill highlights some of the differences between feature films and short films with regard to the number of major incidents upon which the plot is based. Short films, she argues, only have sufficient time to focus on a single major incident if the film intends on exploring that incident in sufficient depth to significantly affect the audience on an emotional level. Given that feature films have considerably more screen time, they are able to explore numerous major incidents that build upon each other in a causal way to create a more entwined narrative that results in a greater emotional pay-off, usually via the character arc (see Batty 2011). For Dan Gurskis (2007), there is more to a short film than simply being shorter than a feature film. He argues that everything about the short film is sufficiently different to the feature film to warrant it being considered as a unique form in its own right. Gurskis argues:

It’s important to understand that a short film is not simply a shorter version of a feature film any more than a short story is a shorter version of a novel or a song is a shorter version of a symphony. The way that a short film is conceptualized, written, produced, and directed is very different from that of its feature-length counterpart. (Gurskis 2007, p. 3)

For Gurskis, it is not just the form that makes short films different to feature films, but the entire conception, pre-production and post-production process. He argues that everything about how a short film is made is sufficiently different to a feature film to warrant thinking that, although they are both narrative works of screen fiction, there are more differences than similarities between them. Yet for the student filmmaker to be told what something isnot is only 52 M. SERGI AND C. BATTY marginally helpful. To be told that a short film is different to a feature film, and to have some of those differences described in generalised terms, might help to clarify what the short film is not—but whatis a short film? What are the uniquely inherent qualities that drive its creation? Cooper and Dancyger’s observation that audiences have ‘particular expectations of character, complexity of plot, presence of a subplot’ (2000, p. 4) does not fully illustrate what an audience’s expectations of a short film might be. Furthermore, Cowgill’s assertion that ‘short films can focus on the conflict in one incident to great effect, but features focus on any number of incidents’ (2005, p. 11) again does not fully articulate whether or not the scale of the ‘one incident’ is a crucial consideration. The assassination of President John F. Kennedy was a single incident, but it is hard to imagine being able to do the story justice in a short film. While understanding that ‘a short film is not simply a shorter version of a feature film’ (Gurskis 2007, p. 3) might instruct us how not to conceptualise the narrative of a short film, it does not instruct us how we should conceptualise it.

Why the Short Film Is Like a Motorbike Misunderstanding the basic structural differences between short films and feature films can lead students to try and create what is, in essence, a feature film story within a short film format without realising it. In many ways, from the perspective of story, short films do not appear, on the surface, to be that different from feature films: they both tell fictional screen stories employing a cinematic, character-based, narrative style. In reality, however, the short film is a form with its own unique requirements: it is not a condensed version of a feature film. From our own teaching of the short film form to students over many years, we have found that the following analogy can help students better understand what a short film is, rather than what a short film is not. Although the analogy does not cover the full gamut of every type of short film, it does, we believe, cover the majority of types that student filmmakers are likely to make early in their careers:

A short film is to a feature film as a motorbike is to a car. Both a motorbike and a car have the following elements: wheels, engine, clutch, brakes, indicators, lights, horn, exhaust, muffler, ignition system, seats and so on. Although a motorbike shares many of the same elements as a car, in many ways it is nothing like a car. While both are modes of transport that are driven on roads, they are completely different vehicles. For example, a motor bike can only legally transport up to two passengers, or three if a side-car is attached (just like a short film, which generally has a few characters), while a car can transport five or even seven passengers depending on its size (just like a feature film, which can have several key characters). Thus, although a short film has many of the elements of a feature film— characters, story, locations, cinematography, editing, production design, soundtrack, musical score, and so on—in many other ways a short film is fundamentally different to a feature film. UNDERSTANDING THE UNDERLYING PRINCIPLES OF THE SHORT FILM 53

The strength of this analogy is that it highlights those cinematic elements that students can easily recognise, such as characters, locations, cinematography, editing, production design, soundtrack and musical score, and it draws attention to the fact that although short films and feature films share all these common elements, they can still be very different types of screen work. This analogy also makes apparent that just like a motorcycle is structurally different to a car, so a short film is structurally different to a feature film—not just shorter/smaller. In her article reflecting on her own practice, filmmaker Mieke Bal relates this point to a short film she made in which she experimented with varying durations:

The other distinction I find hard to maintain is that between content and form. I never believed the two are separable, and this conviction makes me, in the eyes of those who do maintain a separation, a formalist. In my experiments with the short on emotional capitalism I think it was precisely the attempt to separate them a bit, and make the 24-minute film a non-narrative, descriptive, perhaps essayistic one, that caused the lack of enthusiasm. In the ten-minute one, after restoring narrative—a form, after all—the content works better. Hence, no distinction. (2015, p. 17)

Here Bal acknowledges that attempting to extend the duration of the film beyond the requirements of the story resulted in a lack of enthusiasm, or emotional engagement. By bringing the film back to ten minutes, well within a ‘typical’ short film duration, her content worked better. In other words, the film became more emotionally engaging. Bal also recognises that unity between the content and the film’s form is important. Although she describes herself as a formalist, she concedes that it is not so much a strict sense of formalism she is applying, but rather that by working to ‘fit’ the story into the ten-minute duration, she was able to eliminate everything but the story’s essential elements. This helped to condense and clarify the story, which in turn made it more thematically potent and emotionally engaging. Ultimately, Bal was able to discover a more balanced harmony between the story (the content) and the length of the film (the form) by bringing the film’s duration back within the length of a ‘typical’ short film. There is great variety within the short film form, much of which is impacted by duration, which makes understanding its fabric, and thus its creative development, even more complicated. Feature films commonly run for between 80 minutes and two hours, while the duration of short films is far more varied. For example, a 20-minute short film is five times (or 500%) longer than a four- minute short film. In the world of feature films, that would be the equivalent of comparing a ten-hour film with one that ran for two hours. There are also short films that last for two minutes or less, which makes them up to ten times shorter than the 20-minute film. Clearly, then, story parameters—as well as production possibilities—are vitally important to consider in relation to 54 M. SERGI AND C. BATTY

duration: imagine, for example, an ensemble cast drama set at a wedding reception that only lasts for 90 seconds. It would be surprising to suggest that the typical three-act structure of the two-hour feature film could also be applied to both the four-minute short or the ten-hour feature—even if the general movement of the story, from establishing the world to inciting incident to resolution of all complications, might feel the same.

What Do We Really Mean by Short? In order to better understand how content and form function, and vary, in short films of different durations, it is worth investigating the four categories proposed by Gurskis (2007, p. 4): the short-short film, the conventional short film, the medium short film and the long short film. These are described in more detail below:

Short-short Two to four minutes in length Built upon a single, clear dramatic action with one crisis Usually one to two major scenes Conventional Seven to 12 minutes in length short Built upon a single, clear dramatic action with one or more crisis Usually five to eight major scenes Medium short Twenty to 25 minutes in length Built upon a more complex dramatic action with multiple crises Usually underscored by a B-plot Approximately 12–15 major scenes Long short Thirty minutes in length Built upon a more complex dramatic action with multiple crises Usually underscored by a well-developed B-plot Approximately 20–30 major scenes, depending on the overall length of the screenplay

Firstly, it is worth noting that there are significant time gaps between each category: three minutes between the short-short and the conventional short, eight minutes between the conventional short and the medium short, and five minutes between the medium short and the long short. Gurskis does not suggest that filmmakers should be rigid with these time frames—‘Filmmaking is not engineering’, he says, and ‘A six-minute film may more closely resemble a short-short in its structure, even though its running time suggests something more complex (Gurskis 2007, p. 5); rather, it is the duration, complexity of story and number of major scenes that are closely related. As the film’s duration extends, so does the need for greater complexity of story and character, and an increase in the number of major scenes. Although Gurskis does not explicitly articulate it, he is drawing comparisons between content and form. In his categories, form shapes content, such as a six-minute film’s running time equating to a more complex story than that of a four-minute film. In reality, however, the six-minute film might not be more complex than the four-minute film, but rather, more drawn out or not as tightly UNDERSTANDING THE UNDERLYING PRINCIPLES OF THE SHORT FILM 55 edited as it could be. We agree with Gurskis’ proposition that ‘a single, clear dramatic action with one crisis’ only has so much dramatic life built into it and thus can only sustain an audience’s emotional engagement for so long. Being able to identify how much dramatic life a single, clear dramatic action with one crisis contains is key to understanding how suitable that story idea is for a short film, and into which of the four categories it best fits. With our main focus here on the student filmmaker, we are primary concerned with Gurskis’ short-short and conventional short categories, as these are typically the duration of the films made during degree programmes. Medium short and long short films are generally the preserve of the more experienced filmmaker, who also has access to greater resources, time and funding. According to Gurskis, the short-short is built upon a single, clear dramatic action with one crisis, while the convention short can have one or more crises. He believes there is only sufficient time in a short-short or conventional short for one major crisis: because ‘of the brevity of short films, an important characteristic of any successful one is an economy of expression ... there’s simply not enough screen time to show everything ... It’s the reason that short films, more than feature-length films, often succeed or fail at the conceptual level’ (Gurskis 2007, p. 5). This relates to Bal’s idea of form driving content, and as a result, how, and to what extent, emotional engagement is achieved. A major stumbling block for the student filmmaker is understanding what a single, clear dramatic action with one crisis looks like at a conceptual level and how a story can be built around it. It is not uncommon for creators of short films to begin working with a single crisis that is simply too big to effectively fit into the duration of a short-short or conventional short. For example, a murder is a single, clear dramatic action with one crisis, but it is unlikely that a four, or even ten minute, film could do proper justice to the murder and its investigation. So, what does a dramatic action with one crisis look like, and how can it drive a story for the short narrative form? Building on the work of Gurskis, we propose another way to consider the structure of the short film: what we call the four underlying principles of short film creation and construction. These are based on many years of reading hundreds of short film scripts and viewing hundreds of successful short films, and distilling the key underlying principles of their structure. These principles are exemplary rather than obligatory. That is, they optimise the chances of success, rather than set our the necessary conditions of success. One of the main benefits of these four principles is their universal application to any story type, genre, world, period setting, location, narrative and/or time structure. These principles, which are generalised yet fundamental to working within the short film form, are:

• One location. • One time frame. In other words, the story takes place during one continuous period of time. • A small cast of characters, all clearly emotionally and psychologically opposed to each other. 56 M. SERGI AND C. BATTY

• One big problem that has imminent and dramatic consequences for at least one of the characters, and that the audience can quickly and easily comprehend.

To illustrate how these four principles function, we discuss and analyse four examples of award-winning short films that fit the short-short and conventional short categories. But, first, let us further elaborate on each of these principles.

The Four Underlying Principles of Short Film Creation and Construction • One location can include interior and exterior, but still only one location. This is critical as it concentrates resources and avoids wasting production time moving locations. It also creates a pressure in which the characters and story unfold. • One time frame does not necessarily mean the film must be in real time, although many are; rather, it should not be set over two days, several days or weeks. One continuous time frame, or single time segment, also allows for time to be disjointed: such as time travel, non-linear storytelling or overlapping time so that the story can be told from multiple points of view. • Having a small cast of characters, all clearly emotionally and psychologically opposed to each other, is critical as it automatically injects drama. Emotionally and psychologically opposed characters generally have varying reactions to any given situation, and sometimes those reactions can be very strong, thus creating conflict—which in turn creates drama. It is important to encourage students to consciously fashion characters that are clearly emotionally and psychologically opposed at the very start of conceptualising their film. In our experience, this is not how many students begin designing their characters; hence, their stories fail to connect and are peopled with characters who often appear to be quite similar. • Creating one big problem that has imminent and dramatic consequences for at least one of the characters is something that most students can readily do. However, in our experience, designing that problem in such a way that an audience can quickly and easily comprehend what the problem is, and understand all its ramifications, appears to be more challenging. Generally, this is due to the filmmaker being so close to their story that, to them, the one big problem is obvious. In reality, to an audience who has never seen the film before, that one big problem is obscured by the action and the activities of the characters. Being able to place the one big problem at the epicentre of the story, and make it easily and quickly identifiable to an audience is more difficult than it first appears. Furthermore, because short films are short there is little time to build up to revealing the one big problem. It needs to be revealed as quickly as possible. UNDERSTANDING THE UNDERLYING PRINCIPLES OF THE SHORT FILM 57

We now turn to examples of these principles in action, in a range of multi- award-winning short films. These films were not chosen simply because they have won many awards. Although this was a consideration, more importantly these films have been screened at many festivals, which indicates that they have easily achieved one of the key objectives of making a short film: being selected for a short film festival, or better still, a major short film festival, like the Berlinale Shorts section of the Berlin International Film Festival, or the Short Films Competition and the Cinéfondation Selection of the Cannes Film Festival.

1. Sinceridad (2014), by writer/director Andrea Casaseca, fits into Gurskis’ short-short category at just over two minutes long, excluding end credits. This satirical comedy takes place in an apartment dining-room (one location) during lunch. The dining table is set with lunch dishes and leftover food. The first shot we see is a two-shot of the parents asking their son (who is off-screen) what is going on. The camera then cuts to a very nervous-looking young man (the last of small cast of three), who is about to reveal something controversial. The son hesitantly tells his parents that he has a job (one big problem). His mother is extremely distraught, while his father tries to keep everyone calm (emotionally and psychologically opposed characters). How can their son, who did not even finish high school, have a job when both parents have been unemployed for a long time; his sister, who has two university degrees, is unemployed; and all of their friends and relatives are also unemployed? The story, which unravels in real time (one time frame, or segment) concludes with the son revealing he has been given a job as a politician— which is the comedic punchline to the film. 2. Exit Log (2014), by writer Chris Cornwell and director Gary Freeman, is based on an original outline script by Academy Award-winning writer Geoffrey Fletcher, and is six minutes long, excluding end credits, thus fitting between Gurskis’ short-short and conventional short category. It is a time-travel sci-fi film set in 2249 and takes place in one compartment of a spaceship (one location) as it travels deep into space. The film begins with an exterior shot of the spaceship travelling through space, as lower screen titles inform the audience that time travel has been invented, but is limited to just three minutes. When the time-drive is activated, everything on the ship is reset, except any notes left in the exit log. As the music swells, there is a large explosion on the left-hand side of the spaceship (one big problem). We cut into a compartment, and the first thing we see is that the time-drive has been activated and is counting down to zero. A computer-stylised voice is also counting down. Next, we see two of the spaceship’s engineers (a small cast of two) struggling to deal with the consequences of the explosion. As the countdown voice reaches zero, the soundtrack and music build to a crescendo and the sound of an explosion transports us back in time three minutes (one time frame, or segment). This has all happened by the 1:26-minute mark of the film. Now we see 58 M. SERGI AND C. BATTY

the two engineers playing cards. One is willing to risk going bust out by drawing another card in the hope of winning, while the other states that the probability of drawing a winning card are three in 427. Thus, the card game quickly establishes that the cast members are clearly emotionally and psychologically opposed. The remainder of the film explores how these two characters deal with the one big problem, which is quickly and easily understood by the audience. Just before the film ends, the audience realises we are back to those same few seconds just before the time-drive was activated, and that the spaceship and crew are trapped in this endless time loop (one time frame, or segment). 3. At just over nine minutes, Grandma’s Not a Toaster (2013), written by Academy Award-winning writer Shawn Christensen and directed by Andrew Napier, fits neatly into Gurskis’ conventional short film category. The film takes place one stormy night (one time frame, or segment) in the entrance, living room and veranda of a two-storey house (one location). The opening camera shot is from the elder brother’s point of view of his sister, who wants him to replace their aged and dying grandmother’s will with a forgery. The film implies that the sister will inherit nothing from the original will (one big problem), but the forgery leaves the majority of their grandmother’s assets to the sister. The elder brother is extremely sceptical and reluctant to do as she suggests. All the time the grandmother is in the living room, wheelchair-bound and on a drip. At the 1:50-minute mark, storm and thunder sound effects are accompanied by loud music and a whip pan to the front door. The film then cuts back in time 25 seconds, and we see the same 25 seconds of action play out, but this time we see the elder brother, as the shot is now from the sister’s point of view. When this section of the film catches up narra- tively to the whip pan and edit, the front door bursts open and the younger brother rushes in, partly wet by the rain. The younger brother reveals that he plans to marry a stripper he somewhat loves, and in order to impress her rich father he wants to give her their grandmother’s engagement ring. The film has thus established a small cast of four emotionally and psychologically opposed characters. The sister and elder brother prevent the younger brother from taking the grandmother’s engagement ring. This causes the younger brother to storm out the door. The sister continues trying to urge the older brother to swap the wills. At the 4:49-minute mark, the grandmother starts shooting a hand- gun, while the storm and thunder effects and loud music occur again. This time the film jumps back one minute and we cut to the younger brother’s point of view. This section of the film continues until the 6:23-minute mark, when this time only the music swells and we cut to the grandmother’s point of view as she wakes up right back at the beginning of the film. The film then jumps back to the 1:42-minute mark, and using the device of the grandmother falling in and out of slumber, the UNDERSTANDING THE UNDERLYING PRINCIPLES OF THE SHORT FILM 59

film is able to complete unravelling the story by the 9:15-minute mark (one time frame, or segment). 4. Running at just over nine minutes, excluding end credits, 8 (2010), written and directed by Aćim Vasić, tells the story of two soldiers (a small cast) from opposing armies in an unknown war, who try to outwit each other after one of them crashes his fighter plane and the other takes him prisoner (one big problem). The two soldiers are identified by the letters on their helmets: one has an X, the other an O. Soldier X is rough and gruff, while solider O, the fighter pilot, is delicate and gentle (emotionally and psychologically opposed). As the soldiers are clearly from opposing armies, no dialogue is used. While soldier O untangles himself from his parachute, soldier X takes him prisoner and marches him through a snow-covered forest (one location) as more snow continues to fall. When soldier X is distracted by an unseen fighter plane battle in the sky just above them, soldier O tries to escape, but is shot and wounded, and recaptured by soldier X, who then steps on a landmine. Trapped on the unexploded landmine, soldier X in unable to move without risking triggering the mine. Again, soldier O tries to escape, but is shot and wounded a second time by soldier X. As the story unfolds, their attempts to outwit each other lead them to a deadly stalemate as soldier O also steps on a landmine and cannot move—all the while, a snow owl looks on. The film is told in real time (one time frame, or segment).

Conclusion Building on the work of Bal, Cooper and Dancyger, Cowgill and Gurskis, in this chapter we have shown that although the short film shares many of the visible, surface elements of the feature film, such as characters, story, locations, cinematography, editing, production design, soundtrack and musical score, at its core a short film has more narrative differences than similarities to a feature film. While many screenwriting and filmmaking authors can articulate what a short film isnot , few are able to clearly describe what a short filmis in ways that are helpful to student filmmakers. Our analogy of the motorcycle and the car is a useful tool in drawing attention to the ways in which a short film differs from a feature film, without discarding their visible similarities. Furthermore, our four underlying principles of short films are so universal that they are an effective starting point for students to begin crafting such films from the initial conception of their story idea, rather than falling into the unconscious trap of developing a screenplay with an idea that is better suited to a feature film. We hope that the analogy, the four underlying principles and the case studies will help educators to better approach the short film form in the classroom or studio, and students to create more compelling short films. 60 M. SERGI AND C. BATTY

References

8. (2010). Wr./Dir. Aćim Vasić. Serbia/Switzerland, 9 Mins. Available at: https:// vimeo.com/12609750. Accessed 3 Oct 2018. Bal, M. (2015). Always Too Long: My Short-Film Experience. Empedocles: European Journal for the Philosophy of Communication, 5(1 & 2), 13–18. Batty, C. (2011). Movies that Move Us: Screenwriting and the Power of the Protagonist’s Journey. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Batty, C., & Waldeback, Z. (2019). Writing for the Screen: Creative and Critical Approaches (2nd ed.). London: Palgrave Macmillan. Bell, D. (2004). Practice Makes Perfect? Film and Media Studies and the Challenge of Creative Practice. Media, Culture & Society, 26(5), 737–749. Bennett, D. (2009). Academy and the Real World: Developing Realistic Notions of Career in the Performing Arts. Arts and Humanities in Higher Education, 8(3), 309–327. Charleson, D. (2014). Walking on the Dark Side: Images, Techniques and Themes in Student Short Films. Screen Explosion: Expanding Practices, Narratives and Education for the Creative Screen Industries—The Refereed Proceedings of the 11th Conference of the Australasian Screen Production Education and Research Association. Available at: http://www.aspera.org.au/research/walking-on-the-dark-side-images-techniques-and-themes-in-student-short-films/. Accessed 1 Oct 2018. Cooper, P., & Dancyger, K. (2000). Writing the Short Film (2nd ed.). Boston: Focal Press. Cowgill, L. J. (2005). Writing Short Films: Structure and Content for Screenwriters (2nd ed.). New York: Watson-Guptill Publications. Exit Log. (2014). Wr. Chris Cornwell, Dir. Gary Freeman. UK, 8 Mins. Available: https://vimeo.com/92659631. Accessed 3 Oct 2018. Grandma’s Not a Toaster. (2013). Wr. Shawn Christensen, Dir. Andrew Napier. USA, 10 Mins. Available at: https://vimeo.com/93050867. Accessed 3 Oct 2018. Gurskis, D. (2007). The Short Screenplay: Your Short Film from Concept to Production. Stanford: Thomson Course Technology. Sinceridad. (2014). Wr./Dir. Andrea Casaseca. Spain, 3 Mins. Available at: https:// vimeo.com/66407779. Accessed 3 Oct 2018. Thornham, S., & O’Sullivan, T. (2004). Chasing the Real: ‘Employability’ and the Media Studies Curriculum. Media, Culture & Society, 26(5), 717–736. Two Screenplays, One Writer, National Voice

Rose Ferrell

Introduction This chapter describes how screenwriters think about their writing voice, how initial ideas and intentions are formulated through decisions and choices during screenwriting practice and how such voices reflect the aesthetic and personal sensibilities of the screenwriter (myself) who has created the dramatic design and artistic values of the text.1 It focuses on research (Ferrell 2017a) of the process by which an existing screenplay, Cashflow (Ferrell 1996), whose first draft was described by an Australian reader as having an American voice, was rewritten to have an Australian voice. Voice is defined here as the ‘pervasive authorial presence’ (Abrams 1993; Abrams and Harpham 2015) of the screenwriter. However, voice was opened up to the interrogation of cultural formations when, in this instance, I, an Australian writer, wrote an American-voiced screenplay. I subsequently discovered much about the question of voice when I rewrote the screenplay with an Australian voice. This creative practice laid bare foundational aspects of the phenomenon of voice, and established grounds upon which to argue for an accent or inflection within any voice which carries cultural and/or national signification. The chapter describes the phenomenon of voice through its craft aspects, and presents a framework for a screenwriter’s voice which aids in discerning and describing voice in a screenplay. It argues that the voice reflects a subset of the screenwriter’s capacities (Phelan 2005, p. 45) through the mechanism of

1 The two screenplays discussed are single-authored original works. It is therefore appropriate to attribute the voice to the writer. In other cases, such as with multiple authors, in adaptations or works based on another’s idea, the voice which inheres in the writing can be thought of as the voice of the screenplay, to avoid incorrect attribution of voice characteristics.

R. Ferrell (*) Western Australian Academy of Performing Arts, Edith Cowan University, Perth, WA, Australia

© The Author(s) 2019 61 C. Batty et al. (eds.), The Palgrave Handbook of Screen Production, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-21744-0_5 62 R. FERRELL choice, that all elements which appear in a screenplay are chosen and placed by the screenwriter, and that these originate in the writer’s mind through the writer’s identity (termed personhood). Thus, elements can reflect the socio- cultural and national context of the writer, as well as his or her aesthetic sensibilities. Here the term ‘cultural-national inflection’ (often shortened throughout this chapter to ‘national inflection’) is a shorthand term forall the influences— familial, societal, political, historical and others—which shape individual identity over the lifetime of the writer. The complex of identity influences us through conscious choices or, by default, through unconscious and habitual processes and choices. This means that a writer can mimic or ‘fake’ a cultural- national inflection (as was done in writingCashflow ). Screenwriter’s voice is understood as the presence of the writer within the text. This presence is more easily understood when described (by Abrams and Harpham) more broadly as the reader’s awareness of a ‘voice beyond the fictitious voices that speak in a work ... the sense of ... a determinate intelligence and moral sensibility, who has invented, ordered, and rendered all these literary characters and materials in just this way’ (2015, p. 288). Identifying the American inflection in the screenplayCashflow , led me to an exploratory analysis to discover voice through this inflection. This analysis revealed how characteristics are inscribed in a text through the voice, and how screenwriting craft is implicated both in creating a voice and also in signifying particular cultural/national groups through the decisions and choices made, which form the voice. With this understanding of voice and national inflection, I challenged myself to rewrite the screenplay in an Australian voice. The process of rewriting Cashflow to produce Calico Dreams (Ferrell 2014) revealed the role of personality, identity and personal aesthetics in shaping the voice through preferences, values and attitudes. These personal characteristics became an overriding factor in deciding questions of expression and dramatic design, affirming that the personhood of the writer can be deeply entwined with the creation of voice, and can be its governing factor in many instances. Overall, the chapter illuminates the complexity of voice, reminding readers that though voice can be correctly thought of as reflecting aspects of the writer who produced the text, in all cases voice reflects only asubset of the writer’s capacities, values and experiences (Phelan 2005, p. 45). From a practitioner’s viewpoint, a greater awareness of voice may allow screenwriters to make powerful choices in the flow of practice which may in turn strengthen and clarify the voice in any work. The screenplay Cashflow posed several questions related to cultural-national identity and voice. The first was ‘how did it come about that an Australian screenwriter wrote with a voice which carried an inflection which was different from her own cultural background?’ The second, and guiding, question for the research was ‘what is it within the screenplay’s text which points to an “American” voice, rather than an “Australian” one?’ In fact, it was this point of TWO SCREENPLAYS, ONE WRITER, NATIONAL VOICE 63 difference from my own cultural-national identity which greatly assisted in the interrogation of voice. Some of the difficulty in discerning voice—which arises because cues to voice in a text seem absurdly obvious and inconsequential on the surface—was overcome because of this difference. By the end of the research, the deeper understanding I had gained of the relationships among the textual elements which form voice allowed me to see that voice emerges as individual and deliberate because it is patterned—the result of a specific writer’s mind at work (Donald 2001, quoted in Luce-Kapler et al. 2011, p. 164). The claim of ‘American’-ness provided a clear basis upon which to interrogate voice in order to understand it. Since voice is centrally concerned with the medium—language—the most logical starting place to search for voice was within the language . Within the first pages the screenplay’s description through the log line ‘In a sleepy little hollow in the big wild west’ (Fig. 1) immediately signified an American location and storyworld to an Australian, because of the association of the ‘big wild west’ with western genre films generally among Australians (Moran and Vieth 2006, p. 16). This presumption is supported through historical linkage as well as through a tradition of storytelling and cultural production originating in the USA. In this case, genre was shown to be associated with voice and with cultural-national inflection in voice. The observation of the relevance of genre to voice was followed by an analysis of the title sequence (see Fig. 2). Here the language, images, iconography and implicit instructions for realisation were each also suggestive of an American storyworld and implied a specific cultural belonging. ‘America’ was signified through the American English, for example ‘sidewalk’, ‘cowboy’ and ‘Deputy’ (‘footpath’, ‘stockman’ and ‘police officer’ respectively in Australia). The impression of American-ness was compounded through the use of cultural icons such as ‘southern belle’ and ‘Billy the Kid’, which are rooted in US historical and cultural ideas. Importantly, the context of these within the drama did not place them as exceptions to the world, but as part of its substance. Even among small filmic details, many of the costuming and sets as described signified the USA, through, for example, cues to a cowboy’s costume. Other cues included filmic devices which were inspired by American cartoons I had seen, such as the visual joke of guns appearing on all sides of two unsuspecting characters (see Fig. 2). Many details written into other scenes added to the sense of an American storyworld and, in fact, story. When interrogating the characters I realised that as the writer I had decided on a nationality for many of the characters at the point of inventing them. This

Log line:

“In a sleepy little hollow in the big wild west, one thing is on everyone’s mind… Cashflow”

Fig. 1 Logline for Cashflow 64 R. FERRELL

Fig. 2 Cashflow title sequence with highlighted terms occurred because I imagined how they spoke, moved, thought and acted as I wrote. When I sketched a diagram of the perceived character nationalities (see Fig. 3), it became clear that I had imagined a majority of the characters as being of American nationality, and that no characters were specifically Australian. Interestingly, though Cagney, the main protagonist, was thought to be ‘like me’, I struggled to imagine her as having those traits of a stereotypical rural Australian woman: traits I saw as including a broad accent, a no-fuss, let’s-get- things-done attitude, and a scant regard for genteel femininity. Ben Goldsmith (2010) has noted that the changing face of international production with globalisation in Australia has challenged cinema’s role in national identity formation. He claims that ‘identity and space are increasingly understood as fragmented, multiple, dispersed, uncertain, dynamic, contingent, hybrid [and] ambivalent’ (p. 200). My sense of the character of Cagney has much in common with Deb Verhoeven’s (2010) concept of ‘Australian-international’, which she describes as ‘films and filmmakers happily embedded inboth the local and TWO SCREENPLAYS, ONE WRITER, NATIONAL VOICE 65

Fig. 3 Mind map: Writer’s impression of character nationalities in Cashflow global’ (cited in Goldsmith 2010, p. 201, italics in original). In this case, my sense of Cagney as a character is cosmopolitan and fluid and I have found it difficult to fix on her nationality except as ‘not American’ and ‘like me’. A further observation of the text broadened the frame of reference for voice into more conceptual areas such as tone and mood. The question of tone arose through the characterisation of the sycophantic and lecherous bank manager, Ted Griffiths. Ted was portrayed as threatening, but in line with the genre, comic western, this threat was de-emphasised by his comic bumbling. Together with his comic foil, the bank clerk, Derek, Ted lightened the tone of Cashflow through the physical comedy written into his antics. Upon reflection, I recognised that this comedy, too, showed the influence of an American tradition of comedy (Meyerhold and Hoover 1966, p. 189), which I had first seen through Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, the Marx Brothers, Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin, and other American films and comedians. This showed that voice incorporated stylistic and filmic devices, and that these could be associated with specific international film industries. In this case, the tone and mood created by the voice became associated with the USA through precedence and tradition as well as the genre, comic western. Many elements of content could be associated with the United States in a range of ways, both material and ideational. Voice relies upon the relations among readers, writer and text (Elbow 2007; Zunshine 2006). A further factor which made it possible for my reader to identify an American inflection was the reader’s own Australian identity and worldview. The symbols of the USA were known to me through the volume of American films which have been consumed by me, and Australians in general, throughout the twentieth and twenty-first centuries (Dermody and Jacka 1988; O’Regan 1996; Scott 2002; Crane 2014). It made perfect sense that my Australian reader could—and did—identify the voice as American, though the voice may reflect a certain ‘Australian’ understanding of American-ness. The US voice was shown to be inscribed through American language, an American genre, American characters and an American location (storyworld). 66 R. FERRELL

In interrogating other craft areas such as sets, props and costumes, it was also easy to find cues to filmic realisation of the story which confirmed an American inflection. Though relatively superficial, the analysis ofCashflow showed clearly that voice extends beyond words to include aspects of life outside the frame. Voice was revealed to be complex, multi-layered and significantly involved with concepts and discourses which are much broader than the screenplay text itself, and these complex ideas can be entangled with cultural-national perspectives. Despite the risk that they will sometimes be differently or imperfectly understood, these ideas have the potential to enrich the voice and the drama through association. The myriad of signifiers can also carry meaning for individuals across international boundaries, showing voice to be embedded in a representational system which is self-referential, by nature meta-textual and international in its scope. The interrogation of voice in Cashflow allowed me to list attributes in the writing which contributed to the voice. This process resulted in a diagrammatic schema which represents voice visually (shown in Fig. 4). This framework can aid in discerning and describing a voice. It necessarily references the major craft areas around which screenwriting craft is built. These areas are genre, structure, storyworld, characters and governing themes. These form the upper level of the schema and answer the question ‘what type of screenplay is this?’

The second level answers ‘how is this story told?’ and invites focus on the details of language, images and sounds used—the raw materials which correspond to the audio-visual medium. Though these may only be implied in the screenplay text, scholars such as Maras (2009, p. 67) claim that the screenplay acts as an ‘audio-imaging device’ which functions to enable the reader to imagine the drama as if it were a film playing in their mind. Images and sound have sometimes been claimed as the sole domain of the filmmaker or director, who interprets the writer’s words and chooses the specific physical locations and props in consultation with others. I argue, however, that language, images and sound are central to the craft of screenwriting, and are equally the domain of the screenwriter who first imagines the drama. It is the impact of the writer’s voice which allows readers to imagine a full and vibrant scene, when the writer, in reality, only provides a sketch of the unfolding drama using its salient features. Boon (2008) notes the similarities between the screenplay and imagist poetry because of the specificity of the writing, which privileges concrete, brief and precise description and suggestive and spare language (p. 260). Wilson (1986) too, points out that ‘a coherent stretch of narration embodies assumptions about how its narrated content is to be transmitted to an audience and about how the audience is to respond, cognitively and emotively’ (p. 6). As the third level in the schema, tone, content and mood point to how meaning and effect are wrought by the combination of language, images and sound through the unfolding events and the context of those events. Tone and mood, being tools whose domain is emotion, are central to the emotional affect of the screenplay. These are inscribed through the language. The content refers to cues that may be ideas, screenwriting devices, events or objects (all considered ‘elements’), which deliver affective experience and meaning in the context of the narrative. As well as any element—a term that points to anything which is suggested in or by the storytelling—content is divided into five specific areas, each of which draws attention to the ideas and also the skill displayed in the writing. The five categories are: moral and emotional content; philosophical/ideological frame; creative and imaginative ideas; craft competence; and sense of humour. While language, images and sound are the physical channels through which an audio-visual story is told, tone, mood and content are the psycho-emotional channels through which meaning is delivered. Tone, mood and content are fundamental to the voice because of the latter’s relationship to dramatic design. The dramatic design is the way emotion flows from moment to moment, through structural beats, as narrative events unfold. Each instance of emotion, achieved through a beat, is conditioned by the instances before and after it. To impress the audience most strongly, the revela- tory moment (the climax of a beat) need not only provide understanding of the story on an intellectual level, but must be aligned with the emotional flow of the action up to that moment. Tone and mood are therefore foundational to this balance of emotional tension and release, which supports the dramatic 68 R. FERRELL design. Dramatic design in turn coheres the varied elements of a screenplay into a powerful story. The description of the framework as a tool for scholars is useful in that it alerts readers to potential areas within which voice in a screenplay text can be interrogated for its role and effect. However, its potential for writers is better understood through a description of creative practice. In the following, I describe the ways in which voice intervened in my own screenwriting practice, and how this substantiated the relations between areas named in the framework and voice as it appears on the page. In doing this, the practice also clarified voice’s relationship to the writer. In attempting to rewrite Cashflow I had intended to write a second draft, changing only the language, characters and locations to create a credible Australian storyworld and characters. However, it quickly became obvious from the analysis that the genre, comic western, was largely responsible for the American voice. I decided to change the genre to historical realism, which would fix the Australian location in readers’ minds. I even named the location and era in a subtitle over the first scene of the new screenplay. I sought to retain the situation and premise, which was centred on a young girl, Caroline Frank, who was being forced into prostitution against her will. While it became easier to proceed after these decisions, further unexpected issues arose, which related most personally to me as the writer. They also related to the genre, and were in large part to do with choices in the overall dramatic design. Peter Rabinowitz notes that reading fiction involves ‘inhabiting a double position where we both believe and disbelieve [in the reality of the fiction] at the same time’ (2010, p. 355). This also describes my experience as a screenwriter. In creating characters, I find that certain of them can become like ‘children’, who are often loved by me despite my awareness that they are fictional. This manifests in several ways. I speak of my characters as if they were independent beings, who may be infuriating, who are loved, who are recalcitrant and whom, on some level, I experience as existing. This impacted the writing of Calico Dreams. I found myself reluctant to write painful events for my characters to experience through the course of the drama. This reluctance influenced the developing voice of Calico Dreams through the choice of events which created the dramatic design of the screenplay. Building on the responsibility I felt towards my characters, I discovered certain moral and ethical positions from which I wrote. Graeme Turner (1993) argues that narratives are “produced by culture... [because] ... they assume forms that articulate values and beliefs” (p. 1). I found that narratives articulate the values and beliefs of the writer as much as that of the culture. A range of dramatic possibilities was cut off to me because I was unwilling to cause the women in my story indignity, pain and humiliation. This affected the plot and structure. The voice behind the work was shown to be oriented towards particular dramatic problems and solutions. I was constrained in the telling by moral issues which I cared about personally. This manifested in planning, where I avoided storylines in which my main protagonist, Caroline, was violently TWO SCREENPLAYS, ONE WRITER, NATIONAL VOICE 69 raped. This required me to work harder to find story solutions to the dramatic problems I faced. In defining voice Abrams (1993) speaks of the ‘determinate intelligence and moral sensibilities’ (p. 156) of the writer. In Calico Dreams, I discovered this first-hand. My solution was to settle for anattempt to rape Caroline, from which she escapes. The areas of tone, mood and content in the framework took on particular significance in this discovery of my own moral values as a force within the writing, and led to the inclusion of ‘moral and emotional content’ (Booth 1983, p. 73) among areas of ‘content’ in the framework. Through Calico Dreams, I sought to show young women their own power and an independent way of being which contrasted with a dominant view offered to them. Here again I found that this intention caused difficulties in the plotting. Caroline’s character flaw (again, a choice of voice) was her dependence on others. I could not allow Caroline to be rescued by someone else, particularly a male figure, because this would have kept her disempowered. I needed to design a way for Caroline to rescue herself when faced with rape. In a desperate act, she jumps out of a second-storey window (see Fig. 5). Again, my own values and beliefs had impinged on the writing process and shaped the

Fig. 5 Sc. 102 Caroline escapes being raped. Excerpt from Calico Dreams 70 R. FERRELL possibilities of the voice. This ultimately led to the inclusion of philosophical and ideological content as an aspect of voice in the design of the framework. A further aspect of ‘content’, and therefore of voice, is the worldview. Worldview is established through the consistency of perspective from which events are described. Worldview, therefore, is an effect of the presence of the writer. The worldview in Calico Dreams is generally Australian. The most obvious manifestation of this is the Australian location and nationalities of the characters, and the detail and care taken to describe the world from a position within that world, rather than from the perspective of an outsider. The particular mix of multicultural characters is designed to reflect the historical reality of the times, and the descriptions of place reflect characteristics which are still present in the real-life location, Kalgoorlie, Western Australia. One of the most influential indices of worldview for a reader is the relationship between the writer and her characters, and whether readers judge this relationship to be close and sympathetic or more distanced and neutral or even antagonistic (Goodman 2010). In Calico Dreams the characters are taken seriously, and are drawn with some sympathy—an ‘us’ perspective, rather than a distanced ‘them.’ This is carried in the tone, content and mood, through a lack of ridicule of the characters’ failings and weaknesses, and through the style, which avoids exaggerated comedy or tragedy. Caroline is not punished for her naiveté. A main antagonist, Madame Dream, though generally portrayed unsympathetically, has a moment of sympathy in a scene in which she has been threatened by one of her prostitutes and leans back against a door for support (see Fig. 6). Though a minor moment, the presence of this description in the screenplay acts as a cue to readers, who take away information about the writer through this small instance of sympathy (among other cues). Even the depiction of an ambivalent character such as Nathan Honeycombe shows some attempt to convey that Nathan is struggling with his addictions to gambling and alcohol (see Fig. 7). Calico Dreams’ worldview incorporates a woman’s perspective. This female perspective is enhanced because the setting is a brothel, and there are a large number of women characters, including the main protagonist and antagonist. By making these choices, I was able to focus on women’s lifestyles and experiences. Seeking to write from a woman’s perspective also affected the type of hero Caroline could be. I was attempting to depict a form of heroism which was unlike that of a fictional male hero, but instead depicted a form of female heroism. I wished Caroline to show courage, determination and persistence in defence of herself and others (particularly her 12-year-old protégé, Louisa) without recourse to violence or intimidation. I felt violence was not in keeping with Caroline’s character and disposition. I also do not consider violence towards others a ‘heroic’ act. For me there is a disjunction between traditional concepts of a male ‘hero’ and the type of hero I was writing in Caroline. TWO SCREENPLAYS, ONE WRITER, NATIONAL VOICE 71

Fig. 6 Sc. 103 Madame Dream is attacked by Francine. Excerpt from Calico Dreams

Fig. 7 Sc. 53 Nathan Honeycombe struggles with his gambling addiction. Excerpt from Calico Dreams

One of the consequences of this was the importance in the planning stages to find ways in which the antagonists caused their own downfall because, as characterised, Caroline was unlikely to use violence or act in a punitive way to right wrongs. A related problem was how a passive character like Caroline, who is limited in physical strength, can defend herself. The answer was can-can dancing. The can-can is historically associated with Kalgoorlie and the Western Australian goldfields through the French prostitutes who came with the gold rush in 1892 (King 1988, p. 76). Caroline is taught can-can dancing by Lisette, 72 R. FERRELL a French dancer-prostitute. The can-can dance answered my need for Caroline to be seen to have physical abilities, and kicking became a realistic action she could use in self-defence. Above I have described some of the decisions and choices which went into creating the form and content of the screenplay. I have also outlined ways in which the writer is personally involved when crafting a story, through the values and attitudes which inform specific choices. This is important to highlight because of the ways that voice is the result of these choices and is informed by the worldview of the screenwriter. The dramatic world brought alive through the voice is created from the writer’s ‘determinate intelligence and moral sensibility’. The writer’s mind is the ‘controlling force’ which designs and expresses the drama (Abrams 1993, p. 156). Though taken for granted, and often inscribed through unconscious choices in the practice of writing (Bordwell 1996, p. 150), the writer’s personhood is the context from which a written text arises. Consequently, the text displays a ‘stream-lined version’ (Phelan 2005, p. 45) of the writer through the characters and dramatic design which emerge from their labour. Through the experience of writing Calico Dreams, I had to negotiate the issues brought up by the narrative that highlighted my own responses to the actual world and my own worldview and values as a woman and an Australian. The experience showed clearly the ways that personal experiences, histories, attitudes and values are foundational to the choices a writer makes in the flow of practice. These govern the dramatic design and are foundational to the voice created.

Conclusion I have described the ways that an American national inflection was inscribed by an Australian writer in the screenplay Cashflow. This was achieved by the inclusion of American language, characters, storyworld, costumes, sets and props. To a large extent, these choices were governed by the genre chosen: the comic western, which brought with it tone and mood and elements of content which were associated with an American wild west. This inflection was created because I as the writer mimicked expressions of cultural belonging which were familiar to me, though not native to my identity. In rewriting Cashflow, a different genre was chosen in order to effect the change in voice from American to Australian. Through historical realism, it became possible for me to create characters and a world which could be accepted as authentic to an Australian experience. The storyworld frontier became associated with a specific time and place in Australia, and could (finally) be dissociated from an American experience of frontier. In line with the new genre and storyworld, the characters now reflected an historical period. Character nationalities changed, though in some cases their names and function in the drama did not. The new genre created a significant difference in TWO SCREENPLAYS, ONE WRITER, NATIONAL VOICE 73 tone and mood, so that Calico Dreams is a wholly new work, though based on Cashflow. The commanding difference is the voice. In the process of creating a new voice, the importance of a writer’s identity and personhood became apparent. As the writer, I made decisions based on my own values, attitudes and experiences. My personal loyalties—to women, to a worldview and to moral issues and concerns—became obvious, and governed the choices of events and relationships, in turn dramatically (in both senses) affecting the story design. The mechanisms through which a screenwriter’s voice can reflect the writer’s personhood was revealed to be through decision- making and choice. Voice was shown to incorporate choices based on the common craft areas mentioned in manuals and textbooks, as well as choices of modes of expression (language, images and sound). Voice was also revealed to incorporate more conceptual/experiential influences which come directly from the writer’s life experiences, preferences, skills and knowledge. These are often inscribed in more subtle ways in the screenplay text, through subtext, relationships, worldview and perspectives. These elements and undercurrents need to be acknowledged as significant elements which inform the voice. They are reflected in the diagram of screenwriter’s voice through the levels ‘tone, mood, content’. Content, divided into five further areas which invite readers to consider moral and emotional content, philosophical/ideological frame, creative and imaginative ideas, craft competence and sense of humour, is a key element through which personal voice can be revealed. It is in these areas particularly that a writer’s voice can emerge as unique and coherent, based on the specific choices which form the dramatic design. By attending to voice, and especially to those ways in which voice can reflect an independent, intentional and thoughtful mind, screenwriters can gain greater control of their works and project powerful and persuasive voices.

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Dermody, S., & Jacka, E. (1988). The Screening of Australia: Anatomy of a National Cinema. Sydney: Currency Press. Elbow, P. (2007). Voice in Writing Again: Embracing Contraries. College English, 70(2), 168–188. Ferrell, R. (1996). Cashflow. Feature Film script (unproduced). Perth: Rosie Glow Pictures. Ferrell, R. (2014). Calico Dreams. Feature Film script (unproduced). Perth: Rosie Glow Pictures. Ferrell, R. (2017a). Voice in Screenwriting: Discovery/Recovery of an Australian Voice. PhD Doctoral Thesis, Edith Cowan University, Perth. Goldsmith, B. (2010). Outward-Looking Australian Cinema. Studies in Australasian Cinema, 4(3), 199–214. https://doi.org/10.1386/sac.4.3.199_1. Goodman, L. (2010). Rebellious Identification, or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Arabella. Narrative, 18(2), 163–187. King, N. (1988). Daughters of Midas: Pioneer Women of the Eastern Goldfields (Rep. 1992 ed.). Perth: Hesperian Press. Luce-Kapler, R., Catlin, S., Sumara, D., & Kocher, P. (2011). Voicing Consciousness: The Mind in Writing. Changing English: Studies in Culture and Education, 18(2), 161–172. https://doi.org/10.1080/1358684X.2011.575249. Maras, S. (2009). Screenwriting: History, Theory and Practice. London: Wallflower Press. Meyerhold, V., & Hoover, M. L. (1966). Two Lectures. The Tulane Drama Review, 11(1), 186–195. Moran, A., & Vieth, E. (2006). The A to Z of Australian and New Zealand Cinema. Lanham: The Scarecrow Press, Inc. O’Regan, T. (1996). Australian National Cinema. London: Routledge. Phelan, J. (2005). Living to Tell About It: A Rhetoric and Ethics of Character Narration. Ithaca/London: Cornell University Press. Rabinowitz, P. J. (2010). Shakespeare’s Dolphin, Dumbo’s Feather, and Other Red Herrings: Some Thoughts on Intention and Meaning. Style, 44(3), 342–364. Scott, A. J. (2002). A New Map of Hollywood: The Production and Distribution of American Motion Pictures. Regional Studies, 36(9), 957–975. Turner, G. (1993). National Fictions (2nd ed.). St Leonards: Allen & Unwin Pty Ltd. Verhoeven, D. (2010). Film, Video, DVD and Online Delivery. In S. Cunningham & G. Turner (Eds.), The Media and Communications in Australia (3rd ed., pp. 133– 154). Crows Nest, Sydney, Australia: Allen & Unwin. Wilson, G. M. (1986). Narration in Light: Studies in Cinematic Point of View. Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press. Zunshine, L. (2006). Why We Read Fiction: Theory of Mind and the Novel. Columbus: Ohio State University Press. Off-screen: Reimagining Animation

Rose Woodcock, Lienors Torre, and Eiichi Tosaki

Introduction All objects can have ‘vitality’, not just animated characters and objects as they are commonly understood in relation to the animations we watch and enjoy. As screen practitioners whose interests and ideas flow from a diverse range of intellectual and creative intentions, we are interested in how the task of defining animation might begin where the threshold between screen, image and the world disappears. We propose a conceptual paradigmatic shift that challenges the boundaries of screen production by challenging the idea that to be ‘animated’ requires the infrastructure of the moving image (a screen). The aim in this chapter is therefore twofold. Firstly, we ask the reader to rethink animation in a form that reaches beyond the screen and even being visible at all. We propose that by stepping away from the domain of the screen it is possible to do something that is different. And so to our second proposition: let us apply animation as a concept for reimagining non-animate objects— wood, stone, ordinary matter—as bearers of immanent animacy. Our intention is to (re)define animation by way of an implicit autonomy arising not from its location (screen), or its relationship to human access (image, representation), but from what it does (movement). This requires a shift in thought from an inertia that sits at the core of Western epistemology, expressed in Critique of Judgement (1790), in the form of Kant’s argument that the concept of ‘a living matter ... involves self-contradiction, since lifelessness, inertia, constitutes the essential characteristic of matter’ (Kant 1952: §12 (73), 46).

R. Woodcock (*) • L. Torre Deakin University, Melbourne, VIC, Australia e-mail: [email protected] E. Tosaki University of Melbourne, Melbourne, VIC, Australia

An important argument of the Critique turns on the realisation that the way things appear to a rational perceiver, such as that the Sun appears to move across the sky, can be a source of knowledge of (say) the workings of the Solar system. However, because observable phenomena cannot be thought to correspond to the way things are ‘in themselves’, according to Kant, their workings remain ontologically unknowable; that is, metaphysical. This implies that our understanding of movement and animacy is contingent upon how material objects appear to us. One way around this epistemological roadblock is to turn instead to the origins of the key terms at the core of what we are exploring. A word’s etymology is only ever a reference to its origins, not to its current usage. However, origins do not entirely go away. Consider the word ‘thing’: its proto-Indo-European origins include ‘tenk-’ from the root ‘ten-’ meaning ‘stretch’, a possible reference to the ‘stretch of time’ that would be required to hold a meeting to get something done (Online Etymology Dictionary 2019). These origins suggest that, buried in its roots in language, a thing or object is always already a species of ‘happening’; that is, something that arises and unfolds through time. Kant’s contribution to Western philosophy has been variously appraised (Foucault 1972; Deleuze 1963; Butler 2009) and is not the main concern here except to highlight one point: namely, that in regarding inanimate objects as ‘inert matter’, Western thinking consequently narrowly construes our understanding of what counts as ‘animate’ and ignores questions of for whom or what it ‘animates’. By thinking differently about how we define animation, the terms of reference can be made flexible, not just for animation but also for what counts as ‘being’. Thus, when Jane Bennett draws upon Kant’s critique to trace the genealogy of an epistemic preference for specific forms of being in her investigation of the Anthropocene, it is in the context of contemporary thinking about what counts as animate planetary ‘life’, ‘where fleshy, vegetal, min- eral materials are encountered not as passive stuff awaiting animation by human or divine power, but as lively forces at work around and within us’ (Bennett 2015: 223). In recent years, as scholarship around animation has advanced thanks to the work of Paul Wells (1998; 2006), Alan Cholodenko (2007), Dan Torre (2017), Suzanne Buchan (2013) and others, there has been much interest in redefining animation. However, this advance is often achieved by comparing animation to cinema (Deleuze 1986) or highlighting the advent of digital technology as a sign of animation’s break with, or sub-summation of, its presupposed cinematic past and future (Manovich 2001; Wells 1998). Rather than work through historiography, or through the lens of techno-cultural theory (Flusser 2000, 2014), this chapter takes advantage of the conceptual work already done in distinguishing animation from cinematic film or from its technical or crafted underpinnings. Taking the argument forward by differentiating the idea of animation from the images that manifest, consume and confine animation to the time and space of the screen, we challenge animation’s association with the representation of illusion. OFF-SCREEN: REIMAGINING ANIMATION 77

As animation theorist Thomas Lamarre notes, what engages us as viewers of animation is the ‘experience of movement, and the art of animation is, above all, that of movement’ (Lamarre 2013: 117). Our arguments draw from a range for ideas, from object-oriented philosophies (Harman 2005; Bogost 2012), from Japanese (and other non-Western) understandings of being, of objects imbued with ‘spirit’, and from reflecting on movement itself. Notably, we draw less from histories of animation or cinema studies broadly than from theoretical approaches to understanding animation that offer philosophical (rather than techno-historical) appreciation of what is unique to animation: animation is not reducible to the persistence of vision, or to the gaps between moving pictures, or to ‘devices of wonder’ (Stafford 2001). Animation occupies a place in the history of ideas.

Screens: Materialised Movement Screens are integral to the presentation of most forms of animation; yet, as we argue with regard to animation, screens themselves can also be considered in broader terms. Although, traditionally, the large cinematic screen has been a dominant cultural reference, more recently we have encountered moving images on small mobile devices. And, whereas in the past screens were special and carefully presented in large darkened theatres, or (when television was introduced) in hallowed but more intimate positions in our lounges, today screens are ubiquitous. They allow us to look, not only into an animated world, but (to borrow liberally from Eyal Peretz’s discussion on the frame) they encapsulate an illusory space, communicating both within the screen’s own borders and into the imagined spaces beyond those borders, out into the concrete spaces that define our material world (Peretz 2017: 5). In her phenomenological discussion of cinema and digital media, Vivian Sobchack considers the different ways in which various screen-based technologies can affect us: ‘each offers our lived-bodies radically different ways of “being-in-the-world”’ (Sobchack 2000: 67). Not only do screens abound everywhere, but their functions have become far more encompassing and multifaceted. Screens now perform multiple functions ranging from linear entertainment, to seeking information, image-taking, geo-locating and everyday communication—extending their functionality far beyond the confines of the screen itself. If we think of the screen more broadly, in fact, it precedes cinema. Animation conjures our earliest form of filmmaking and we can think of the screen’s evolution as having developed in tandem with the progression of animation and of conceptions of animacy. It is interesting to consider that the ‘screen’ has existed as a flat ‘cinema screen’ for only a portion of animation’s historic trajectory. Early pots from Iran, Greece and Rome often depicted figures on a band that encircled the pot in various stages of movement, so that when rotated the impression of movement would be expressed. Of particular note is a 5000-year- old Iranian vase that depicts five different images of a goat. Originally discovered 78 R. WOODCOCK ET AL. in 1983 by Italian archaeologists, it was soon realised the images are sequential: when viewed consecutively, an animated effect of the goat leaping to eat leaves from a tree can be seen.1 Not only does the cylindrical form of the pot play an important role in the viewing and experience of the sequential drawings, allowing a cycle of movement to be seen continuously but, being a handcrafted object, the pot has an innate relationship to the body, is tactile and is scaled to be handled easily. A more recent example of a bowl employed as the canvas for an animation is ‘Phonotrope: Experimental Animation Meets Pottery’ (2013) by Jim Le Fevre, Mike Paterson, and Roop and Al Johnstone (Roop & Al Make Pots [RAMP] ceramics), funded by the British Craft Council. This exists as a multiplicity that can be viewed as one work with related but individual artefacts: it is a documentary film, a ceramic bowl decorated with a sequence of drawings and also—most pertinently—an animation which can be viewed in motion when seen, spinning, through a camera. The bowl has drawings carefully placed around and within it, which, when the bowl is spinning like a turntable and the images are viewed through the shutter of a camera, become animated. The animated work cannot be seen properly off-screen (unless a strobe light is used), yet the object exists and was made for the purpose of the animation. When still, the drawings create a repetitive pattern of decoration on the functional bowl, hinting at the movement for which they were carefully drawn and placed. As a bearer of immanent animacy, though, it is as though the rhythm of the animation is dictating the design of the functional, crafted object (Fig. 1). The nineteenth century saw the popularity of many different ‘animation devices’ such as zoetropes and flipbooks, all presented in an animated view:

Fig. 1 Still from Craft’s Council film by Jim Le Fevre. (Photography Mike Paterson. Ceramicists Roops and Al Johnstone (RAMP pottery) 2013

1 Burnt City pot (proto-cinematic animation) The Circle of Ancient Iranian Studies, online http://www.cais-soas.com/News/2008/March2008/04-03.htm (accessed 2 October 2018). OFF-SCREEN: REIMAGINING ANIMATION 79 most of these were mobile and offered personal viewing experiences. Today, we experience portable animation devices daily through our mobile phones and tablets. And it is this portability that makes these devices so significant: the viewer needs to hold the actual object, constantly drawing awareness to its physicality. Candlin and Guins note that we cannot ignore the material nature of mobile devices, and that their ‘materiality becomes the focus of individual and social symbolic value. [These] offer opportunities for personal attachment and physical intimacy’ (Candlin and Guins 2009: 5) No matter how advanced the technology is becoming, nor how much discussion is generated on the virtual nature of our media, these devices remain resolutely tangible and intimate. A number of contemporary artists and animators experiment by merging the unique qualities of pre-cinematic devices and non-traditional animation ‘screens’ with digital technologies. Akinori Goto’s 3D-printed artwork ‘toki- BALLET #01’ (2016) is an object that contains and yet also conceals a dancer’s movement, the movement revealed only when the object is spinning under strobe lights. Each ‘frame’ flares into view as the object turns through narrow shafts of light. As it rotates, the object reveals something of its own material physicality: a short cylindrical object composed of filaments of transparent plastic. As a material object it gives prominence to the in-between and overlapping movements (a physical equivalent to conventional film interstices), generating a flimsy, organic, lightly woven form which highlights curves of movement. As more lights are shone on the artwork, so more moments of the animated dance sequence become perceptible, alluding to the origin of the animated work and the screen on which it was initially made. This design process integrates the imaginary spaces of the screen into the materiality of real 3D-printed objects. The threshold between screen and world is diffracted as the moving image flows into the space of material actualisation (Fig. 2).

Fig. 2 Akinori Goto ‘toki- BALLET #01’, 2016 80 R. WOODCOCK ET AL.

The screen is not only a conduit for the display of animated imagery. It is itself an object that simultaneously occupies a material presence while allowing animation to interact with the world of real objects and spaces. As movement and objects become more abstract in their representation—for example, in the form of data visualisation of myriad different phenomena—so their material presence will shift towards becoming synchronous with the world.

Mono no ke The concept of mono (thing, object) is deeply imbedded in Japanese metaphysics, and emerges in the visual and performing arts of Japan through a nuanced relationship between objects and our relationship with them. The lineage that connects the oldest of Japan’s theatre arts (Noh and Bunraku) to Japan’s most contemporary screen practices is a complex one and is beyond the scope of this chapter. But the concept of mono is central. Zeami Motokiyo (1363–1443) was one of the founders of Japanese Noh theatre. Fushikaden (The transmission of the flower through a mastery of the forms) is Zeami’s earliest treatise on its teachings (Wilson 2013). In it, Zeami sets out the principles of Noh, both in the form of practical instructions for novice practitioners, as well as the disciplinary links to Zen Buddhism, from which Noh theatre draws its fundamental concepts. Zeami’s work and ideas reveal a connection between Noh theatre (and Bunraku) and Japanese animation (anime) that can be drawn from the approach of both art forms to the shared animacy of bodies and objects, through a special appreciation of kata, or ‘form’. Zeami proposed the principle of ri-ken-no-ken (literally ‘sight that comes from detached sight’), which involves escaping kata (one’s form) and entering a bodily condition like that of a puppet. The most important principle for a Noh theatre performer is to learn from a ‘master’ who has a completed form or kata; but this ‘master’ can be a mono: literally, a ‘thing’—an object whose body is complete (a pine tree or branch of bamboo). To attain the viewpoint of an object, to become an object and move as if controlled by the object in its own state of being, is the most sought-after state for a Noh performer. To become an object means to detach oneself from one’s own will and intentionality. This entails learning to lose oneself in the object and become entrapped by it, requiring the release of one’s spirit into that of objects or ‘things’. In this way, the internalised spirit emerges as a movement of dance, as a sentient gesture of a puppet (Bunraku), as a phrase of haiku poetry. Japanese aesthetics of movement embodies this fundamental relationship between spirit (kokoro) and thing (mono). Kata refers primarily to ‘actualised form’, understood in relation—of both opposition and complementarity—to the transcendent-animating dimension of shin (flesh, body) that precedes all actualisation including the ‘completed form’. Within Japanese metaphysics, the continuous generation of openings to new forms through the destruction of form is founded in this understanding of kata. Kata is also used as a metaphor for utsuwa (vessel): a performer becomes OFF-SCREEN: REIMAGINING ANIMATION 81 the ‘vessel’ for the movement performed, by which to attain mastery through keiko (practice or discipline). When kata is completely assimilated into the practitioner’s body, the mannerisms of the movement will become mono (thing): all emotional or intentional engagements and concerns about personal style will disappear. For Zeami, however, arriving at the kata stage was not enough. Zeami thus draws upon the principle in Japanese aesthetics of futai, meaning ‘wind-shaped body’. Futai is the realisation of a ‘natural’, as opposed to self-consciously performed, posture or gesture of the body, akin to a flower in the wind: hence, the title Fushikaden, which translates into English as ‘The transmission of the flower through a mastery of the forms’. Noh performers seek to keep their minds (kokoro) as well as bodies (shin-tai) extremely pared down. Without purposefully or intentionally ‘expressing’ anything, the Noh practitioner expresses frugality of the body in their performance, their training and in daily life. Whatever they say or do, whatever the context, a Noh disciple’s living actions will be aimed at attaining nothingness, or futai; that is, becoming pliant to the vicissitude of the ‘thingness’ or mono itself. The condition of futai also implies sakui-naki-sakui, which means using artificial skill to express something with no trace of artificiality in the movement itself. The manipulation of a Bunraku puppet, however, is very subtle, and turns, under the aegis of the non-expressive mono state, into an expressive form of feeling. In this way, emotion is reinserted into the movement. As Japanese philosopher Tetsuro Watsuji said, ‘Noh is acted by human, but the direction of act is toward the negation of humanity. On the contrary, Bunraku seeks for humanistic manifestations and mannerisms, thus the puppet, instead of being human, can act humanistically.’ Watsuji continues: ‘Bunraku emerged where the negation of humanistic nature (a fundamental principle in Noh theatre) is negated again’ (Watsuji 2013: 231). Bunraku can be somewhat ‘uncanny’, as the puppet attains dramatic skill and presence beyond that of its flesh-and- blood human counterpart. This propensity of Japanese aesthetics of ‘becoming mono’ can be observed in Japanese animation such as, for example, Ghost in the Shell (1995, dir. Oshii Mamoru), where a humanoid robot is a machine but comes into existence (‘performs’) according to merging of artificiality (automaton) and human spirit. The title of Hayao Miyazaki’s popular animation, Mononoke Hime (Princess Mononoke) also implies this principle. Mono-(no)-ke is composed of two words: mono and ke. Ke originally came from yokai: a spectre, a monster or a spiritual or supernatural phenomenon, carrying with it the sense of being a living thing. Mononoke implies something fearful, an uncontrollable force which suddenly arises. Natural disasters like landslides, lightning, thunder, tsu- nami and earthquakes are mononoke, but this concept also includes monstrous human technology such as nuclear power stations and atomic bombs. Mononoke is also a mono in itself, and every mono has the potential to have its own ke. Bunraku puppet theatre is inhabited by non-human mono whose very ‘thingness’ (mono) is activated and expressed through a monstrous ke. Thus, Japanese 82 R. WOODCOCK ET AL. mononoke suggests an approach to the screen that already embraces the relationship between material objects and their fundamental animacy.

Animation Is Movement, Movement Is Animation It is hardly surprising that theorists of animation in the West, lacking the equivalent of mononoke, might defer to Aristotle’s De Anima (On the soul). In the grand scheme of Western philosophy and the history of ideas, the ‘soul’ as fundamental giver of movement, life or ‘animacy’ is first articulated here in Aristotle’s reflections on matters of the soul. InDe Anima, Aristotle puts forward the idea that the soul finds substance in a body through form: ‘Now matter is potentiality, and form is actuality ... having itself the principle of movement and rest’ (Aristotle 1986: 156–157). For Aristotle, and for Japanese mono (‘thing’), immanent life (‘spirit’ ‘animacy’) is implicated in all matter, animate or inanimate; philosopher or wooden puppet. Animation has been defined, famously, as the ‘illusion of life’ (Johnston and Thomas 1981),2 and so audiences are well prepared for encounters with normally inanimate objects coming alive; a salient example being the animated mops in the Sorcerer’s Apprentice scene from Fantasia (Disney 1940). But it seems the obsession with ‘life’ in the definition of animation has held us back from reimagining animation aside from illusions (of life, of motion), and apart from the screens that represent them for us. William Routt observes that in the nineteenth century, before the advent of cinema proper, use of the word animation ‘to signify “representation of things as alive” was obsolete and rare’, stating that animation ‘is not the representation of life. It is the action of imparting life’ (Routt 2007: 172–3). He delves into the etymologies of anima and animus to make subtle distinctions between the ways in which animacy (‘aliveness’) is transfigured within differing discourses: psychology, linguistics, philosophy and theology. Routt challenges the notion that this is an illusion, instead treating the illusion of life ‘as seeming to see the thing before our eyes’ with a focus on ‘the life of that illusion’ (Routt 2007: 173). He also firmly equates ‘animation’ with ‘the state of being alive’ (Routt 2007: 174), which links his thinking to that of the Old Ionians (roughly 600 bce until Socrates, 469–399 bce), who were accused by later Greeks of being ‘hylozoists, or Those-who-think-matter-is-alive’ (Farrington 1961: 37). The hylozoists were roundly chastised at that time for implying, not that the spirit of life, the soul ‘came into the world from outside [i.e., God-given, cosmic], but that what is called life, or soul, or the cause of motion in things

2 The Illusion of Life: Disney Animation (1981) is also the title of a popular animator’s text book, written by Ollie Johnston and Frank Thomas, two of nine ‘master animators’ in Walt Disney’s studio. Cholodenko distances his use of the term ‘illusion’ in his own two volumes on animation from that of Walt Disney, describing the latter’s ‘illusion’ as ‘animation aspiring to a realism of depiction such as one associates with Hollywood live action cinema’ (Cholodenko, 2007: 51). OFF-SCREEN: REIMAGINING ANIMATION 83 was inherent in matter, was just the way it behaved’ (Farrington 1961: 37, emphasis added). Jane Bennett, in her critique of philosophy’s privileging of anthropocentrism, similarly draws attention to ‘the assumption that the only source of vitality in matter is a soul or spirit’ (Bennett 2010: viii). The ‘illusion of life’ limits the terms of reference for animacy by preserving the object’s apparent movement as a condition of its materiality as projected image on screen. This collapses animation back into the broader gamut of ‘moving image’, where it resides along with live-action, photorealistic cinema (film proper). Like the apparent movement of the Sun relative to the rational subject’s understanding of what is really in motion, the ‘illusion’ of life claims the ‘apparent’ animacy of objects animating as a condition of the perceiving subject’s appreciation of the moving image: things move relative to the framing edges of the screen and the duration of the film. The hylozoic, by contrast, preserves the idea that if something is a ‘thing’ (matter), and whether or not it is there for us, its vitality does not require representation, since as it is matter in its potentiality, it is thereby already ‘animating’. Graham Harman’s Object Oriented Ontology is a critique of contemporary phenomenology within which an object is automatically ‘stripped of all independent power and considered only insofar as it flares into human view’ (Harman 2005: 16). The philosophical implications of such an ontology, which does not privilege human subjects and subjectivities, is that all objects—human and non-human—define themselves according their inner lives and as an outcome of their relations with other objects, rather than as discrete ‘identities’. Time for an etymological return: the literal meaning of ‘zoetrope’ is ‘wheel of life’, from Greek zōē ‘life’ (hence hylo-zoist) and trope ‘to turn’. Zoetropes, prax- inoscopes, phenakistoscopes and other proto-cinematic optical toys are typically of a physical size that places them among books and bowls, to be viewed and handled according to a ‘carpentry of things’ (Harman 2005). The scale of Gregory Barsamian’s zoetropes is worth considering here. Part of the thrill when encountering Barsamian’s massive zoetropes is how a physical, mechanical object affords the illusion of the moving image itself: it is only when the machine slows and the strobe lights are replaced by the gentler glow of incandescent museum lighting that the relationship between viewer and object is revealed as one defined by proximal movement, not re-presentational image. Barsamian describes how the images arising from the synchronised strobe light ‘exist in real time and viewers are able to share the same space with them’ (Barsamian n.d.). Yet the impression is more inclusive than that of imagery alone. The over-sized physical zoetrope disrupts our perceptions while at the same time allowing us to reimagine what we mean by images as frames of animation: the ‘persistence of vision’ analogy seems inadequate to account for the experience of being in the presence of a complex array of heavy solid objects in motion in a physical apparatus that does not rely on us looking at it for its operations of animacy 3.

3 Barsamian’s large zoetrope ‘Juggler’ (1997) can be viewed here: https://gregorybarsamian. com/Juggler Accessed 21 September 2019. 84 R. WOODCOCK ET AL.

What we have is a reversal or a duality: instead of moving images, we have movement animating as the real-time instantiation of images that are ‘apparent’ only in the perceiver’s eyes. The images Barsamian speaks of are virtual, immanent to the movement of the object in a manner quite divorced from our usual experience of how ‘animated images’ arise. It is as though the physical zoetrope is at once obscured by and dissolved into the illusion of images, at the same time absorbing the animated images into its material operations as a heavy, spinning complexity of articulated moving parts.

Conclusion By decoupling animation from illusion, and disassociating animation’s location from the screen space of the image, it becomes possible to position animated movement both on and off the screen. Barsamian’s sculptural zoetropes are one example, but this conception also applies to the wooden marionette puppet and the Noh dancer between performances, as well as to the book and the bowl of fruit irrespective of our handling of them. The aim in this chapter has been twofold: (1) to reimagine a definition of animation that is beyond or autonomous of screen visuality (‘the moving image’), and to follow that step away from the domain of the screen; and (2) to apply animation as a concept for reimagining non-animate objects—wood, stuff, matter—as bearers of immanent animacy: to allow all objects a ‘source of vitality’. Thus, animation’s autonomy arises not from its location (screen) or its relationship to human access (image, representation), but from what it does (movement). Objects animating autonomously through movement, including those times when they are so still that they cease to ‘flare into human view’ at all, means they are not reducible to animation’s capacity to be located in infinite variations of screen spaces. In this time, of the Anthropocene, if the concept of animation has traction at the epistemic level, then perhaps it is because ‘movement as animation’ recognises relations in which animacy (‘life’) arises not just for the powerfully human, sentient subject, but for a more inclusive audience of all subjects and objects. Everything, then, is moving and is therefore ‘animating’. From the point of view of this speculative ontology of animation it is not a matter of replacing established or other more radical definitions of animation with the one proposed here. Rather, it is about stepping back from the screen which has been the defining frame for defining what animation is. To confirm animation’s place in a post-screen media ecology is an opportunity to define animation as ‘inimagable movement’, not ‘moving image’, where inimagable does not presuppose invisibility or ‘absence’ but the presence of animacy whose autonomy exceeds strictly human perspicacity and interests. Animation’s movement happens irrespective of the flare of human interest. While our typical encounters with animation will, for practical reasons, be screen-based experiences, there is scope to reimagine animation according to a broader definition that unbinds animation from its fixity to the space of the screen. Steve Reinke (following Bazin 1960) suggests we need ‘something like OFF-SCREEN: REIMAGINING ANIMATION 85 an ontology of the animated image’ (Reinke 2009: 9). In this chapter, we have proposed an ontology of animation drawn from its autonomy in relation to the moving image, rather than as a mode of the moving image and its dependence upon a screen. The moving image becomes mobilised in interesting ways within the disruptive possibilities of a post-screen ecology, where animation slips aside from the receding shadow of the monolithic screen to animate a space, both real and imaginary, beyond the constraints of the defining frame. Indeed, since at least the late 2000s, ‘screens have become both tiny and mobile, and vast and immersive’ (Lister et al. 2009: 10). Clearly, screens are as much on the move, literally and metaphorically, as their animated contents and our conceptions of them. In rethinking animation as movement, we vivify the syntax: movement is animation and animation is movement. They are the same thing.

References Aristotle. (1986). De Anima (On the Soul) (H. Lawson-Tancred, Trans.). London: Penguin Books. Barsamian, G. (2008). Extracinematic Animation: Gregory Barsamian in Conversation with Suzanne Buchan. Animation: An Interdisciplinary Journal. Sage Publications. Bazin, A. (1960). The Ontology of the Photographic Image (H. Gray, Trans.). Film Quarterly, 13(4), 4–9. Bennett, J. (2010). Vibrant Matter: A Political Ecology of Things. Durham: Duke University Press. Bennett, J. (2015). Systems and Things: On Vital Materialism and Object-Oriented Philosophy. In R. Grusin (Ed.), Nonhuman Turn (pp. 223–240). Minnesota: University of Minnesota Press. Bogost, I. (2012). Alien Phenomenology: Or What It Is Like to Be a Thing. Minneapolis/ London: University of Minnesota Press. Buchan, S. (2013). Pervasive Animation. New York: Routledge. Butler, J. (2009). Critique, Dissent, Disciplinarity. Critical Inquiry, 35(4), 773–795. https://doi.org/10.1086/599590. Candlin, F., & Guins, R. (Eds.). (2009). The Object Reader. London: Routledge. Cholodenko, A. (Ed.). (2007). The Illusion of Life II: More Essays on Animation. Sydney: Power Publications, University of Sydney. Deleuze, G. (1986). Cinema 1: The Movement Image (H. Tomlinson & B. Habberjam, Trans.). Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Farrington, B. (1961 [1944]). Greek Science: Its Meaning For Us. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books. Flusser, V. (2000). Towards a Philosophy of Photography (A. Mathews, Trans.). London: Reaktion Books. Flusser, V. (2014). Gestures (N. A. Roth, Trans.). Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Foucault, M. (1972). Archaeology of Knowledge (A. M. S. Smith, Trans.). New York: Pantheon Books. Harman, G. (2005). Guerrilla Metaphysics: Phenomenology and the Carpentry of Things. Chicago/La Salle: Open Court. 86 R. WOODCOCK ET AL.

Kant, I. (1952/1790). Critique of Judgement: Part II, Critique of Teleological Judgement (J. C. Meredith, Trans). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kant, I. (1953 [1790]). Kant. Encyclopaedia Britannica, Inc. (University of Chicago Press). Critique of Judgement (J. C. Meredith, Trans.). Reprinted by Oxford University Press. Lamarre, R. (2013). Coming to Life: Cartoon Animals and Natural Philosophy. In S. Buchan (Ed.), Pervasive Animation (pp. 117–142). New York: Routledge. Lister, M., Dovey, J., Giddings, S., Grant, I., & Kelly, K. (2009). New Media: A Critical Introduction. London/New York: Routledge. Manovich, L. (2001). The Language of New Media. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Online Etymology Dictionary. (2019). https://www.etymonline.com. Accessed 21 Sep 2019. Peretz, E. (2017). The Off-Screen: An Investigation of the Cinematic Frame. Redwood City: Stanford University Press. Reinke, S. (2009). In C. Gehman & S. Reinke (eds.). The Sharpest Point: Animation at the End of Cinema (pp. 9–26). Toronto: YYZ Books. Routt, W. (2007). De Anime. In A. Cholodenko (Ed.), The Illusion of Life 2 (pp. 172– 190). Sydney: Power Publications. Sobchack, V. (2000). The Scene of the Screen: Envisioning Cinematic and Electronic “Presence”. In R. Stam & T. Miller (Eds.), Film and Theory: An Anthology. Oxford: Blackwell. Stafford, B. M. (2001). Devices of Wonder: From the World in a Box to Images on a Screen (exhibition catalogue). Thomas, F., & Johnston, O. (1981). The Illusion of Life. New York: Hyperion. Torre, D. (2017). Animation-Process, Cognition and Actuality. New York: Bloomsbury. Watsuji, T. (2013). Cited by Tanaka, K. 2013. Philosophizing Japanese Beauty: Aware, Yugen, Sabi, and Iki (in Japanese). Tokyo: Seitosha Publications. Wells, P. (1998). Understanding Animation. London: Routledge. Wells, P. (2006). The Fundamentals of Animation. Lausanne: AVA Publishing. Wilson, W. S. (2013). The Spirit of Noh: A New Translation of the Classic Noh Treatise the Fushikaden. Boston/London: Shambhala Publications. The Dr Egg Adventures: Incorporating User- Generated Content and User-Testing Strategies in Pre-production Conceptualisation and Development of a Multi-Platform Storyworld

Catherine Fargher

Introduction Multi-platform storytelling works are necessarily adaptive, hybrid and non- linear, and require engagement with different modes of pre-production development and scriptwriting for each screen storytelling format. For writers and content creators in multi-platform screen productions, this can involve an extraordinarily steep learning curve, employing an ever-broadening set of screenwriting, pre-production and development strategies and skills. In the case of my own interactive production The Dr Egg Adventures (Dr Egg Digital 2018), it encompassed a journey from playwriting—for actors, puppets and animation—into the wild terrains of multi-platform storytelling: gaming, transmedia, convergence, user-experience testing and EPOC/MVP (EPON (Ethernet passive optical network) protocol over coax/minimum viable product) creation. I have identified a pressing need for research that addresses the challenges presented by the rapid growth of platform convergence and the resulting interactive narrative adaptations. Engagement with these convergent transformations of form and content, research and development, pre-production, adaptation and screenwriting strategies is both challenging and necessary for practitioners in the creative writing and media disciplines. Thus, building on an established body of research from my Doctorate of Creative Writing (Fargher

C. Fargher (*) School of Arts and Media, University of New South Wales, Sydney, NSW, Australia

2008), which explored hybrid-writing strategies, this chapter asks the ongoing research question: How can the writing and creation process adapt and engage with dynamic and diverse models of storytelling, creating effective narrative content within transmedia and multi-platform productions, when the emerging technology is evolving, complex and unstable? As a means of elucidating the query, this chapter explores diverse pre- production strategies, using the observation and documentation of case studies. Primarily, the focus is on the author’s own production, The Dr Egg Adventures, a convergence of interactive narratives, games and storybooks. I have also undertaken interviews with three Australian/Canadian and US producers of MVPs or productions completed since 2014 to investigate current insights in adaptation and pre-production development strategies. Interviewees include Playing Forward’s Victor Syrmis, producer of the VROOM platform (USA) (Playing Forward 2016). Tiny Owl Workshop’s Sue Wright, publisher/producer with Plot Media and Log Cabin Productions (AUST/ Canada) of Westbury Faery (Tiny Owl Workshop 2016) and Lane of Unusual Trading (AUST) (Tiny Owl Workshop 2015) and E-Line Media’s Alan Gershenfeld (USA), maker of the BAFTA award-winning Never Alone game (E-Line Media 2016). Strategies these producers have employed include user-experience testing, immersive design and the incorporation of user-generated content (fan or ‘flash’ fiction) as tools in the pre-production process. I will also examine the key terms underpinning these convergent pre-production strategies and posit some key findings about insights that are emerging and their influence on the content of narratives and productions in the pre-production stages.

Convergence Culture: The Here and Now of Screen Production Many multi-platform pre-production challenges have been triggered by the emergence of the digital environment and the associated disruptions to traditional production processes. The ‘dream-making’ industry of screen-based storytelling is currently in flux: volatile and yet exciting. Audience-engagement strategies and business models across all media forms, including established channels such as film and publishing, are changing in response to the burgeoning global podcast, YouTube and digital cultures. Inevitably, as many new technologies, including HoloLens (Microsoft 2018) and the more established virtual reality (VR) platforms, take hold in the popular imagination and culture, the demand for the creation of new content grows. In his 2006 book on the subject, leading US transmedia/convergence theorist Henry Jenkins labelled this cross-platform content consumption ‘Convergence Culture’, where ‘consumers are encouraged to seek out new information and make connections among dispersed media content’ (Jenkins 2006, p. 3). And further, ‘the emerging convergence paradigm assumes that old and new media will interact in ever more complex ways’ (Jenkins 2006, p. 6). THE DR EGG ADVENTURES: INCORPORATING USER-GENERATED… 89

Alongside this are increasing spends on advertising revenue (Fargher 2016a), the erosive practices of pirating and audiences who refuse to pay for content, leading to a leaner industry where pre-production and development stages have less funding support and ‘content’ is developed as marketing material with the hope that it can be licensed or onsold. Together these commercial forces and new media platforms are shaking up pre-production and scriptwriting models for screen-based storytelling and content. Sydney-based transmedia, multi-platform and VR producer Nathan Anderson of Start VR (Start VR 2017) encourages producers to ‘think differently’ about how to reach and engage our audiences, or customers, because they have become more diverse and the way they ‘consume’ content has changed. For instance, they can provide ‘feedback’ now, the way they are reached is different and the way they ‘pay’ for content is changing (Anderson 2015). Emerging content may also take many forms. As the Australian Professor Kathryn Millard notes in her publication, Screenwriting in a Digital Era (Millard 2014):

Screen media ... are in the process of adaptation as they overlap and borrow from each other and from forms such as reportage, the blog, email and twitter. Television is reinventing itself through more complex storytelling, web series and experiments with hybrid forms such as emergent drama. (Millard 2014, p. 80)

The Expanding Role of Pre-production As creators are encouraged to adapt their storytelling crafts to this ever-growing range of convergent media platforms, including games, tablet apps, e-books, print publications, interactive TV and YouTube webisodes, the very concept of pre-production and development is expanding. Pre-production development now typically involves research into aesthetics, style, platform choices, UX (user experience) design, mechanics, software, storyworld, timeline and character development. It also requires the creation of pre-production documents such as three-act story-beat structures (for TV and web screen stories), scripts, storyworld and character bibles, wireframes (games and online production) and comprehensive asset development lists. In commercial transmedia ‘add- ons’, it may also require developing business and marketing plans, commer- cialisation case studies or ‘product overviews’. Millard notes, ‘Transmedia projects and franchises that include both movie and game versions of a screen idea are increasingly common. Often ... developed side by side’ (Millard 2014, p. 79). Inevitably, Screen Australia has encouraged Australian screenwriters and producers to embrace these new models, stating in their multi-platform funding guidelines:

Technology has changed the landscape and opened up many new storytelling possibilities ... [digital ignition] will support screen practitioners to explore these 90 C. FARGHER

new opportunities, including new tools for storytelling, new platforms for reaching audiences, evolving finance plans and revenue models, new professional collaborations, and lower barriers for new talent to break through. (Screen Australia 2012)

Another key practitioner in the immersive and transmedia screen production areas, who is both creating work for, and theorising about this space, is US immersive storyteller Lance Weiler. Weiler says of his immersive storyworlds:

What was once a single-format design for me is changing. I now consider my process akin to architecture ... the creation of a storyworld bible, a document that provides an overview of the experience that I wish to create. It shows the relationships between storylines, characters, locations and interactions. (Weiler 2009)

One pre-production challenge, which arises as a result of the contemporane- ous development of a number of platforms, includes the need to develop pitching documents and story bibles for every platform that is being attempted. For instance, if a book, game and online web portal are being combined, each of these three platforms will need pre-production documents, each with subtle differences in style. Story ‘springboards’ may be required for either TV or webisodes, along with one minute of animation footage required by some production houses. A game or online platform will require wireframes, visual and sound assets lists and pitch documents. Some assets are also shared across all platforms—for instance, a storyworld character bible, and three-act story-beat structure might be used in the development of all story-based content on various platforms.

Dr Egg Adventures Based originally on the author’s eight-page short story, a bioethical fable, The Man with No Ear, the Dr Egg Adventures storyworld was first developed as a theatre production, Dr Egg and The Man with No Ear (Fargher and Wilson 2007), premiering at Sydney Opera House and featuring puppetry, new media and animation. The original story was adapted for visual theatre by director/producer Jessica Wilson, originally from Terrapin Puppet Theatre in Hobart, Tasmania. Identified during a ‘writing for puppetry masterclass’ for Terrapin in 2005, we explored the visual potential of the story using scriptwriter Peta Murray’s visual writing games. Playing with scalable models and puppets—for instance using a giant girl’s head or tiny marionettes—we discovered that elements of a story could be amplified or visualised in different styles. As such, an element of story could emerge from inside someone’s head or performed by tiny figures at other stages, much like the lessons we have learned in the multi-platform arena, where different content may be suited to specific platforms. This was the beginning of a cross-platform or hybrid journey for this story material. THE DR EGG ADVENTURES: INCORPORATING USER-GENERATED… 91

On the strength of this Jeff and AWGIE award-winning stage production, award-winning emerging screen director Maia Horniak (Horniak 2017) and established kids TV script editor Gina Roncoli (IMDB 2018) came on board to adapt the work into a feature-length screenplay. However after talking to executive producers in 2011, we discovered that at that time, a kids’ film was unlikely to be financed in Australia. Importantly, we were advised to move into a hybrid form, namely multi-platform. But exactly what is multi-platform and transmedia storytelling? How could we adapt the film treatment for multi- platform and how did pre-production strategies change during these forms of storytelling?

Key Terms: Multi-Platform, Cross-Platform and Transmedia In different broadcast regions, there are varied usages of the terms multi- platform, cross-platform and transmedia. Some of these key terms and definitions are evolving as a result of diverse models of storytelling that are engaging with the dynamic, complex and unstable technologies already mentioned. Some of the resulting definitions are explored here. According to the Screen Australia Small Screens Draft funding guidelines (Screen Australia 2012), cross-platform entails:

Using multiple digital media to distribute a piece of content (e.g. a webisode delivered online and via mobile device; a program for TV broadcast and online delivery). Multi-platform covers content created to exist on different platforms in different forms (e.g. a TV program with a website delivering separate audio-visual content; a feature film with an associated game), while transmedia involves storytelling across multiple forms of media, with each element making distinctive contributions to a user’s understanding of the story universe, including where user actions affect the experience of content across multiple platforms (e.g. reaching a score level in an online game unlocks the next mobile episode).

The PGA (Producers Guild of America) uses different terms. In the USA, ‘transmedia’ is more commonly used than ‘multi-platform’. They state:

A Transmedia Narrative project or franchise must consist of three (or more) narrative storylines existing within the same fictional universe on any of the following platforms: Film, Television, Short Film, Broadband, Publishing, Comics, Animation, Mobile, Special Venues, DVD/Blu-ray/CD-ROM, Narrative Commercial and Marketing rollouts, and other technologies that may or may not currently exist. (Jenkins 2010)

Thus, to build the first iteration of our interactive work across platforms, we needed to understand this new form. A post-production expert with transmedia training, Danielle Wiessner (IMDB 2017), came on board to develop a transmedia strategy for the work. We also undertook a ‘digital vision’ workshop 92 C. FARGHER with experienced interactive producers Michela Ledwidge and Mish Sparks at Modprods (Modprods 2017) to determine some potential forms for early iterations of the work. From this workshop, we identified our first iteration as an interactive storybook with an inbuilt game mechanic. Words from the stories would be converted to objects and collectibles in an inventory, to be used in the games and puzzles. Users could move between a range of platforms, including an interactive book, stand-alone games and an online portal. In this development and pre-production process, the team embarked on the creation of key pre-production documents. These documents differ in each pre-production process, depending on the specific platforms that are being developed. For instance, if a game and an interactive book are being created concurrently, then a game ‘wireframe’ (design of the stages of the game) and ‘bible’ (which would include descriptions of key characters, worlds and the rules/laws of any world), along with a book ‘storyboard’, would be required. In the case of a TV series with an added online platform, a different bible would be required. A ‘series bible’, along with story ‘springboards’, would be created and, in some instances, a script and storyboards for a one-minute animation episode. The online platform would also require a website ‘wireframe’ or map of the interactive pages and their content. Thus, each industry and form has different pre-production requirements, making transmedia production a much more complex undertaking than a single media production. The pre-production documents for Dr Egg Adventures included a three-act story-beat structure (which could then be adapted across platforms into TV, web series, games, graphic novels or literary works) as well as a storyworld and character bible. Many of these transmedia and multi-platform storytelling techniques were learned at the Australian Writers’ Guild Platform X workshops (AWG 2015), run by leading Australian screenwriter and game writer Mike Jones (Jones 2017). In these workshops, methodologies for driving story narratives forward via the use of game mechanics were explored, for instance by identifying what might increase the motivation for users to ‘engage’ with a story or characters. Also, we used storyworlds and timelines as starting points for narrative development, as a way to choose the ‘place’ or ‘moment’ when you might commence your story. We also developed our product outline with assistance from Nathan Anderson, our studio neighbour 2012–13. With the help of three separate Australia Council Grants between 2012 and 2015, we developed these into an electronic proof of concept (Dr Egg Digital 2013), with an additional product overview, which summarised what content would appear on these platforms, how the platforms would interact with each other and what the users’ experience across the platforms would be. We also explored what a ‘participation vision’ and possible user profiles might look like. To do this, we took different user entry points into the storyworld into account, based on multiple intelligences for kids (Gardner 1995) reflecting visual spatial, kinetic or sequential styles of engagement with the various modes and platforms. For instance, one 9-year-old boy’s user profile was imagined as follows by Dr Egg Digital intern Matt Young: THE DR EGG ADVENTURES: INCORPORATING USER-GENERATED… 93

Quentin is a dependent nine-year-old boy who uses his father’s iPad. He likes Harry Potter, Anthony Horowitz spy action books and Moshi Monsters. When watching the trailer on YouTube he is intrigued by the monstrous mutants and action sequences. He waits for dad to get home everyday so he can play it. The longevity of his user experience is sustained by the product’s interactive elements, especially the collection game mechanics. Quentin has ‘kinetic intelligence’ and engages more so with the exciting interactivity than the narrative’s nuances and character journeys. However, he enjoys the rewards-based system of the Collection Game, which motivates him to connect with the narrative journey. Even after he has finished the story, his user journey will continue because his interest is maintained by successive product updates and downloadable content (DLC), progressively enhancing his user experience. (Fargher and Young 2013)

On the basis of our EPOC and overview, the author was awarded further funding to create a full interactive narrative and attend the immersive storytelling and games panels at South by Southwest® (SXSW) in Austin, Texas. In the later development for the stand-alone game MVP, we developed pitching documents, game wireframes and also engaged with new strategies including user- experience testing (UX design) and user-generated content as means of creating dialogue, puzzles and stories.

Immersive Experience Interactive media academics and industry professionals Therese Fingleton, Christy Dena and Jennifer Wilson, authors of the 2008 Australia Council Report, The Writers Guide to Making a Digital Living (Fingleton et al. 2008), suggest that digital content has traditionally been divided into linear content (also called ‘heritage’), which we ‘sit back and consume’, or content that we ‘lean forward and engage with’, such as via the Internet or in a game. These interactions can now take place within networked environments—sometimes called the ‘Internet of Things’—to create a narrative platform with interactivity. An environment can include devices, objects and interactive sources networked together to carry digital (including story) content, confirming Jenkins’ notion of ‘complex relationships’ between media. Some multi-platform and transmedia examples that take user experience into account in the kids’ arena include: Dr Who (BBC1 2017) and Pottermore (Wizarding World 2017), game and story franchises, or ABC3’s Nowhere Boys (ABC3 2017), which offer an immersive ‘lean forward’ experience where kids can play games and discover specific content about characters while engaging with main screen story. According to Anderson, transmedia (multi-platform) is a response to the introduction of interactivity within the story. From an audience perspective, he says, ‘viewers want to more than to just ‘view’. They want to engage, interact and participate…. digital technologies allow content creators to have a two-way dialogue with their audience’ (Anderson 2015). In contrast to ‘sit back media’, where the linear flow of what is being delivered cannot be controlled, lean forward media allows us to dictate the flow of 94 C. FARGHER the narrative, control the direction of the story and drill down or move in different directions through the content. In this case, the user experience becomes a key factor in keeping a player or consumer engaged (Fingleton et al. 2008). All our pre-production documents needed to reflect this interaction between platforms as the users engaged. One of our user profiles, of a young player aged 7, states:

Lucy is a seven-year-old girl who likes Angry Birds, Justin Bieber and the Lemony Snicket ‘Series of Unfortunate Events’ stories. She is drawn to The Dr Egg Adventures when she sees it as a recommended title on her iPad AppStore. She is an exploratory learner, likes to read and is good at maths. Lucy engages with the strong narrative and interesting characters of the narrative journey. She is also compelled by the interactive elements such as the Collection Mechanic; however, the most important aspect of the product to her is the story. She is excited by opportunities to write stories and songs based on the characters and worlds within The Dr Egg Adventures. (Fargher and Young 2013)

Key Term: User Testing in R&D User-experience testing is an integral aspect for the design of any interactive experience, and is seen as increasingly important, leading to the crucial engagement of audiences with narrative content. In the Game and User Research minor at University of Southern California (USC), game and interaction design are described as:

Deeply dependent upon human–computer interaction and the ability to use research methods to improve player experience. Game user research is a critical aspect of game design and development that involves management of playtests and usability tests of the software, technology and rules. (USC 2017)

To ensure that Dr Egg Digital was taking user experience into account during the Australia Council-funded development period from 2012 to 2015, we undertook three audience tests in New South Wales (NSW) and were invited to run a workshop series in the Northern Territory (NT).1 The first EPOC Audience Test was staged at Metro Screen in 2014, allowing us to compile a Google questionnaire and find out which characters and products would be the most popular. Electronic Arts Endowed Chair in Interactive Entertainment at USC, Professor Tracy Fullerton, notes in her contribution to Postsecondary Play (Corwin et al. 2014) the value of ‘user experience experiments finding novel ways to engage learners’. She states, ‘The goal of a game is not to provide players with the most efficient experience possible. Rather, to ... allow players ... to

1 Tests were conducted at the #DoDarlo festival, the NT Writers’ Festival and high schools and primary schools in Darwin, NT, and St Francis Xavier School, Arncliffe. THE DR EGG ADVENTURES: INCORPORATING USER-GENERATED… 95 play’ (Fullerton, in Corwin et al. 2014, p. 126). She concludes that user experience is crucial to engagement and immersion in gaming worlds. Thus, during the pre-production game development period, we held workshops and alpha tests of our game and created texts for fan fiction and for running workshops for young people on digital writing and gameplay, using innovative digital storytelling software Twine (Twinery 2017).2 Children were invited to play, comment, state preferences and make suggestions. Victor Syrmis, executive producer of Playing Forward’s VROOM story platform, also noted in a 2016 interview (Fargher 2016c), ‘Interactivity to kids today is their first choice. They want to go where they want to go. Being told what to do is not interactive.’ Further, Syrmis has created a platform with SEL (social emotional learning) built into character interactions and operations, based on user-testing results from academics in the field of education at the University of British Columbia and associated classroom tests. The feedback on users’ experiences got rolled back into many aspects of the story adaptations. Some producers would suggest that without this aspect the product could fail. For instance, Syrmis believes it is a mistake to underestimate the capability of the children to interact with video and interfaces: ‘3–6 yr olds are compa- rable to teenagers in other generations, or an electrical engineer previously. The stories they can deal with are very different. Children are underestimated and digital literacy is evolving at a rate; the environment is changing rapidly’ (Fargher 2016c). For example, the workshops and development Dr Egg Digital undertook with school children enabled us to identify the successful elements in our project, as well as incorporating kids’ own inventions and suggestions. When we undertook a second ‘alpha’ test of our first design in Science Week 2017, a team of 8–12-year-old ‘apprentice scientists and inventors’ from Queenwood School pulled on their lab coats and worked on games featuring the storyworld protagonists from the Dr Egg Adventures. They explored curriculum-based material from the biological sciences, chemical sciences and science enquiry strands of national science curriculum grades 3–8 and ‘imagi- neered’ curriculum-based scientific ‘puzzles’ (Fig. 1). As a result of these tests, we identified the preferred puzzle types, characters and locations in the storyworld. Awesome puzzle ideas based on the chemistry and biology curriculum such as a Maize Maze to identify living and non-living things (biology) and a steam generator powered by a kettle and a bicycle (chemistry) were developed by the kids and even incorporated into the storyworld. This reiterates applied computing theorist Christiane Moser suggestion in her article on Child-centered game development (CCGD), ‘[C]hildren’s enjoyment is one of the most important goals for games and multi-platform franchises, otherwise

2 I learnt of this interactive storytelling software, used for game design, during the Platform X workshop. 96 C. FARGHER

Fig. 1 Alpha Game Test and Science Puzzle Workshop with Dr Egg Digital and Queenwood School Catalyst Program students, at Macquarie University Incubator Hub, Science Week 2017

children will not play or visit them again and again’ (Moser 2013, pp. 1647–1661).

Fun, Gameplay and Story A chance discovery at the NT Writers Festival workshops led to Dr Egg Digital undertaking its first digital writing and game test workshops (Wordstorm, 2014).3 In these workshops, digital stories were created in a ‘choose your own adventure’ branching format, facilitated by the Twine software. At a later workshop at St Francis Xavier Primary School, Arncliffe, the interactive book text and character types were also explored with kids through a week-long immersion process, where they were shown trailers, character outlines from the product overview, the interactive EPOC and book segments. On the workshop day, children came dressed as the characters and excitedly divided into groups based on characters and activities, supporting our understanding of multiple modes of engagement with the storyworld via character and platform. We identified a potential education format where students might do their own coding; that is, create dialogue-based character interactions and stories based on characters. Consequently, the final beta of the Dr Egg

3 #DoDarlo and St Francis Xavier School. See note 2. THE DR EGG ADVENTURES: INCORPORATING USER-GENERATED… 97

Fig. 2 Fan-fiction stories on Twinery.org software from interactive writing workshop, NT Writers Festival 2014

Adventures Laboratory game (Adventure Lab 2018) has been designed with this ability (Fig. 2). But is it enough to test just with the prospective users of a product? Asian Animation Summit director Tim Brooke-Hunt notes, ‘Kids having a day out of school are going to have fun, whatever they are testing’ (Fargher, 2018). Alan Gershenfeld of E-Line Media, the producer of the BAFTA award-winning Never Alone game (E-Line Media 2016), a beautiful story about a young Inuit boy lost in a never-ending blizzard, suggests something similar. Gershenfeld tested his game at Barrow High School in Alaska and had a fun game play session with the kids, but he identified that it is still important to undertake ‘game play testing with gamers. Normal tests outside the community, i.e. People in the business.’ E-line Media discovered that some things had been missed out when they did these tests, which ‘deeply impacted the balance between fun, gameplay and story. We didn’t get it [testing] right on any of the main three levels. Fun, gameplay, story [narrative]. These are the three biggest buckets’ (Fargher 2016b). 98 C. FARGHER

Key Term Definition: Fan Fiction, User-Generated Content Fan fiction also became a part of the Dr Egg Adventures pre-production process when Dr Egg Digital undertook a workshop series in Darwin, during the ‘Wordstorm’ Writers Festival in the NT, May 2015.4 Fan fiction is defined as the fiction written by a fan about, and featuring characters from, a particular TV series, film and so on, in order to create their own story, or place it in another version of the work, called a crossover (The Urban Dictionary 2017). Kathryn Millard says, ‘rather than developing wholly new works, audiences take ownership over existing media, adapting stories and films they most identify with’ (Millard 2014, p. 83). During a ‘Digital Kids’ programme for high school and primary-age students, we discovered, quite by accident, that kids really enjoyed creating fan- fiction stories based on character profiles. Using Twine interactive storytelling software, a tool employed by game developers to create story maps that incorporates easy-to-use hyperlinks, the students created short comic stories and new characters (including criminal tadpoles!). All these were based on the product outline and trailer video, which featured character and world overviews. The upcoming publisher of the first Dr Egg Adventures novel,The Seedstorm Chronicles, is a Brisbane-based interactive producer, Tiny Owl Workshop, who also uses a range of fan-fiction strategies for their narrative publications and online story portals. They incorporate fan-fiction creation modes via different free online channels including Wattpad (Wattpad 2019), Instagram (Instagram 2019) and Facebook (Facebook 2019). This allows Tiny Owl a presence across multiple channels and platforms. Fan fiction and user-generated content has been utilised in two major projects—the Westbury Faery (WF) (Tiny Owl Workshop 2016) and Lane of Unusual Traders (LOUT) (Tiny Owl Workshop 2015)—each based on world building. Tiny Owl Workshop worked with Plot Media (AUST) (Plot Media 2017), Log Cabin Productions (Canada) (Log Cabin 2017) and Terry Whidborne (AUST) (Whidborne 2017) to developed Westbury Faery as a highly immersive convergent experience, engaging global audiences in the UK, Australia and Canada. As a result of Screen Canada and Screen Australia Interactive project funding, there was a presence across multiple channels and platforms (World Faery Society 2017). Producer and publisher Sue Wright noted, ‘Wattpad allowed people to see that writing was going on, so a community could see assets released as part of project.’ Altogether, the platforms received 2.5 million visits during the key period of engagement over the project’s life.

4 The NT Writers Festival Digital Kids programme was curated by Panos Kouros. THE DR EGG ADVENTURES: INCORPORATING USER-GENERATED… 99

Conclusion By examining the Playing Forward, E-Line Media, Tiny Owl and Dr Egg Adventures case studies, I have illustrated the key influences of user testing and user-generated content and fan fiction on the creation of interactive narratives, as well as convergent platform choices. As a result of our tests, the user testing and user-experience analytics have influenced the pre-production and development processes of the interviewees’ work and ours. In all these cases where apps and games have been tested with audiences, or incorporated user- generated content, we can draw conclusions about the influence these pre- production strategies have had, resulting in clear directions for final choices of form, narrative, user experience and platforms. Dr Egg Digital’s three tests with age-appropriate audiences revealed a range of important results. Children responded well to particular characters and also engaged strongly with the scientist characters in the laboratory. Preferences for certain sorts of games and puzzles were identified by the Dr Egg user tests, along with specific fan-fiction styles. Users identified specific game mechanics and chose favourite characters with whom to engage. As a result of later workshops, fan fiction was built into the online platform design. The Laboratory Game was identified as the preferred game iteration, leading us to design this point-and-click game first, rather than stories from the other landscapes in the storyworld. We have also incorporated user-generated dialogues and mono- logues for the scientists, Dr Egg and Dr Moon. We identified that users like to generate content themselves, engaging more fully via an immersive experience. Similarly, Playing Forward has chosen immersive experiences for their users, while Tiny Owl Workshop allows users to create their own content. As US interactive design academics Scaife and Rogers suggest in their chapter ‘Kids as Informants’ for Druin’s edited collection, The Design of Children’s Technology, ‘with their freshness, imagination and technology experience, children discover new creative forms of digital artefact usage that goes beyond the expectations of research or development team’ (Scaife and Rogers 1999, pp. 27–50). For most audiences this immersion is becoming an important aspect of all interactive productions, thus pre-production is increasingly taking it into account.

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Kim Toft Hansen and Anne Marit Waade

Introduction In this chapter, we exemplify location studies as a method by a location reading of the Danish television drama Arvingerne/The Legacy (DR 2014–17). In the wake of Nordic Noir, this family drama was distributed internationally, broadcast in the UK on Sky Arts and in the USA by MHz Worldview, and distributed for both streaming and wholesale with English subtitles. The Danish ‘traditional’ public service broadcaster DR shot the series partly on location and in studios, resulting in a remarkable negotiation of place symbolism and the establishment of the series’ genre codes. As we will demonstrate, location studies as a method, besides discussing spatial issues of screened drama, may also reveal the genre-specific functions of place. For many years, locations have been tacit part of screen production, but, imbedded within the so-called spatial turn of media studies (Jansson and Falkheimer 2006), locations have now become an important textual and practical matter for screen studies. In the cross-section between ‘textual’ studies and production studies of film and television, we findlocation studies as a method dealing with how places are screened and why screened narratives are set at specific locations. The relationship between narratives ‘taking’ place and a production ‘screening’ place involves implications on different levels of screen production, including place representation, geographical and media policy implications of production and the commodification of place in a transnational market culture.

K. T. Hansen (*) Aalborg University, Aalborg, Denmark e-mail: [email protected] A. M. Waade Aarhus University, Aarhus, Denmark

Place and Locations in Film and Television Location studies is an interdisciplinary endeavour that includes studies of geography, tourism, media policy, creative industries, film, television, urban/rural places, literary studies and arts in general (Hansen and Waade 2017). As stressed by Jansson and Falkheimer over a decade ago (2006), theories of media and place have begun to combine. This spatial turn has affected both the so-called non-media-centric media approach (Moores 2012) and theories of specific media, including film and television (Roberts 2012; Andersson and Webb 2016). Situated deeply within such research, location studies direct attention towards the planned use and cultural context of places in film and television production. In doing so, the method is truly indebted to pioneering work by, for example, Lefebvre on setting and landscape (2006), Cresswell on the ontology of place (2014) and Edensor on the geographic approach to places (2002) (see Hansen and Waade 2017). Location study in this context mainly deals with screen media: it does not include locative mobile media, which is another field of study with its own methodological approaches (cf. the work of de Souza e Silva and Sheller 2014). Related to questions imbedded in both production and media policy studies as well as textual analyses, location studies is a methodical approach to off- screen factors and on-screen features that in different ways influence the choice of location for a film or a television drama. These factors and features of screened place are substantially dynamic, and may greatly affect each other, but particular aspects of a production are often the most important, such as location scouting and production design. In essence, and in different ways, Lefebvre, Cresswell and Edensor all regard place as dynamically related to representations of specific locations. For us, this is not only a dynamic link between representation and place, since the interchanging negotiation of place also happens before, during and after production and distribution. Here, we present the opportunity to analyse the production of place at an early stage of a programme’s production, rather than location only being a textual/visual representation. As Chow shows in her analysis of the relationship between the Nordic Noir series Bron/The Bridge (2011–18) and Greater Copenhagen, this drama series can be contextualised by focusing on an ‘imagery of borderless- ness and integration’ and ‘transnational Danish–Swedish collaboration’ (Chow 2016, p. 37). Here, it is obvious that on-screen features such as urban space and policies of place, that is, strategies of place branding and city development—including transnational collaboration between the cities of Copenhagen and Malmö mirrored in the series’ narrative of police collaboration across the bridge—become the centre of attention. For The Bridge as well as Nordic Noir, scene-specific locations such as the police station, the home of the investigators and the crime scene become definite articulations of genre. We developed location studies as a method for an analysis of the spatial implications of Nordic Noir, motivated by the specific reference to place in the concept itself (Hansen and Waade 2017). Nevertheless, location theories and TAKING PLACE, SCREENING PLACE: STUDYING LOCATIONS IN TELEVISION… 105 location studies should be regarded as a general model for studying locations in feature film and television series. For genres, style and narrative may vary and work as a mere window from which to view places on screen, while the genre of a film or a series is also the effect of a specific use of place. We viewlocations as the specific place where a scene of a film or a series is shot, while thesetting is the overall diegetic space of the characters. Of course, here the relationship between real and fictive places may be negotiated, as it was in, for instance, during the first three seasons ofHomeland (2011–) that ‘take’ place in the Washington metropolitan area, while it was actually shot on various locations in North Carolina, mostly around the city of Charlotte. In other examples, it is necessary to regard the close connection between location and setting, just as in The Bridge. Altogether, location studies deals with precisely this establishment and negotiation of locative implications in screen production. Now, we identify the different facets within location studies (see Fig. 1) as well as the genre implications of such an approach before we show the method at work in a television drama.

Fig. 1 Model of the different layers of location studies. (Reworked from Hansen and Waade 2017, p. 62) 106 K. T. HANSEN AND A. M. WAADE

Factors and Features in Location Studies On-screen features (including scene-specific locations) are the salient ‘textual’ aspects of location studies, with special interest in how places appear on screen. Through the window of cinematography, editing, computer-generated imagery (CGI) and other stylistic aspects of screen production, we argue that five screen features are especially important with regard to the ways places may feature as representative localities in film and television drama: (1)shore, inland, island; (2) architecture, arts, design; (3) mobility, infrastructure; (4) climate, weather, season; and (5) the distinction between urban and rural. The intention is, however, not to provide a comprehensive list of features, but, through such categories, it is possible to cover most characteristics of location appear- ances on screen. Once again, Nordic Noir and The Bridge may prove an enlight- ening example. Since the early 1990’s, many Nordic crime dramas have taken place in urban shoreline areas during the rainy autumn/winter period, marked by different kinds of mobility through space (police cars, chase scenes, public transport, walking/running), while Nordic modern architecture and design appear remarkably present in the imagery. Altogether, locative elements situate the dramas within a Nordic cultural context. Such categories appear abstract and general, although sensitive descriptions of each may highlight the textual qualities of the spatiality of a screened drama, or what Lukinbeal refers to as ‘the aesthetics of a location’ (Lukinbeal 2012, p. 171). A location study of the US remake of The Bridge (2013–14) clearly maps out the locative differences between the two productions: placing the remake in El Paso on the border between the US state of Texas and Mexico means that the scene-specific aesthetics become marked by a warm, dry inland climate as well as a different (mostly American) mobility culture and local architectural styles, all of which clearly position the drama within a different setting with different aesthetic characteristics as a result. There are many factors influencing the location placement in dramas such as these. According to Meredith Stiehm, co-creator of the US version of The Bridge, the initial intention was to emulate the cold November atmosphere in the original Swedish–Danish version by setting the drama in Ontario, Canada, but her co-creator Elwood Reid convinced her to place the drama on ‘the bridge of the Americas’ connecting Mexico and the USA. For Stiehm, they ‘changed the beauty of the winter and the cold and the ice turned into the desert and the sun and the grit of Texas/Mexico’ because ‘there’s not a lot of cultural or political conflict going on between Canada and U.S.’ (Sepinwall 2013). The result is apparent in both the visual aesthetics and narrative devices in the series, with the remake being much more focused on conflicts between the USA and Mexico, an element that is not nearly as intense in the original version. In other words, the new aesthetics and narrative focus of the US remake of The Bridge stem from its relocation to the US/Mexico border. Off-screen factors influence the choice of location, and these elements build a methodical bridge from the textual aspects of location studies to production TAKING PLACE, SCREENING PLACE: STUDYING LOCATIONS IN TELEVISION… 107 studies as a method considering the creative and financial practices ‘behind the screen’ (Batty and Kerrigan 2018). For Roberts, a screened location connotes merely ‘a rationalized economic recourse’ rather than ‘a specificity of place’ (2012, p. 3), but as we have already indicated, the specific place may deeply influence the end result of a production. We claim that there are four broad off-screen factors that shape the choice of location before, during and after a production: (a) sites of production, (b) place as destination, (c) geographical place and (d) policies of place (see Fig. 2). In practice, all four factors are dynamically interlinked, but it is possible to focus on each one at a time by, for example, interviewing selected personnel from each section. Sites of production involves analyses of the significant places where production takes place, including the relationship between the location of production companies/broadcasters and the actual shooting location (the more distant a location is, the more expensive the production will be). The geographical place deals with the specificity of the real place, including local topography, and its aesthetic appeal and influence (there is a great difference between the cool blue shoreline in the original The Bridge and the warm yellow desert milieu in the US remake). The place as destination considers the way that places have become marketable, especially for screen tourism, and how this may reverberate during production, inspiring, for example, local co-funding interest from commissioners and municipalities. This relationship among screened places, market value and screen tourism indicate that what Sue Beeton (2005) once called ‘film-induced tourism’ may also be tourism-induced screen production; that is, screened places may not only

Fig. 2 Off-screen factors influencing the choice of location. (Hansen and Waade 2017, p. 57) 108 K. T. HANSEN AND A. M. WAADE affect tourism, but the marketability of a place may influence the screening of a place (Waade 2013; Roesch 2009). Policies of place as a factor deals with the reciprocal relationship among general local, national, regional or transnational place policies and locations in film and television production. Since the 1990s, there has been simultaneous increasing interest from both local and transnational players influencing production, for example, local film commissioners like Screen Flanders and Copenhagen Film Fund alongside transnational funding from Creative Europe in the European co-production The Team (2015–).

Locations and Genre Screened places appear differently in works of various genres. The aesthetics of locations in a film or a television series is a significant part of what Rick Altman refers to as genre semantics, defined as ‘common traits, attitudes, characters, shots, locations, sets, and the like’ (1984, pp. 10–11). Altman refers to John Cawelti’s classic reading of the Western as placed ‘on a near frontier’ in the North American West, ‘on the border between two lands’ (1984, pp. 10–11), as a clear way of defining the Western genre through its use of location placement. Alongside other common traits, other genres may also be defined based on location choices and the use of place. Often, a historical drama or even a biopic rests directly on the creation of an authentic sense of place, often shaped by a combination of on-location shooting, studio shooting and CGI. For instance, the exact same studio street in the German film studio in Babelsberg appears in both Roman Polanski’s The Pianist (2002) and Ole Christian Madsen’s Flame & Citron (2009), both set during the Second World War. However, the differences distinguishing the same studio street as either Warsaw or Copenhagen were created through both production design and visual effects that naturalise the area as a location in a specific, familiar city. Many productions combine studio production and on-location shooting for different reasons. For example, it is difficult to use actual cities in historical dramas, since the cities may have changed significantly. The Danish historical war drama 1864 (2014) included on-location imagery from the Danish island of Funen, a decision which may have been influenced by both the aesthetic beauty of the place and the co-financing by the local Film Commission Fyn, while the battle scenes were shot in a studio outside Prague where famous local Danish buildings were recreated for image authenticity and cost-efficiency. Besides being a historical war drama, 1864 is also a family drama about growing up in Denmark in the middle of nineteenth century. Many central scenes in the drama, then, take place at and around a family estate, filmed on location. The use of a family estate is, however, not the only prevalent setting for historical drama and family sagas; such genres regularly position narratives in rural areas, which may also be an easy way to avoid modern cityscapes. As we will see, a family estate plays a significant role inThe Legacy, and in a number of international examples of family dramas such a location is a customary narrative focal point, for instance the use of the farmstead Corte Le Piacentine in Bernardo Bertolucci’s 1900 (1976). In Denmark, the tradition is indebted to the popular TAKING PLACE, SCREENING PLACE: STUDYING LOCATIONS IN TELEVISION… 109 writer Morten Korch, whose many novels were adapted into films between 1950 and 1976, while his book Ved stillebækken/Quiet Waters (1930), which also revolves around a family country estate, was revived for television in 1999. As a drama with a number of obvious similarities to The Legacy, the Swedish family drama Tjockare än vatten/Thicker than Water (2014–) also takes place at a family guesthouse inherited by the three children of a sick mother who commits suicide; just like The Legacy this drama deals with literal heritage in a combination with social heritage. Even a famous historical family drama like Downton Abbey (2010–15) has a (royal) family estate as chief location. Taken together, these examples clearly indicate that when the genre changes, location semantics are concurrently altered. In this chapter, we argue that historical drama, crime fiction and family drama are clear indications of this theoretical conjecture, and further studies would demonstrate that other genres have different locative traits. The story in The Legacy is about an internationally renowned artist, Veronika Grønnegaard, the old manor Grønnegaard in southern Funen, and Veronika’s four grown-up children. In the first episode, Veronika dies and, as an immense surprise to the three oldest children, she has decided to leave the manor to her youngest daughter Signe, who was given up for adoption as a baby and therefore did not grow up with her siblings. According to DR, ‘The Legacy is a modern family portrait. A description of the ’68 generation and their children’ (DR/IMDb). The ‘legacy’ is thus not only the manor and the property, but also the ideology from their parents’ generation in which traditional family models and relationships were replaced with new and sometimes chaotic ways of living, parallel to political and artistic reorientation. The series draws upon the family drama genre, melodrama and what Andrew Higson terms heritage film (Higson 2003): all genres where location, in the form of the family home, plays a significant role.

On-Screen Location Features in The Legacy In the series, each character is linked to a significant location underlining their personal character and worldview. Veronika is the matriarch, a strong and acknowledged artist, playing around with her family and her home as if they were puzzle pieces in one big ongoing installation artwork (Fig. 3). The manor Grønnegaard is both her studio and her home, and there are no clear demarca- tions of the difference between her home and her workshop. Veronika’s artworks are huge installations made of wood, paper, plaster and metal, and we mainly see unfinished parts and sketches of her art pieces. In fact, Grønnegaard is a piece of art itself, a never-ending art project in which the rooms and walls are undergoing ongoing reconstruction. For instance, when the family cele- brate Christmas, the tree turned out to be too high, and the father just cuts a hole in the ceiling. This creative and dynamic process also includes all house visitors and family, social relations are turned upside down and the home is open, flexible and chaotic. In the final scene of the third and last season, the 110 K. T. HANSEN AND A. M. WAADE

Fig. 3 One of the stills used for conceptualising and marketing the series’ second season, showing the deconstructed interior of Grønnegaard as well as the deconstructed modern family living together. From the left, Emil with his father’s little daughter, the father’s girlfriend, the newly acquainted two sisters Gro and Signe, and their father Thomas and his lover. (DR Fiktion undated, p. 6. Permission given by the production designer Mia Stensgaard. Photograph: Camilla Hjelm) house is staged as a full-scale art installation with music and moving images projected on the façade, as if the artwork has been finalised at last. Veronika’s husband Thomas, a musician and a multimedia artist, lives in a hut in the backyard together with his instruments. He is a tragi-comic reminder of the freedom ideals of the late 1960s. Thomas rides his old bicycle in Indian costumes and smokes marihuana. He tries to live a simple and pure life, but instead he gets more and more lost. He has a child with his much younger and mentally vulnerable partner without being capable of taking care of the mother or the child, thus passing on the responsibility to his grown-up children. In contrast, Veronika’s oldest son Frederik has a standard family set-up—he is a lawyer living in a modern upper-class villa, and he is married with children— until his wife leaves him. Gro, the oldest daughter, is a curator at an art museum; she lives in a modern urban apartment and meets with her married lover once in a while. Emil, the youngest brother, does not really have a home, he is in between places, partners and countries, and he finds his home where there is room. He TAKING PLACE, SCREENING PLACE: STUDYING LOCATIONS IN TELEVISION… 111 lives occasionally at Grønnegaard and takes care of his father’s baby daughter. Signe decides to live at the manor as well, and to start farming. Signe is not cosmopolitan and urban as the other siblings; rather she grew up in a very traditional family home and spent all her time in the local sports hall where her parents, partner and friends all hang out. In the third and final season we meet new characters, among others the tough neighbour Karin, who is running a biological farm, and the rebellious daughter of Frederik, Hannah, who is operating as a Greenpeace activist and a political artist. Hannah has no definite place or home affiliated to her character except for the Greenpeace ship going to Greenland. Paradoxically, this place also causes her death. Even though each character is marked by specific spatial traits, the manor Grønnegaard is the place that links them all together and works as the main setting and narrative anchor of the series. The on-screen features linked to Grønnegaard are infused with contradictions and paradoxes that symbolise the family as being free-spirited, open-minded and innovative, and also troublesome, fateful and restrictive. Architecturally, the estate represents a typical Danish farmhouse. However lively and dynamic the place is, the main buildings are old and shabby. The distinction between life and art, between home and work, is eradicated, with the manor and its inhabitants as never-ending life-size installations, representing the dissolution of the family. As their individual lives, ambitions and values are challenged, it becomes increasingly difficult for them to collaborate. The shared home never unites them, rather it causes trouble, disagreement, conflict and bad memories. The political and artistic freedom ideals of 1968 form a critical and tragic viewpoint in the series and become a straitjacket for the characters. The ordinary Danish local sports hall where Signe and her friends and parents spend their time represents a slightly more optimistic and contemporary mirror of the solidarity ideals of Grønnegaard. Nevertheless, the political and cultural values in the sports community indicate a very traditional view of gender and family structure, and both locations illustrate close work/life relationships with social norms restricting the individuals. Accordingly, DR frames the series around ‘the sharp traces and consequences left by an intense time of upheaval upon modern family life—whether it takes place in a seemingly liberated and progressive artist’s home or in a more traditional community-oriented, provincial and handball-minded environment’ (DR/IMDb). Besides the manor, the main on-screen location features are the salient use of locative landscape aesthetics, including climate conditions and island topography. The narrative is shaped by a basic dramaturgic contradistinction of rural and urban lives, a local and global sense of place, indicating the past’s spatial influence on the present. All the characters, except Signe and Thomas, are constantly commuting between urban metropoles and their childhood rural fringe. Below the surface of the picturesque and peaceful farmland, the story reveals a landscape full of poisoned water, where the harvest fails and ruins Signe’s life, and the farmers obstruct each other’s work. Figuratively, Grønnegaard becomes a haunted place marked by the late mother’s voice, opinions, ideologies, will 112 K. T. HANSEN AND A. M. WAADE

(in a double sense) and her fatal decisions (Waade and Wille 2016). The haunted house symbolism is underlined by the half-finished interior, the scattered sheets, the difficult memories and unfinished artwork hidden in the basement, not least the spooky work that looks like a dead, oversized baby’s body. Furthermore, flowers work consistently as an ambiguous symbol implying life– death relations and the fleetingness of life: we see flowers in rooms, Signe works in a flower shop, and in the slow motion still-life title sequence we see a flower bouquet exploding into pieces.

Off-Screen Location Factors in The Legacy Turning to the off-screen production factors of The Legacy, it is striking how locations played a significant role from the early stages of development. As such, the production may be considered a site-specific television drama similar to what Kaye refers to as site-specific art and performance (Kaye 2000). In this context, ‘site-specific’ indicates that narratives or artworks are based on—and taking place at—a specific geographical place, reflecting and contributing to the understanding of the historical, social and physical conditions of that place. This notion of site specificity is embedded in the site of production as an influential off-screen factor. The Legacy mostly takes place on Funen (Grønnegaard), the exterior parts of the series were screened on Funen (Langkildegaard, among other places), and the ideas for the story and, not least, the visual concepts were developed based on this particular place. The scriptwriter Maya Ilsøe was invited by DR to develop the drama series in their writers’ room (Redvall 2013), and at a very early stage, Maya invited the production designer Mia Stensgaard to work with her and the producer Karoline Leth. ‘This was very unusual,’ Stensgaard explains, ‘they were surprised by how much production design can actually contribute to the development of the story itself’ (Stensgaard 2015). As part of their research, they visited different manors on Funen. ‘We were looking for an original, old house,’ Stensgaard says in our interview, ‘we wanted the forefathers to be present in the building.’ Visiting Langkildegaard, the actual exterior in the series, they fell deeply in love with the place. This specific place was instrumental in the development of both the narrative and the visual characteristics of the series, especially the colour scheme, the doors and the garden. This site-specific creative approach is displayed in the series’ concept book, embracing the interior manor as location, the colours inspired by the real peas- ant farmhouse, the local fauna and the landscape topography (DR Fiktion 2014). As such, the significance of the locations was clearly already articulated early in the production process. Among other things, they chose locations that offered certain dramaturgic, situational oppositions, such as messy places, common rooms and interiors used in unfamiliar ways, with threshold spaces like stairways and hallways the sites for crucial dialogues. Production designer Stensgaard also wanted to avoid popular Danish design in screening the interior: ‘This was a very important rule. This should not be like “oh, I want this TAKING PLACE, SCREENING PLACE: STUDYING LOCATIONS IN TELEVISION… 113 chair at home”, rather, we aimed for something messy, unsightly, and old, more like home—this rule sharpened our creativity, we could not just pick the usual chairs and lamps’ (Stensgaard 2015). Being a DR production also involved important production conditions that influenced choosing a site of production as well as the way locations were used and exhibited in the series. The opportunity (already mentioned) for the creative team to work together over long period of time to develop different ideas is an integral part of DR’s production model (Redvall 2013). Since DR facilitates larger in-house productions, it was possible to reconstruct, build and design major sets in the studio. Producing The Legacy, they decided to build the estate interior in the studio, while screening the basement, the exterior and the hut in the garden on location. This gave the producers the opportunity to create an expressive interior where all visions could be realised. The studio interior of the inherited Grønnegaard was built to look like a house re- and deconstructed as an open family wound and as messy social heritage (Fig. 4). Funen was chosen as the main overall setting of the drama partly due to the local investment and support offered by the film commissioner Film Funen, indicating ‘policies of place’ as a very likely off-screen factor. The choice of

Fig. 4 Production designer Mia Stensgaard’s set design showing the flowers and the deconstructed, dissolved interior as presented in the concept book. (DR Fiktion 2014, p. 25. Permission given by the production designer Mia Stensgaard. Photograph: Erik Molberg Hansen, DFF) 114 K. T. HANSEN AND A. M. WAADE location follows local and regional film strategic ambitions that include attracting film productions to Funen in order to generate growth in the creative industry and establish place branding as well as screen tourism (Film Funen 2018). Several Danish film and television drama series, including the above- mentioned 1864 and Susanne Bier’s Oscar-winning film Hævnen/In a Better World (2010), were screened on Funen, where the island’s soft landscape curves, pleasant climate conditions and picturesque scenarios are popular attractions, and Film Funen offers financial and practical support. This also relates to ‘place as destination’ as an off-screen factor, as Film Funen’s involvement in the production generated local and regional interest including, among other things, screen tourism. In general, Funen is an internationally well- known and popular destination, and Film Funen and Funen Film Commission have worked for decades to strengthen and develop screen tourism in relation to films and television series screened on the island. The emphasis on the authentic and rural Funen landscapes in the series reveals an image of Funen at play within film and tourism more in general. In The Legacy, the geographical place factor of the island topography as well as the flat, soft Funen farming landscape underlines the nostalgic, forgotten, disguised and rural place in opposition to hectic, modern urban life. Nevertheless, the unmaintained estate never produces an essentially positive or romantic landscape gaze. Mia Stensgaard explains that: ‘We found this old place, almost untouched by humans since Second World War. Perhaps even the 30s. It had a basement, it was spooky, pristine and raw. We decided to use the basement as location. It was a great gift for us. I think we saved 4 million [Danish kroner] by shooting on location’ (Stensgaard 2015). Overall, choosing on-location shooting involved acquiring a certain atmospheric and authentic location, but it also implied economic and practical motives.

Conclusion Even though location analysis may include in-depth data on productions, we have illustrated that locations and settings are not only mere backdrops for a narrative. Places matter as specific, often highly symbolic ways to indicate character-embedded conflicts or externally motivated debates about society. Besides shifting attention from a narrative and stylistic interest in film and television to an associated interest in locations, location studies as a method ties together the ‘textual’ aspects of film and television studies with the practical and empirical matters of production studies. Indicating the family estate as a generic focal point of family heritage drama, the location studies model and our representative analysis clearly stress that locations, besides having aesthetic qualities and fulfilling practical production matters, are also a very significant part of the genre of a film or a television drama. For the screen practitioner, then, locations have become much more than a matter of choice during production; instead, they are clearly marked by different practical, aesthetic, commercial and political interests that influence the TAKING PLACE, SCREENING PLACE: STUDYING LOCATIONS IN TELEVISION… 115 productions as a creative practice. Ideas and screen stories are, in this way, influenced by the financial composition of the productions as well as the practical assistance a production crew may get from local practitioners who aim to attract film or television productions to local areas but have their own interests and place branding strategies. Location studies sets out to uncover the complexities in the increasingly deep relationship between places and screen production.

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Jess Kilby and Marsha Berry

Introduction We commence this chapter with the premise that being and walking in landscapes has an interior as well as an exterior dynamic so that a “landscape is situated in the expression and poetics of spacing: apprehended as constituted in a flirtatious mode: contingent, sensual, anxious, awkward” (Crouch 2010, 7). It can be bewildering, perplexing and seductive. Furthermore, it is an experience that is mutable, complex and intangible, and it can inspire the making of creative responses (Heidegger 1996). Walking and wayfaring in landscapes has a networked dimension in the second decade of the twenty-first century because of smartphone assemblages. In this chapter, we discuss how our respective initial ideas and intents (or non-intents) developed into mobile media art experiments that engaged in a material way with the extreme accessibility of smartphone cameras. Both our art and filmmaking practices involve walking with smartphones. And the materiality and constant accessibility of smartphones has had a profound influence on how both of us conceptualise, re-conceptualise and develop mobile media art projects. We walk with screens and produce images—both moving and still. As we walk, we type on our smartphones as well as take photographs and video. We are wayfarers with smartphones in our hands. We are constantly connected to co-present others and the means of screen production are extremely accessible in the form of smartphone cameras and applications. For Berry, the digital co-presence of others is a crucial part of her practice,

J. Kilby • M. Berry (*) RMIT University, Melbourne, VIC, Australia e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s) 2019 117 C. Batty et al. (eds.), The Palgrave Handbook of Screen Production, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-21744-0_9 118 J. KILBY AND M. BERRY whereas Kilby has a subtler and more complex relationship with potentially co- present others. We have conducted various projects though our art practices and our concerns coalesce into two key questions: What new forms of screen production are emerging through digital wayfaring, and in what ways is creative practice research engaging with these practices? And, how might non-representational theory help us to understand the ideas, intentions, non-intentions and contexts behind a screen work? In this chapter, we seek to examine how smartphones can trigger new ways of working in screen production and mobile art. Our goal in writing this chapter is to provide some concrete examples of how we, as screen practitioner-researchers, think about our work in the conceptual development phase in both practical and philosophical ways. We show how our respective ideas and initial intentions shape how we conceptualise a screen work from the beginning and how these ideas are continually reconceptualised as our practice unfolds. Our focus is on how new and emergent mobile and multiplatform technologies expand the field for screen production. We reveal and unfold our theoretical and philosophical frames, propositions and suppositions in action. We follow Haseman’s (2006) definition of practice- based research as research that is “concerned with the improvement of practice, and new epistemologies of practice distilled from the insider’s understandings of action in context” (Haseman 2006, 100). We present our experiences of our respective conceptual development and making, as media artists who “seek to haul the implicit privacy of understanding out into the explicit publicity of verbal as well as audio-visual configurations of knowledge” (Gibson2018 , xii). We take our inspiration from Zen philosophy and our conceptual frames from non-representational theory (especially that presented by Tim Ingold) rather than from psychogeography (Debord). We don’t follow the lineage of the modernist notion of a flâneur (Benjamin). Instead we seek less travelled paths; we are digital wayfarers (Hjorth and Pink 2014), whose online and physical worlds are entangled. Through examples drawn from our respective mobile media art experiments in urban and coastal places, we put forward evidence showing how digital wayfaring moves filmmaking and mobile media art into new forms. We frame our methods, strategies and methodologies as systematic investi- gations that slide between practice and research and content and process as we meander betwixt the known and the unknown (Sullivan 2009) through our respective creative practices. The subsequent sections unfold evidence and examples drawn from our respective individual creative practices, showing how mobile media and the extreme accessibility of the means of production moves filmmaking and mobile media art into new forms. This chapter captures some of the more-than-representational, the more-than-textual multi-sensory aspects of our respective creative practice research with smartphone cameras to contribute to current and ongoing debates about how mobile media is transforming our social and creative practices. This chapter also constitutes a contribution to the field of screen production in that we explore what it means to be a screen WAYFARING, CO-PRESENCE AND MOBILITY: CONCEPTUALISING… 119 practitioner making mobile media art in an era where technology is constantly evolving and extending the boundaries of this field. Our conceptual development is lively, vital and emergent, bounded only by wayfaring and an ethos of animation (Vannini 2015a, b).

Ontological Frames: Non-Representational Theory In this section, we present an overview of non-representational theory as a way of situating what we do as artists. Non-representational theoretical concepts (Ingold 2010, 2015) provide a way for us to situate the dynamic and intricate relations between creative practices with smartphones and everyday life. In a nutshell, non-representational theory is concerned with the ever-changing liveliness, mutability and dynamism of the routine practices and activities of everyday life rather than the symbolic and representational dimensions that are often the focus of academic analysis. Non-representational theory explores associations, the unsaid, the taken for granted and the unremarkable, and, according to Vannini, it is interested in “corporeal rituals and entanglements in embodied action rather than talk or cognitive attitudes” (Vannini 2015b, 4). It provides a course of action to explore the dynamic, the fluid, the corporeal, the material, the ineffable and the ambiguous. It also provides a frame for developing an initial idea or intent into a proposition or research question. Conceptually and ontologically, our practices have strong resonances with Vannini’s notion of an ethos of animation. Berry (2017) observes that the “ethos of animation” as formulated by Vannini (2015a, 319) is well suited to inform creative practice research methodologies because “it embraces diverse ways of knowing as well as providing a way to account for the multi-sensory and affective dimensions” (11). Vannini identifies five qualities that characterise non-representational methodologies—vitality, performativity, corporeality, sensuality and mobility. Each of these qualities may be applied as frames for our practice-based research, which explores new and emergent forms of screen production. Our methods and methodologies using walking reflect an ethos of animation (Vannini 2015a, b) and were further informed by Lee and Ingold’s statement that “walking allows for an understanding of places being created by routes” (Lee and Ingold 2006, 68). We built the notion of understanding and evoking places by walking along routes we created while imagining ourselves as digital wayfarers following Hjorth and Pink (2014):

[T]he digital wayfarer as we conceptualize her or him does not simply weave her or his way around the material physical world. Rather, their trajectory entangles online and offline as they move through the weather and the air, with the ground underfoot and surrounded by people and things, while also traversing digital maps, social networking sites, and other online elements. (Hjorth and Pink 2014, 45–46) 120 J. KILBY AND M. BERRY

Our walks with smartphones are vital, sensual and corporeal. Our practice is emergent, messy; while our trajectories leave tangled traces. In ‘Footprints through the Weather-World: Walking, Breathing, Knowing’ (2010), Ingold explored the relations between walking, the weather and knowing or being knowledgeable. He argued that:

Breathing with every step they take, wayfarers walk at once in the air and on the ground. This walking is itself a process of thinking and knowing. Thus knowledge is formed along paths of movement in the weather-world. (Ingold 2010, S121)

Ingold’s (2010) statement that wayfarers walk in the air as well as on the ground reminds us that the air is not only subject to the forces of the weather, but also is a space of telecommunications signals. Or to put it another way, the air is host to Hertzian space (Dunne 2001). A digital wayfarer with a smartphone walks not only in what Ingold conceptualises as the weather-world but also traverses Hertzian space. Even more simply, this means one can go for a walk, take videos and photos, and share these with digitally co-present others as an integral part of one’s process of conceptualising and reconceptualising a screen work. In the section “Moments of Digital Wayfaring”, we present an unconventional braided account of our respective practices using vignettes describing our practice and process interwoven with scholarly literature to situate our practice within broader theoretical and cultural frames. For this reason, we use the singular first person to provide an insider’s perspective of how the “I” used smartphones to create mobile art.

Moments of Digital Wayfaring The notion of wayfaring, or travelling by foot, has always evoked a corollary of wayfinding—of navigating the traversal of a space. Not necessarilytowards a finite destination—indeed, wayfaring implies a delicious lack of such rational design—but rather through a territory that has both external and internal dimensions. This wayfinding applies equally to familiar, unfamiliar and once- familiar terrain, each kind of journey tending to tap into different frequencies of place. Berry’s Wayfarer’s Trail is a video poem that performs a response to a question posed in the 2016 Sightlines call for papers and films: “What new forms of screen production are emerging and in what ways is creative practice research engaging with them?” In her research statement, Berry (2017) wrote:

Through my creative practice I unfold evidence showing how mobile media and the extreme accessibility of the means of production moves filmmaking into new forms. Wayfarer’s Trail is significant because it is example of a moving image work that places a theory of movement and a non-representational way of working at the centre of our conceptualisations of media production. This expands the field WAYFARING, CO-PRESENCE AND MOBILITY: CONCEPTUALISING… 121

of screen production and mobile media through creative practice research that experiments with new and emergent forms of filmmaking. (Berry 2017)

We explore two quite different types of places through our practice-based mobile art research—urban laneways and coastal paths. We were both also interested in exploring connections and flows between poetic expressions, places and landscapes as a creative concept underpinning our practices of walking in urban environments and coastal trails with smartphones. Digital wayfaring by its very nature displays the five qualities Vannini attributes to an ethos of animation in that the study of paths embraces the vital, the performative (in the sense of creating a flow and a potential narrative), the corporeal, the sensual and mobility. In short, wayfaring offers a conceptual frame for the dynamic and ever-changing experiences of walking urban laneways and coastal paths. In the spirit of both wayfaring and wayfinding, we offer a series of accounts or vignettes drawn from our respective practices with our smartphones. These vignettes also traverse a space: the space of a digital wayfaring art practice finding its way into being. We present these vignettes by drawing on an ethos of animation (Vannini 2015a, b) to embrace the messiness of wayfinding. It should be noted that each of us wrote, photographed and made videos extensively. Kilby traversed urban laneways and Berry walked along coastal paths. The following extracts from ’s research journal illustrate how her initial ideas and intents and non-intents were developed into a conceptual treatment and series of experiments that later became the genesis for her Parallaxis project.

1: Kilby I have always been a wanderer of neighbourhoods. When I was 13 years old, this wandering led me to discover a place called Hidden City, secreted away in the forests of my hometown. It was a discovery that forever changed my perception of the everyday. Riding my bike toward the outskirts of town one summer afternoon, I noticed a dirt track leading off from the main road into the dense woods beyond. So I did what any 13-year-old with a brand new mountain bike would do: I steered into the woods. As I pedalled deeper into the forest, there came the glint of something strange. A chrome bumper. Then, a bedroom window. Cars. Houses. Laughter, somewhere. The wafting scent of barbeque. I knew these woods. And yet here was a mysterious enclave that I had somehow missed, less than a mile from my own house. An entire neighbourhood, 50 acres large—accessible by nothing more than a dirt track. I felt like I had stumbled into another world. Objectively, Hidden City was just some houses in the woods. Subjectively it was much more. It became a fable in my personal mythology; an emblem of the wonder that was enfolded in the ordinary. 122 J. KILBY AND M. BERRY

2: Kilby Adulthood took me to new neighbourhoods, where I would write new fables. Love, loss, longing, uncertainty—a life no more or less extraordinary than the next. And for a long time I forgot about those houses in the woods. But eventually I found myself grappling with a story that seemed impossible to write. It was too big, too painful, too much of a conclusion despite the new beginning that it implied. In search of something that I couldn’t name, I found my way back out into the neighbourhood. For hours and hours, I would walk. As I settled into the solace of this routine, strange things began to catch my eye. Messages, they almost seemed. Because I had my phone with me, I started photographing them. And while my painful story still needed to be written, these walks enlarged from solace into something larger and more luminous.

3: Kilby A decade later, a PhD. My proposal: to make a game about discovering secret cities hiding in plain sight. I started with my sketchbook; with plans, ideas. I struggled to bring these ideas to life. Each design seemed too detailed and yet too hollow to create the kind of experience that I was after: an encounter with the wonder of the everyday. After several false starts, I surrendered for a while. Summer had quietly become autumn; I was ending a relationship. I’d signed a six-month lease on a doomed old house in an unfamiliar suburb, and I had done all of the unpacking that I planned to do. I started walking, and I took my phone with me. My new suburb squatted indifferently on the border between urban and suburban Melbourne, dropping off at one edge into a deep valley. The place was a void; a blank spot in my mind. My house sat at the bottom of the valley and the nothingness seemed to gather there. The only time I felt the world come back to me was when I escaped onto the endless concrete ribbon of the Capital City Trail, following the winding path up over the freeway and down under it again, along the squalid creek that had been concreted in so heavily that I first mistook it for a drain. I was haunting the ragged edge of the city, and although I didn’t fully realise it, I was lonely. The images I brought back from those walks were postcards, messages from absent others. I made my own memories out of what they left behind: graffiti, a loaf of bread, a tattered armchair with a view. One day I came across two shopping trolleys tipped sideways in the middle of the creek. They looked almost sculptural, and at the same time morosely out of place. I photographed them. Over the next few months, I began to encounter more abandoned trolleys in strange places. They were in pairs, gangs, never alone. I photographed them too. The day before I moved out, coming down a long, steep set of stairs in a park just by my house, I met a lone trolley leaning crook- edly against the rail. A front wheel dangled freely. WAYFARING, CO-PRESENCE AND MOBILITY: CONCEPTUALISING… 123

“Go home trolley, you’re drunk,” I muttered fondly, and took one last photo before I left.

4: Kilby When my lease was up, I moved out of death valley and into a new neighbourhood, where I finally tried to bring my game into the world. It was only a fragment of a game; I didn’t know where it might lead—if anywhere at all—but this seemed to be the only way to start. The first evening of the game, I went out wandering my neighbourhood, looking for semi-secret spots to leave small tokens that were meant to be an invitation into the game. I drifted with slack purpose, looking for the right kind of spots to leave the tokens. Up on High Street this had begun to reveal things that were visibly invisible: grates, drainpipes, strange crumbling holes in walls. I had brought my phone with me to document the leaving of the badges, but I found myself drawn to make a record of these revelations too. And as if uttering an incantation, this attentiveness to detail seemed to slowly open up another world. Turn by turn I wound my way ever deeper into hidden, branching laneways that I had never come across before. My boots crunched on dead leaves and broken glass; I felt like I was the only one in this world. Twilight stole in, violet and electric, and as it deepened the synchronicities began to crackle. There were messages in everything: printed signs, graffiti, even the arrangement of litter in the gutters. With my phone, I photographed it all. When I revisited the images from this evening, it would not be the record of the tokens that would prove important to my understanding of the game. Rather it was this luminous, evocative collage that I had created, in collaboration with an ephemeral and magical place. The idea of making a game about a secret city hiding in plain sight initially suggested that there were rules to be discovered about the placement of objects. Random encounters in public spaces underpin the concept of psychogeography as theorised by Ivan Chtcheglov (1953). Psychogeography is a way of knowing the urbanscape through experience, for instance, walking. Whilst walking, a person may have a chance encounter with something surprising. Such encounters are a common trope in many recent locative media works. McCullough (2006) argues that the application of locative media can contribute to enhance the richness of the city and identifies “urban markup” as something that can “attach as new layers to the forms and flows of the city”. Urban mark-up is also a theme taken up by Farman, who notes that it “can be done through durable inscription (like words carved into a durable façade of a building or statue) or through ephemeral inscriptions (ranging from banners and billboards to graffiti and stickers)” (Farman 2014, 4). 124 J. KILBY AND M. BERRY

In previous work, Berry (2008) observed that locative media art has some resonances with the Situationist movement of the 1960s where artists intervened in the urban landscape to provide alternate visions and readings of urban spaces. Where the Situationists used physical space, locative media artists use telecommunications networks as well to create contemporary commentaries of urban spaces. The spirit of the Situationist movement has been reincarnated in some locative media art. For example, in 2006, in a project called Trace, Alison Sant drew a relationship between portable electronics wireless networks and urban complexity through a series of maps aiming to capture ephemeral and temporal dimensions of experiencing the urban environment. Yet while both of our projects were materially locative, they were not providing urban mark-ups nor were they interventions bound by rules aimed at suggesting new or alternate readings of places. The following vignette describing Berry’s practice illustrates how she begins to put Pink’s and Hjorth’s notion of digital wayfaring into practice. Her process is grounded in corporeality and is a wayfinding through a familiar place to notice new nuances within its mutability.

1: Berry The coastal path winds through banksia shrubs and other indigenous Sandringham flora. The sky is a bright Melbourne blue. The shadows are sharp. Plenty of contrast. The sea is choppy with white horses. The white noise of waves soothing and restless at the same time. Iridescent lichen on a gnarly branch catches my eye. I think of a fingerpost marking the distance between two points on a path. I breathe lightly. Return to the moment. Right now. Shadows play with light on the sandy path. I step as lightly as I can—can I be completely silent? I walk now with my smartphone video on—a long take, at least three minutes. It should yield something I can use later. A distraction from filming the take appears in the form of the shadows overhead. I stop filming feeling a chill. The shadows were cast by pelicans flying in formation. They fly quite close. I film them instead and post the clip to Instagram and Facebook with a quip about pterodactyls. I abandon silence and enjoy the sound of the sand softly crunching. Time for another long take of the path ahead. There are no rules of hidden tropes in Berry’s practice. Rather, it is an application of an ethos of animation that seeks to notice the corporeality of walking with a smartphone camera and what Ingold (2010) calls the weather-world. Kilby (2017) distinguished her practice as being quite different from the psychogeography of the Situationists, as put forward by its most prominent theorist Guy Debord, with his notion of the dérive or drift.

In his attempt to convey the essence of the “charmingly vague” concept of psychogeography, Debord communicates something of what I ... have found to be true in my own wanderings: “The sudden change of ambiance in a street within WAYFARING, CO-PRESENCE AND MOBILITY: CONCEPTUALISING… 125

the space of a few meters; the evident division of a city into zones of distinct psychic atmospheres; the path of least resistance that is automatically followed in aimless strolls (and which has no relation to the physical contour of the terrain); the appealing or repelling character of certain places”—yes, I recognised all of this. But then: “Psychogeography sets for itself the study of the precise laws and specific effects of the geographical environment, whether consciously organized or not, on the emotions and behaviour of individuals.” Precise laws? Specific effects? This airless rigor is followed by Debord’s assertion that the dérive encompasses not only its implied fluidity of approach but also “its necessary contradiction: the domination of psychogeographical variations by the knowledge and calculation of their possibilities”. What Debord seems to be proposing is a sort of gamified pseudoscience that would dam up the city’s psychic river the better to study its currents. Never has a methodology seemed less suited to the task—and it certainly wasn’t the way into my subtle city. (Kilby 2017, 45)

We diverge from the typical practices of psychogeography and the Situationists in that we do not set ourselves the kinds of rules and constraints that are hallmarks of this genre of locative media art. We do not construct situations. Our only rule or constraint is that we have no rules and constraints—we have no intentions save for an absence of pre-set intentions, expectations or agendas. To explore this divergence further, we present another vignette derived from Kilby’s process.

5: Kilby For the next evolution of the game, I ... established a few guidelines before I left the house. I would distribute 22 badges, 11 on each side of the main street, between two points that seemed to mark the psychic, commercial and social boundaries of the area. I had also created some stickers to match the badges, and planned to put them up using the same rules ... Compared to the magic of the first drop session, this second outing was a failure. The quotas and boundaries were oppressive, dictating placement rather than letting the streetscape make suggestions. The tags were clunky and prevented me from slipping badges into sly and secret spots; they also precluded places that might be exposed to rain. And the stickers competed with the badges for my attention, as they required me to focus on different aspects of the street. There was no flow, no fun, no frisson of deeper meaning ... But of course the evening wasn’t really a failure, in the larger scheme of things. Such is the appealing nature of experiments. I learned that my evolving rules were not about setting deliberate constraints to work within. Rather, they were tools for understanding the relationships at play within systems I created or encountered; an ad-hoc game of tuning in to forces that I would not otherwise perceive. This game was between the streets and me—and the camera seemed to be my constant intermediary. 126 J. KILBY AND M. BERRY

Kilby deliberately resisted her desire to impose rules and constraints. Her interventions have strong resonances with the French artist Le Goff, as described by cultural geographer Jill Fenton:

Invariably, Le Goff’s interventions encompass the discovery and leaving of objects as signs in their own right, and these become traces of what has taken place. Frequently, because they are subjected to the elements or are taken as found objects by passers-by or collectors, such objects have a transient life. (Fenton 2005, 423)

Such traces are also present in Berry’s practice. However, in Berry’s case digital co-presence grounds her mobile art, as evident in the account in section “2: Berry”, which provides an analytical yet intuitive description of her process and shows that digital co-presence was vital to the conceptual development, treatment and making of her poetic smartphone film,Wayfarer’s Trail.

2: Berry So many footprints on the path—human and animal—piping seagulls, a coun- terpoint to the restless sea. A perfect moment—I post photos of various details of sandy path on Instagram and Facebook with short evocative captions. A left-behind skirt flaps helplessly on the fence bordering the path. I could imagine a backstory. I sidestepped the temptation and take a short video of it instead. I post it to Instagram and Facebook—then wait for the responses. I continued to shoot video with my smartphone while walking—posting the snippets to Instagram and Facebook—I worked intuitively, intentionally without any specific intention other than to simply notice as much as possible whilst walking along a coastal trail. When my thoughts drifted I grounded myself into the present by listening to the sound of my footsteps—thunk, thunk, thunk on the downbeat. I check Facebook. The comments on my posts showed me that people are with me; we are walking together, experiencing the coastal path. I notice that my interlocutors are pulling my images into a virtual trail of their own, but theirs is a narrative, a guided tour rather than a sequence of moments in the lifeworld of a coastal path. The seed for a film is sown. The philosophical frames for the conceptual development of the film and methodology are taken from non-representational theory, specifically from Vannini’s (2015a, b) ethos of animation where there is a relational materiality at play and where being present is vital. This further vignette illuminates “what it means to think, make and write about the process of connecting thinking and making” (Batty and Kerrigan 2018, 10) in the context of screen production as creative practice research. WAYFARING, CO-PRESENCE AND MOBILITY: CONCEPTUALISING… 127

3: Berry I resist the desire to pull a temporal sequence into a narrative. I breathe. I question my attachment to a narrative intention. It’s what my digitally co-present interlocutors expect. They are wayfaring with me. I breathe. The sea birds are hunting. I look up at the cloud formations—it’s a mackerel sky. The scent of seaweed is strong by the rock pools, it’s a good place for fishing. I pick up a stick—wet lines in the sand—the sound of seagulls piping are counterpoints against the breathing sea. I think about forms—visual poetry made up of a montage of double expo- sures—a soundtrack composed of whispering waves and Abi’s voice reading my chained informal haiku—Abi’s one of my co-present interlocutors—she’s from southern England and has a beautiful voice—we met on Twitter several years ago through our shared love of writing short form poetry and she’s recorded my poetry for me before. I message her and she agrees, loving my idea for a short poetic film that seeks to evoke an ethos of animation. When I return home, I compose poetry with a haiku aesthetic for the soundtrack and send it to Abi. I also post it on my poetry blog with some still images I had posted earlier to social media. The film is emerging and is now in the production cycle.

Conclusion In this chapter, we have presented a process of conceptualising and making screen works that step away from familiar paths of conceptual development and pre-production. Non-representational theory helps us to discuss the messiness of the materiality of making—the walking and thinking, the reflecting, the journal writing and the evoking; and most importantly, the liveliness of wayfaring with a smartphone. Our ability to document our movements through everyday life has shifted how we think about film and photography. Mobile media has disrupted traditional media distribution power relationships to open up new expressive potentials as we collectively grapple with the everyday realities of networked co-presence, virtual proximity and what these can mean for our everyday social activities and rituals. Through our practice-based research motivated by our research question about screen production we have found that we have all become digital wayfarers in our own way—the phone camera serving as com- pass as we navigate and create the landscapes of our daily lives—and that this has opened new terrains for mobile art as well as new forms of screen production.

References 1960 Situationists International Manifesto. Retrieved at https://hts3.files.wordpress. com/2010/12/situationist-international-manifesto.pdf and also http://www.cddc. vt.edu/sionline/si/manifesto.html 128 J. KILBY AND M. BERRY

Batty, C., & Kerrigan, S. (2018). Introduction. In C. Batty & S. Kerrigan (Eds.), Screen Production Research: Creative Practice as a Mode of Enquiry (pp. 1–11). London: Palgrave Macmillan. Berry, M. (2008). Locative Media: Geoplaced Tactics of Resistance. International Journal of Performance Arts and Digital Media, 4(2 & 3), 101–116. Berry, M. (2017). Wayfarer’s Trail. Research Statement, Sightlines Journal Issue 2. http://www.aspera.org.au/research/wayfarers-trail/. Accessed 9 Sept 2018. Chtcheglov, I. (1953). Formulary for a New Urbanism. Summary/Notes. http:// witold.postagon.com/91myy64da. Accessed 17 June 2017. Crouch, D. (2010). Flirting with Space: Thinking Landscape Relationally. Cultural Geographies, 17(1), 5–18. Dunne, A. (2001, March). Hertzian Tales: Electronic Products, Aesthetic Experience, and Critical Design. Boston: MIT Press. Farman, J. (2014). The Mobile Story: Narrative Practices with Locative Technologies. London: Routledge. Fenton, J. (2005). Space, Chance, Time: Walking Backwards Through the Hours on the Left and Right Banks of Paris. Cultural Geographies, 12(4), 412–428. Gibson, R. (2018). Foreword: Cognitive Two-Steps. In C. Batty & S. Kerrigan (Eds.), Screen Production Research: Creative Practice as a Mode of Enquiry (pp. 1–10). Cham: Springer International Publishing. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3- 319-62837-0_1. Haseman, B. (2006, February). A Manifesto for Performative Research. Media International Australia Incorporating Culture and Policy: Quarterly Journal of Media Research and Resources, 118, 98–106. Heidegger, M. (1996). Being and Time. Albany: State University of New York Press. Hjorth, L., & Pink, S. (2014). New Visualities and the Digital Wayfarer: Reconceptualizing Camera Phone Photography and Locative Media. Mobile Media & Communication, 2(1), 40–57. Ingold, T. (2010). Footprints Through the Weather-World: Walking, Breathing, Knowing. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 16, S121–S139. Ingold, T. (2015). Foreword. In P. Vannini (Ed.), Non-Representational Methodologies: Re-Envisioning Research (pp. vii–viii). New York/London: Routledge. Kilby, J. (2017). The Parallaxis: A Game of Walking Between Worlds. PhD Thesis, RMIT University, Melbourne. https://researchbank.rmit.edu.au/view/rmit:162041 Kilby, J., & Berry, M. (2018). Wayfaring, Creating and Performing with Smartphones. In M. Berry & M. Schleser (Eds.), Mobile Story Making in an Age of Smartphones (pp. 52–61). London: Palgrave Pilot. Lee, J., & Ingold, T. (2006). Fieldwork on Foot: Perceiving, Routing, Socializing. In S. Coleman & P. Collins (Eds.), Locating the Field. Space, Place and Context in Anthropology. Oxford: Berg. McCullough. (2006). On Urban Markup: Frames of Reference in Location Models for Participatory Urbanism. Leonardo Online. http://leoalmanac.org/journal/vol_14/ lea_v14_n03-04/mmccullough.asp. Accessed 16 June 2017. Sullivan, G. (2009). Art Practice as Research: Inquiry in Visual Arts (2nd ed.). Thousand Oaks: SAGE. Vannini, P. (2015a). Non-Representational Ethnography: New Ways of Animating Lifeworlds. Cultural Geographies, 22(2), 317–327. Vannini, P. (2015b). Introduction. In P. Vannini (Ed.), Non-Representational Methodologies: Re-Envisioning Research (pp. 1–19). New York: Routledge. PART II

Developing the Screen Work: Collaboration, Imagination, Distillation

This part uses the lens of development to probe the screen work, highlighting the importance of spending time ‘in development’ so as to get the most out of a story idea. Through a series of case studies that examine aspects such as story research, script development and practices of collaboration with producers, editors, actors and other participants, the authors offer insights into what contemporary development looks like, how it can be experienced and the benefits of spending time on it. The development of a screen idea is an emerging area of study that has only recently received sustained attention in academic publications such as the Journal of Screenwriting. While traditional notions of development have most often referred to the redrafting of the screenplay, contemporary practices evidence an array of creative and collaborative techniques that practitioners utilise to give form to a screen idea. Kath Dooley begins with a reflection on the use of digital script development tools to write an ‘embodied’ feature film screenplay. This is followed by three other feature film development case studies: Margot Nash’s chapter interrogates the discovery-driven creative development of her essay filmThe Silences; Margaret McVeigh explores the reconciling of creativity and craft for the individual first-time screenwriter; and then Gillian Leahy considers the impact of market forces on authorial voice, arguing that industry pressures were ultimately of value in shaping her documentary project, Baxter and Me. The chapter following this, by Steiner Ellingsen and Stayci Taylor, investigates the development phase of the comedy web series, while the final chapter, by Martin Potter, presents a critical account of the large creative documentary project that he facilitates, Big Stories, Small Towns. In brief, the authors in this part present screen forms that encompass drama, documentary, web series and the personal essay film, to interrogate traditional and mainstream approaches to development as well as more experimental alternatives. This unpacking of the development of a variety of screen works reveals an array of ‘industry’ approaches. Featuring a mix of first-person practitioner 130 Developing the Screen Work: Collaboration, Imagination, Distillation accounts and broader analyses of the infrastructures that frame contemporary development practices, this part engages with existing and new theories of creativity and craft. In doing so, the chapters highlight the range of tools available to the screen practitioner, considering new technologies and the role of participants and audiences in the development process. Writing Bodies: Developing and Scripting an Embodied Feature Film Screenplay

Kath Dooley

Introduction Several feature films that I have viewed in the cinema or at home over the years have had a profound effect on me on a corporeal level. In the cases of films such as The Piano (dir. Jane Campion 1993), Snowtown (dir. Justin Kurzel 2011) and Under the Skin (dir. Jonathan Glazer 2013), I have found myself involun- tarily recoiling, jerking or tensing up in my seat while watching scenes of horror, action or drama. Other films, such asIrréversible (dir. Gaspar Noé 2002), have left me feeling dirty, as if the surface of my skin has been physically soiled by the film narrative. These films leave me feeling physically touched, as though my nerve endings have been manipulated by the visual images on screen. These examples feature cinematic narratives concerned with bodily experience: bodies wounded, assaulted, exposed and or caressed; bodies in transition from child to adult or from victim to attacker; bodies entering or exiting physical relationships. As a practitioner-academic, I have investigated what it is about this these films that interests and affects me. This research has led me to the work of Laura Marks (2000), Steven Shaviro (2008) and Vivian Sobchack (2004), all of whom have considered cinema’s ability to affect the viewer on a corporeal, as well as a cognitive, level. These scholars have explored the visceral nature of the visual image and they have interrogated the embodied response of the spectator. This chapter reports upon a creative research project undertaken to investigate the concept of visceral and embodied cinema as it is presented in the feature film script. Simply put, I have explored whether the seeds of an affective

K. Dooley (*) Curtin University, Bentley, WA, Australia e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s) 2019 131 C. Batty et al. (eds.), The Palgrave Handbook of Screen Production, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-21744-0_10 132 K. DOOLEY cinema experience can be sown in the fictional film screenplay. As both a screenwriting practitioner and researcher, I have sought to create a script that, firstly, takes bodily experience as its main driver of narrative, and, secondly, conjures a visceral response for the reader. I present insights from this creative research project with reference to the initial developmental stages of my unproduced feature film screenplay, tentatively titledFireflies , as case study. Fireflies presents the fictional story of two teenage girls who use a social media application to meet with unknown male dating partners. In writing the script, I hoped to produce a narrative that takes the bodily experience of the two female lead characters as its focus. Moreover, in writing Fireflies I sought to explore the way in which screenplay language may give rise to an affective experience. My creative research in this area is concerned with the way that description of action and dialogue may be used to explore and express corporeal themes, and consequently to evoke an embodied response in the reader. Moving beyond the experience of reading the script, I hope that this affective experience might translate onto the screen in the event that the film was produced. The early development of Fireflies (2015–2017) involved actor/director workshops and the production of short audio-visual works as a means to generate ideas and to explore character and theme. Using reflective practice, I will, in this chapter, discuss my attempts to translate the material generated through these experiences into words on a page so as to produce a first-draft script. In doing so, I focus on an expression of bodily experience through the inclusion of affective elements related to colour, light, sound, movement and texture.

The Visceral Cinematic Image and Embodied Experience Since the publication of Laura Mulvey’s seminal work on audience placement and the gaze, ‘Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema’ (1975), much work has been undertaken to interrogate traditional notions of visual pleasure and to offer alternative theories of spectatorship. By exploring the relationship between film subject and viewing subject from the vantage point of the visceral and tactile, the scholars cited in section “Introduction” move beyond psychoanalytic theories of identification, such as the male gaze, as explored by Mulvey. Shaviro suggests that a cognitive viewer response to film imagery should be considered as secondary to a bodily response, writing that ‘the cognitive – far from being opposed to the visceral or bodily – grows out of the visceral, and is an elaboration of it’ (2008, p. 53). This theory suggests that a bodily response to certain film material is automatic and involuntary, and that this response occurs before the spectator has time to cognitively process the images on screen. On a related note, Laura Marks suggests that the spectator’s memory and knowledge is implicated in an embodied response to film imagery. In this sense, an image is ‘isolated from its context by one’s (interested) perception, which is informed by memory and actualized in the body’ (2000, p. 146). Marks uses the term ‘haptic visuality’ to describe a cinema experience where WRITING BODIES: DEVELOPING AND SCRIPTING AN EMBODIED FEATURE FILM… 133

‘the eyes themselves function like organs of touch’ (2000, p. 162). This phenomenon draws upon the body’s ‘tactile, kinaesthetic, and proprioceptive functions, the way we experience touch both on the surface of and inside our bodies’ (2000, p. 162). In other words, the spectators unconsciously make a connection between the material presented on screen and their own body, based upon individual knowledge, memory and experience. The effect of haptic visuality is created through certain aesthetic and narrative choices. Marks suggests that a focus on the tactile surface of objects, viewed in close up, is one that is brings about a haptic relationship between viewer and image (2000). She writes that ‘haptic looking tends to move over the surface of its object rather than to plunge into illusionistic depth, not to distinguish form so much as to discern texture ... while optical perception privileges the representational power of the image, haptic perception privileges the material presence of the image’ (2000, pp. 162–163). For filmmaker Aparna Sharma, ‘this emphasis on material qualities is geared to provoke a sense of nearness and presence for viewers in relation to what they see or hear’ (2018, p. 171). Sharma describes her use of haptic aesthetics to ‘contest the distanciation and objectification of the subject’ in her documentary work in north-east India (Sharma 2018, p. 171). One can find parallels in Marks’ writings on haptic visuality with Sobchack’s theory of embodied viewing (2004). Using a phenomenological approach, Sobchack describes the film viewing experience as a form of ‘self-touching’ in which the audience’s own bodily desire to touch and feel moves towards the screen and rebounds back upon itself, made sensitive to the tactile images presented’ (2004, p. 73). Similar to Marks’ assertion that the spectator’s knowledge and memory is implicated in a bodily response to filmed material, Sobchack suggests that ‘meaning [...] does not have a discrete origin in the spectators’ bodies or the cinematic representation, but emerges in their conjunction’ (Sobchack 2004, p. 67). For both Marks and Sobchack, the act of seeing and hearing is commutable to other senses. Moreover, Delmotte (2015) stresses the role of film sound in an embodied viewing experience. She makes the point that ‘film sound touches our flesh in a non-metaphorical manner: it bounces on our skin and impacts our guts. Sensorial distinctions blur’ (p. 147). Similarly, Batty and Waldeback describe sounds as ‘the unconscious of cinema’, suggesting that ‘whereby visuals carry surface meaning and content, and music and sound design create the emotional and sensory container through which that content can be mediated’ (2008, p. 157). They also note that ‘sound is often invisible to audiences, but nevertheless richly experienced; the invisible thread connecting them to the story’ (p. 157). Certainly, the physical response I described, of jerking, recoiling or tensing up in my seat, had as much to do with cinema sound as it did with the visual image. Considering this chapter’s focus, one might ask then what these theories have to offer the scriptwriter of an ‘embodied screenplay’. I borrow my definition of ‘embodiment’ from Park-Starbuck and Mock, who describe it as ‘the sense of 134 K. DOOLEY being in a body or having a body, a conscious engagement with the materiality of sensing bodies, or the experience of practices that are physically manifested’ (2011, p. 212). By writing an ‘embodied screenplay’, I seek to involve the reader’s own body in the experience of reading the text. My research project is framed by the idea that the words contained in a screenplay, as absorbed by the reader, create imagery that is seen and heard within our imagination, potentially conjuring an embodied response. Schwartz and Heiser write about the creation of imagery through mental simulations and visualisations (2006, p. 283). They note that ‘people can form images based on sound and language; for example, when hearing a book read to them’ (p. 287). Further to the discussion of sound, Batty and Waldeback posit that ‘A skilled [screen] writer can suggest evocative sounds at key moments to provide subtle, sophisticated storytelling’ (2008, p. 158). Delmotte suggests that words ‘disclose imaginary constructions that become worlds felt differently by each individual’ (2015, p. 174). Moreover, ‘the screenplay, or script, can also be a suggestive process that generates variables’ (p. 180). These statements concur with Joyce’s conclusion that the ‘reader is implicated in the performance of a screenplay as much as a viewer is implicated in the performance if its film’ (2016, p. 247). She looks to screenwriting theorist Ian Macdonald, who argues in his book Screenwriting Poetics and the Screen Idea that ‘because the screenplay has several manifestations concurrently it should “therefore be read as a screen work, despite being in the linguistic form” and is intended (in Barthes terms) to be “rewritten by its readers, both in the imagination and in the physical sense”’ (Macdonald 2013, quoted in Joyce 2016, p. 248). This suggests that the screenplay reader, as a material body, constructs the screenplay as a potential film in his/her head. With this in mind, I take the aesthetic approach associated with haptic visuality as the underpinning of my screenplay: a focus on material objects, light, fleeting details and the surface of things, rather than a distanced and objective view of events. In my description of action, I focus on the tactile, noting fabrics, colours and textures. I also place an emphasis on diegetic sound to add detail to each scene, noting fleeting noises and subjective sound effects. Bodily gestures and movement is emphasised: all of these tactics are utilised to create visceral imagery and encourage an embodied response in the reader, which I hope might influence the work’s translation to the screen. In terms of narrative, I look to changes in the characters’ bodily experience as a means to progress the story, rather than working with traditional screenwriting concepts, such as action-led turning points and three-act structure. My scenes are concerned with the characters’ sensations more so than psychological understanding. I will detail this process in section “Translating Bodily Experience to the Page”.

The Fireflies Project As I have outlined in articles for the Journal of Writing in Creative Practice (Dooley 2016) and the Journal of Screenwriting (Dooley 2017), I began my feature film project with the following synopsis: WRITING BODIES: DEVELOPING AND SCRIPTING AN EMBODIED FEATURE FILM… 135

The friendship between two female, 16-year-old school friends is tested when one arranges and then crashes the Tinder date of the other. Paris and Bianca find themselves in a situation that is beyond their control when they agree to go home with a newly found male suitor. (Dooley 2016, p. 137)

I imagined that the two lead female characters would each exhibit distinct physical behaviours: Paris, a spoilt and insecure party girl would be prone to narcissistic rages, while, Bianca, a conscientious people pleaser would suffer from physically debilitating panic attacks. In terms of their responses to events, both characters would at times be unable to control the physicality of their bodies. This focus on bodily experience is intended to be the main point of audience engagement and the propeller of the narrative. The surface of bodies—the texture, movement and gest—is key and psychological understanding of character motivations is a secondary concern. The writing of the synopsis and character descriptions enabled me to locate two female actors with whom I could workshop the film concept. By engaging the actors in discussion and short improvisations over a series of workshops, I drew upon their own experience of social media use. These workshops were documented on digital camera in a series of short videos and still images, creating a mass of reference material that could inform the writing of the first-draft script. In discussion with the actors, various scenarios were explored through improvisation and a narrative started to emerge. As I have explained in more detail elsewhere (Dooley 2017), I describe this activity as a form of ‘underwriting’: the generation of a wealth of creative material that informs the screenplay but exists separately to it. The video documentation of the actor improvisations provided a resource for the writing of bodily action in the script. Reviewing the video clips, I could observe the body language, movement and gest of the actors as they bought the characters of Paris and Bianca to life. This process of reviewing video documentation of the workshops also fos- tered a sense of ‘kinesthetic empathy’, a concept that proposes a link between the body of the actor and the spectator, based on the spectator’s internalised mirroring of the actor’s movement and muscular action (Pitts 2013). In other words, a ‘movement or action can be experienced [...] both as a visual image and as a movement sensation’ by the spectator, who feels the bodily expression of another person as a sensation of their own (Reynolds 2012, p. 124). As described elsewhere (Dooley 2016), while engaging with the actors’ movement and gest on the day of the workshops, and later reviewing this on video, I experienced an embodied response that could be described as a type of ‘muscular empathy with a performer’s movements’ (Anderson, quoted in Pitts 2013, p. 64). I hoped that this result of the workshop process would translate into the script, so that the reader might in turn also experience kinesthetic empathy with the characters as described on the page. I consider such a phenomenon to be key in the quest to write an ‘embodied screenplay’. 136 K. DOOLEY

Translating Bodily Experience to the Page As I have already written about the workshop process in detail (Dooley 2016), the focus of this chapter is the translation of the work undertaken with actors to the page: the physical writing of bodies. I will now offer some examples of my efforts to encourage an embodied response in the reader through the writing of the script’s descriptive elements. This section demonstrates my focus on character physicality and the capturing of details associated with haptic visuality throughout the screenplay. A long synopsis of the first-draft story is attached as an appendix to this chapter. Firstly, I have structured the screenplay so that the narrative’s two key moments (these could be considered turning points) involve out-of-control bodies. The first moment, sees the character of Paris descend into a destructive rage after she is rejected by a former boyfriend, Brad. This rejection occurs publicly at Brad’s house during a party. Paris responds by going to Brad’s bedroom and destroying his belongings. In the course of this action, she discovers a bag of pills that she decides to steal. Paris and Bianca then leave the party together, and the remainder of the story plays out as they wait for a buyer for the drugs:

------35 INT. BEDROOM- NIGHT 35 Paris sits on the end of a neatly made double bed in what appears to be a young male’s bedroom. A bedside lamp casts a dim light, which reflects off a shiny, silver-grey quilt cover. Paris places her small shoulder bag on the bed in a measured motion. She traces one hand across the smooth surface of the bedding. Then Paris rubs her head with her hand and thinks. Suddenly she gives off a low guttural growl of rage that turns into a shriek. Paris stands up abruptly and moves jerkily to a chest of drawers at the side of the room. She violently knocks various knick-knacks and personal belongings to the floor. Paris kicks over a smaller bedside cupboard, so that a range of clothing and other items fall out onto the floor. The bedside lamp tumbles to the ground but it continues to cast a sideways light around the room. Paris scrambles through the items with her hands turned into claws, looking for anything of interest. She wipes her hair out of her eyes and mouth, panting with the effort. [Various scenes of parallel action not included here] WRITING BODIES: DEVELOPING AND SCRIPTING AN EMBODIED FEATURE FILM… 137

39 INT.BEDROOM- NIGHT 39 A small pocket knife has fallen from the study table to the floor. Paris grabs it and moves to a clothes rack nearby. She thrusts opens the knife and sets about using it to tear various pieces of clothing on the rack to shreds. Pieces of fabric fall to the floor. A full-length mirror is fixed to the wall next to the clothes rack. Paris pauses as she catches a glance of her panting, hunched reflection in the dim light. Her hair is dishevelled, and her face is sweaty. She stands tall for a moment and stares, her face blank. She catches her breath. Then her expression returns to a snarl. Paris kicks a collection of shoe boxes that sit at the bottom of the clothes rack. The lid flies off one of these, revealing the contents. Paris pauses her destruction and looks. She bends down to the box, retrieving a small clear plastic bag of pills that was hidden in the shoe box. Paris gives a small smile. ------

This sequence was inspired by an improvisation undertaken with the actor playing the part of Paris during the workshop process. I asked her to occupy an empty female toilet block after she had discovered that she was the victim of gossip. The actress spent some time looking at herself in the bathroom mirror before becoming physically violent in a toilet cubicle. I reviewed my video recording of this improvisation several times as a means to find the language to describe the physical nature of Paris’ outburst in my screenplay. Most notably, I sought to describe a sudden shift between stillness and rage that would be typical of Paris’ behaviour. As penned in the script, at one moment she ‘rubs her head with her hand and thinks’, before ‘she gives off a low guttural growl of rage that turns into a shriek’. This precedes a range of ‘abrupt’ and ‘jerking’ actions. The second key moment in the script occurs towards the end of the story. Paris accuses Bianca of secretly drugging a male youth named Rohan, a suitor whom the girls have met during the course of the evening. It is in fact Paris who is the guilty party, and Rohan’s life hangs in the balance as a result of her actions. Bianca experiences a panic attack that sends her into fight-or-flight mode when the accusation is made. She runs away from Paris and her new acquaintance, Sam, and then falls and injures herself while alone. Suddenly Bianca’s life is in danger 138 K. DOOLEY

:------70 EXT. SHAREHOUSE- NIGHT 70 A small crowd of NEIGHBOURS gather to watch as the still unconscious Rohan is transferred by stretcher into the back of an ambulance. An overbearing high-pitched tone that blocks out all other noise can be heard. Bianca stands to the side, her eyes teary and glazed over. A paramedic jumps from the back of the vehicle and slams the door shut. Bianca looks at Sam, who sits down in the gutter with his head in his hands. Suddenly someone is shaking Bianca’s shoulder. The high-pitched tone fades out. PARAMEDIC 1 (O/S) Miss! Miss! Bianca comes out of her trance to find the paramedic standing in front of her. The paramedic’s eyes stare into hers in close proximity. PARAMEDIC 1 Miss! I need to know what he has taken. Bianca shrinks backwards. BIANCA What? Bianca spins around, scanning the crowd of nearby bystanders. Paris stands amongst them, appearing cold and uncomfortable. Bianca points at her. BIANCA (cont’d) Ask her! Paris looks nervous and indignant as the paramedic steps towards her. WRITING BODIES: DEVELOPING AND SCRIPTING AN EMBODIED FEATURE FILM… 139

PARAMEDIC 1 (TO PARIS) It will really help him if we know what he took. Paris’ eyes widen. She wipes her hair back from her face and stands tall. PARIS I don’t know what happened. She had some pills... Paris motions at Bianca. PARIS (cont’d) She must have given him one. The paramedic turns back to look at Bianca, who stands with a horrified expression. BIANCA You liar! Sam stands up from the gutter and looks from one girl to the other. PARAMEDIC (TO BIANCA) I just need to know what it was. Sam looks at Bianca, then Paris, then back to Bianca. Paris feigns concern. PARIS Just tell the truth Bianca! Bianca takes a step backward. The high-pitched tone returns. Suddenly she is struggling to breathe. Bianca’s hands shake. All eyes seem to be on her, including those of a very confused-looking Sam. Bianca’s vision of the small crowd blurs. She turns and runs. 71 INT. STREET- NIGHT 71 Bianca’s high heeled feet run frantically but clumsily on cold black bitumen. They make a clop-clop sound that echoes in the still air. Bianca gasps for air, her face stained by tears and smudged mascara. 140 K. DOOLEY

A turning car suddenly appears with a roar as Bianca crosses a T-junction. Its headlights wash over Bianca’s legs as it screeches and swerves to avoid her. Bianca jumps to the side. MALE DRIVER (O/S) Get off the road! Bianca staggers a few feet with a gargled breath. Then she continues to run as the car speeds off in the other direction and disappears. Bianca shivers in her skimpy clothes. More tears run down her face. The houses around her are dark forms with the occasional spot of light. A dog barks loudly in a passing house, a lone sound but for the uneven and frantic clop-clop of her shoes on the bitumen and the distant hum of a freeway. Bianca stops and looks all around her, seeing only a blur of houses that all look the same. Then she spies the dark shadows of the park to her left. Bianca scrambles into shadowed greenery. She gasps for air as she moves onward. Her uneven steps threaten to produce a twisted ankle. 72 INT. PARK- NIGHT 72 Shadowed branches block out the moonlight overhead. We hear the sound of high heels crunching on gravel and gum nuts as Bianca continues to run. A blur of leafy foliage brushes against Bianca’s shoulder as she staggers forward. A stray beam of light glimmers on a circular spider web that she rushes past. Onward into darkness. Bianca’s shaking hand grasps the wooden railing of small wooden bridge. We hear water running fast nearby. Shadowed trees swallow Bianca up on the other side of the bridge. Her shoes sink into shallow mud, flicking dirty water onto her pale feet. WRITING BODIES: DEVELOPING AND SCRIPTING AN EMBODIED FEATURE FILM… 141

Bianca’s eyes dart from left to right. Her breath wheezes. Suddenly she trips and shrieks. Bianca falls out of frame with a thud and then there is silence. FADE TO BLACK ------

The bodily actions exhibited in the two sequences described drive the narrative into new territory. In each case, it is the girls’ physical reaction to the situation that gives rise to change, be it the discovery of the drugs or Bianca’s flight into the park. As the scenes attest, care is taken to describe character physicality and gest (hunched, dishevelled, sweaty, shivering), sounds (growls, snarls, shrieks, panting, wheezing, gasping) and movement (jerking, scram- bling, staggering, violently knocking things) in detail, so as to paint a vivid and visceral picture of the action. Furthermore, the writing of the characters’ bodily experience is accompanied by the affective elements—various textures (satin quilt covers, smudged mascara, mud and dirty water), light effects (dim lamps, shadowed greenery) and diegetic sounds (the rumbling distant freeway, the ‘clop-clop’ of high-heeled shoes on bitumen). By providing detailed descriptions of these elements, I hope to create imagery that draws upon the reader’s own memory of objects, sounds and textures. Whilst writing I’ve considered ‘how a sound fits into the world or moment of the scene: is it intrusive or ignored; familiar or surprising; dramatic or reas- suring?’ (Batty and Waldeback 2008, p. 158). As is evidenced in the second sequence, at several points in the screenplay, sound is experienced from Bianca’s point of view. This internal diegetic sound takes us inside her head and adds gravity to her panic attacks. In scene 70, a high-pitched tone blocks out all other sounds in the scene. This reflects Bianca’s high stress level—she is not listening to the world around her. Lastly, where I have deemed it appropriate, I have penned the detail of scenes in a way that focuses on ‘close-up’ views or blurred vision. Both are devices associated with haptic visuality, which draw attention to the surface of objects and/or that resist full disclosure of the setting. This tactic requires that the reader be actively engaged in piecing together the various elements described in the script’s big print, so as to create an overall picture of the setting and to discern meaning. In other words, not all details of a setting or action are provided and the reader must fill in the blanks. This is evident in scene 72, during which Bianca flees through a park, ultimately falling and knocking herself out. The description offered in this scene focuses on a series of details observed fleetingly, rather than offering an objective view that could be imagined as a ‘wide shot’. When Bianca trips and falls at the scene’s end, we do not see this action but only hear the impact. By taking this approach, I leave it to the viewers to draw upon their own experience to imagine the injury that she may have suffered. 142 K. DOOLEY

Conclusion This creative research project has resulted in a first-draft script that focuses on bodily experience as a driver of narrative. This is a somewhat novel approach that breaks from the conventional screenwriting drivers of plot, character or theme. Unsurprisingly, the screenplay is light on dialogue, with considerable meaning created through body language and movement. Conversely, the description of action is detailed, with attention given to fleeting sounds and textures. While this style is somewhat of a departure from my previous work as a screenwriter of several produced short films and unproduced feature film screenplays, I acknowledge that such an approach is perhaps not uncommon. Returning to the films listed in the opening paragraph of this chapter, one can at times observe a similar focus on bodily movement and tactile details with spare dialogue, although it is unclear if these elements originated in the film script or were the result of each film’s direction. Returning to the question of whether the seeds of an affective cinema experience can be sown in the screenplay, I acknowledge the difficulty of finding an answer based on the script alone. Once a final draft is achieved, a film director must translate the screenplay into visual images, which greatly impacts the affective nature of any film screening. Furthermore, I acknowledge that film viewing is subjective, and a spectator’s response is hard to predict and to gauge. I do believe, however, that my research offers some useful reflections on key concerns for the fostering of affective elements on screen. By drawing upon the concept of haptic visuality, my project identifies several factors implicated in the creation of visceral imagery. As a form of screenplay practice as research, the first-draft script stands as an example of writing undertaken with the intent of vividly presenting bodily experience. As part of my larger research concerning the Fireflies project, I worked with a small cast and crew in 2016 to film a number of ‘test scenes’ taken from an early section of the draft screenplay. These scenes have been edited into two short webisodes titled After School, which can now be viewed on YouTube. My aim in producing and directing these scenes was to gauge the success of my writing in terms of the creation of an affective cinema experience. I am also using to webisodes as a means to obtain feedback on the characters and scenarios that I have created. To this end, I encourage the reader to view the webisodes at the following links and leave a comment:

After School- Webisode 1: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l_ sAaN9okRM&feature=youtu.be After School- Webisode 2: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZAz0_3uZugo

Appendix: Fireflies: Long Synopsis Paris and Bianca are two 16-year-old school friends who amuse themselves with random dating experiences sourced through social media. Full of bravado and confidence, Paris leads the activity, appearing to seek physical contact with- WRITING BODIES: DEVELOPING AND SCRIPTING AN EMBODIED FEATURE FILM… 143 out emotional ties; however, she secretly harbours a desire to rekindle a relationship with an ex-boyfriend, Brad. The more reserved Bianca is Paris’ fan and follower and she frequently finds herself outside of her comfort zone as a result. Bianca suffers from debilitating panic attacks when in situations of stress. Paris is dismissive of these problems, focusing only on her own wants and needs. When Brad humiliates Paris in front of her peer group at a party, she retali- ates by trashing his personal property. In the process, she discovers a bag of amphetamines that she steals and plans to sell. Fuelled by alcohol and amphetamines, Paris and Bianca head into the city to make the deal. Whilst waiting for the exchange to take place, Paris sets Bianca up on a date with an unknown male named Sam. Surprisingly, Bianca and Sam hit it off. In the process, they also meet Rohan, Sam’s narcissistic and dominating older cousin, who takes an interest in Paris. Seeking the upper hand in her association with Rohan, Paris slips two of her pills into Rohan’s drink. The results are disastrous: Rohan begins to convulse and it is clear that his life is in danger. Paris blames the situation on Bianca, lying to Sam and the paramedics who attend the scene. This action sends an angry and panicked Bianca into melt- down. She flees the scene, and accidentally injures herself whilst alone. Despite her physical injuries, however, Bianca is finally able to break away from her destructive relationship with Paris.

References Batty, C., & Waldeback, Z. (2008). Writing for the Screen: Creative and Critical Approaches. Basingstoke: Macmillan International Higher Education. Delmotte, I. (2015). Freeing the Imagination: ‘The Best Movie Is the One in My Head’. Studies in Australasian Cinema, 9(2), 171–186. https://doi.org/10.1080/ 17503175.2015.1060002. Dooley, K. (2016). Screenwriting the Body in Fireflies: An Analysis of the Devising and Writing Process. Journal of Writing in Creative Practice, 9(1–2), 127–147. Dooley, K. (2017). Digital ‘Underwriting’: A Script Development Technique in the Age of Media Convergence. Journal of Screenwriting, 8(3), 287–302. Joyce, H. (2016). Text and Performance: What Does a Screenplay Do? Journal of Screenwriting, 7(3), 245–254. Macdonald, I. W. (2013). Screenwriting Poetics and the Screen Idea. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Marks, L. (2000). The Skin of the Film: Intercultural Cinema, Embodiment, and the Senses. Durham/London: Duke University Press. Mulvey, L. (1975). Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema. Screen, 16(3), 6–18. https:// doi.org/10.1093/screen/16.3.6. Parker-Starbuck, J., & Mock, R. (2011). Researching the Body in/as Performance. In B. Kershaw (Ed.), Research Methods in Theatre and Performance (pp. 210–235). Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Pitts, V. (2013). Writing from the Body: Kinesthetics and Entrainment in Collaborative Screenplay Development. Journal of Media Practice, 14(1), 61–78. 144 K. DOOLEY

Reynolds, D. (2012). Kinesthetic Empathy and the Dance’s Body: From Emotion to Affect. In D. Reynolds & M. Reason (Eds.), Kinesthetic Empathy in Creative and Cultural Practices (pp. 121–136). Bristol: Intellect. Schwartz, D., & Heiser, J. (2006). Spatial Representations and Imagery in Learning. In K. R. Sawyer (Ed.), Handbook of the Learning Sciences (pp. 283–298). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sharma, A. (2018). Practices of Making as Forms of Knowledge: Creative Practice Research as a Mode of Documentary Making in Northeast India. In C. Batty & S. Kerrigan (Eds.), Screen Production Research (pp. 161–176). Palgrave Macmillan: London. Shaviro, S. (1993). The Cinematic Body. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Shaviro, S. (2008). The Cinematic Body Redux. Parallax, 14(1), 48–54. https://doi. org/10.1080/13534640701781370. Sobchack, V. (2004). Carnal Thoughts: Embodiment and Moving Image Culture. Los Angeles: University of California Press. Williams, L. (1999). Hard Core: Power, Pleasure, and the “Frenzy of the Visible”. Berkeley: University of California Press. Putting Theory into Practice: Structuring the Personal Essay Documentary, The Silences

Margot Nash

Introduction The Silences (Nash 2015a) is a feature-length personal essay documentary about the tangled bonds, secret histories and unspoken traumas of family life that stretches from New Zealand to the Australian suburbs. It is an exploration of early childhood and the ‘silences’ of the past that resonate in the present. It is a film about family secrets and the ties of love, loss and kinship between a mother and daughter. The essay documentary, whose legacy lies in the literary essay, is both well established and a genre in its own, but essay films are not necessarily personal or subjective. Michael Renov argues the subjective was in fact shunned in documentary cinema until the 1970s when a new subjectivity emerged out of the social movements of the time, giving rise to ‘work by women and men of diverse cultural backgrounds in which the representation of the historical world is inextricably bound up with self-inscription’ (Renov 1999, p. 88). I have taken The Silences as a case study, because it explores secret histories in my own family and because, when constructing it, I decided to put ideas about creativity I had been researching into practice. In 2013, I wrote a journal article called ‘Unknown Spaces and Uncertainty in Film Development’ (Nash 2013a). In this article, I advocated a discovery-driven as opposed to a market-

The Silences is distributed by Ronin Films. See: www.margotnash.com for further information. Portions of this chapter were originally published in the journal article ‘The Silences: Process, Structure and the Development of a Personal Essay Documentary’, published in Sydney Studies in English, Camera Stylo, 42 (2016).

M. Nash (*) University of Technology Sydney, Sydney, NSW, Australia

© The Author(s) 2019 145 C. Batty et al. (eds.), The Palgrave Handbook of Screen Production, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-21744-0_11 146 M. NASH driven development process. I argued that many artists advocate an uncertain exploration of the unknown when developing new work, yet this approach is at odds with the risk-adverse film development agencies and their quest for formulas and certainty in a volatile marketplace. In developing The Silences, I chose to work outside conventional film funding systems and engage in an uncertain discovery-driven process. I wanted to investigate the repressed narratives of mental illness and abandonment in my family, explore the power of subjectivity in challenging fixed notions of history and test my argument that it is within the ‘interplay of discipline and spontaneity, of the known and the unknown, of logic and intuition, that creativity lies’ (Nash 2013a, p. 160). In unfolding my process, I share the challenge of a story that resisted a linear chronological structure and instead required a non-linear elliptical structure in order to create subtext, mystery and suspense. I argue that searching for the key that might unlock the story meant experimenting with cinematic language, writing with images and words in order to find new ways to ‘speak’ into the silences lying hidden within history.

Questioning A creative exploration of the gaps and silences in my own family history meant questioning the known, tracing elusive shadows back through the fragile archives and valuing memories, however unreliable (for they also tell a story). Feminist documentaries like For Love or Money (McMurchy et al. 1983) have excavated the oppressed past, telling and retelling history to include rather than exclude women. Waldman and Walker cite ‘Julia Lesage’s 1978 perception that early feminist documentaries “show the unshown” by portraying the lives of ordinary women’ (Waldman and Walker 1999, p. 269). At times, personal and self-referential films, such as the experimental documentaryDaughter Rite (Citron 1978), spoke ‘the lives and desires of the many who have lived outside “the boundaries of cultural knowledge”’ (Renov 1999, p. 94), and in so doing challenged the ‘symptomatic silence of the empowered’ where ‘self reference was shunned’ (Renov 1999, p. 94). Citron argues that autobiography bears witness to the untidy and contradictory nature of our lives and, in so doing, ‘risks exposing that which culture wants silenced’ (Citron 1999, p. 273). Embarking on a discovery-driven process meant embracing what Keats called ‘Negative Capability’, that is, when one ‘is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason’ (Keats, as published in Buxton Forman 1947, p. 72). It means what Susan Dermody calls the ability to ‘brood’, which is an ‘inward process’ and a ‘feminine term of thought’:

If you are ‘brooding’ you are sitting with something, suspending thought, and letting something not really in your grasp come to its time. [...] Writing is a brooding process, a suspended ‘thinking toward’, and it often eludes the active will. (Dermody 1995, p. 293) PUTTING THEORY INTO PRACTICE: STRUCTURING THE PERSONAL ESSAY… 147

Taking time to solve problems means giving space for the unconscious to do its work. For, the brain wrestles with seemingly unsolvable problems when we are asleep or half-awake. Faced with implacable rigidity it will crawl away and hide or return with a vengeance to disturb us with dreams and accidents and slips of the tongue. How can we embrace this uncertain space, which is so unconditional in its demands?

The alchemical space where ideas are dismembered and allowed to ferment is full of putrescence, darkness and fear. It is a space that those who engage in creative practice know well, for it is a space where the repressed return – where our most forbidden and destructive desires are given space to break-down and re-form – where new connections and patterns are discovered. It is from this dark place that new ideas emerge fully formed and enter the light of day. (Nash 2013a, p. 160)

Surfacing from this ‘dark place’ requires the ability to grasp ideas before they fade, to value them and work critically with them, to question, listen, edit, restructure and if necessary abandon.

Writing The Silences is a film about an ‘ordinary woman’ who took her secrets to the grave, but who left behind clues, whose ‘grief lay unspoken in the silences in the house where it festered and became bitter and cold’, who ‘couldn’t think about her life’ (Nash 2015a). It is a film about my mother (Fig. 1). It was constructed in the editing room over a two-and-a-half-year period without a written script as map or guide. It was ‘written’ with images and words, which cross-referenced and informed each other. The first-person narration, in which I wrote and performed, was written and rewritten, recorded and rerecorded, as the film was structured and restructured. While it is not unusual for a documentary to be constructed in the editing room, few filmmakers have the luxury of embarking on a long slow discovery-driven process like this without a script. Investors want a script or treatment that promises certainty before committing funds. In 2003, I received script development funding from the New South Wales Film and Television Office to write a fictional feature film screenplay calledMy Mother Eve. It was inspired by my conflicted relationship with my mother and also by my life as a young actress in Melbourne in the 1970s. It was a big- budget period drama and, while I had directed two critically acclaimed feature dramas, they were art-house films so raising money for the new film proved difficult. I also had a full-time university lecturing job and it was hard to find time to focus on a project of this size. I tried to put it aside, but the story wouldn’t leave me alone. I began to wonder if it could be reimagined as a low- budget compilation documentary. I had a background as a film editor and digital editing software was now making it possible to edit on a laptop at home, but I wasn’t sure if I had enough material to make a film. All I had were family 148 M. NASH

Fig. 1 Ethel and Margot from Our Mums and Us series, 1976. (Photograph: Ponch Hawkes) photographs, actuality footage I had shot over a seven-year period on various small video cameras, a three-hour oral history I had recorded with my sister while researching a chapter for a book on memory and suburbia (Nash 2013b), an audio cassette I had recorded with my mother in the 1980s and a large plastic bag full of my parents’ letters. Then I remembered my films and how I had drawn on my childhood experiences to create images to tell other kinds of stories; how I had, at times, based fictional characters on family members and literally recreated images from my childhood. This was the turning point, when I realised I might indeed have a film, for these images and sounds could now be repurposed as archival material to tell a repressed family story that had been sitting under the surface of the original films all along. PUTTING THEORY INTO PRACTICE: STRUCTURING THE PERSONAL ESSAY… 149

In 2012, I successfully applied for a 14-week Filmmaker Residency at Zürich University of the Arts. This offered a clear space to work on a creative project without the pressure to produce a completed work at the end. I embraced it as an opportunity to put my ideas about creative development into practice. Gathering everything I thought I might need, I scanned family photographs, digitised my films, packed books and articles and set off to the other side of the world without a script as map or guide. Once there I immersed myself in the materials, drawing inspiration from literature, cinema, film theory, memory studies and psychoanalytic theory. I was inspired by Australian filmmaker Corinne Cantrill’s personal memoir In This Life’s Body (Cantrill 1984), which is constructed almost entirely from still photographs; Canadian filmmaker Claire Poirier’s personal essay documentary Tu as crié: Let Me Go (Poirier 1997), about her search for answers to her daughter’s murder; and Australian filmmaker Jeni Thornley’s personal essay documentary Maidens (Thornley 1978), which traces the history of her maternal family and juxtaposes this with her embrace of feminism. I taught myself Final Cut Pro X editing software, drew a deep breath and jumped in. In his book The Secret Language of Film, French screenwriter Jean-Claude Carrière claims ‘In the early days, cinema wrote before it knew how to write, before it even knew it was writing’ (Carrière 1994, p. 22). However,

An authentically new language did not emerge until filmmakers started to break the film up into successive scenes, until the birth of montage, of editing. [...] In the heat of its own implementation, this seemingly simple technique generated a vocabulary and grammar of unbelievable diversity. No other medium can boast such a process. (Carrière 1994, pp. 8, 9)

Carrière gives a simple example. A man looks out of a window followed by a shot of a woman and a man embracing on the street below. This juxtaposition of shots tells us that this is what the man is seeing, but this was not immediately apparent in the early days of cinema where a man with a stick, called The Explicator, would point at the screen and tell the audience what was happening. If the shot of the lovers is followed by the man’s angry face, could this be his wife with another man? If instead we cut to him crying, could this be a memory of him with his wife, who has just died? These simple juxtapositions of images utilise the secret language of film, offering audiences opportunities to become active, testing ideas and participating in the ‘writing’ of the film in the sub-textual spaces. I started to work with the materials I had gathered, searching for openings where Carrière’s ‘secret language’ might lead me in new directions. There is a short trailer for The Silences, which can be viewed on Vimeo (Nash 2015b), where a woman looks at a postcard she has discovered in her mother’s kitchen drawer. This is followed by an image of a little girl on a tricycle in a dreamlike wasteland. The two images are from different films, yet cinema’s ‘secret language’ connects them. Is this her memory or is it a dreamlike metaphor for what she has experienced in the past? 150 M. NASH

I found myself excited by new visual connections that were starting to emerge and by the ‘voice’ that was evolving as I wrote the narration. I started weaving still photographs, actuality footage and clips from my films where I had drawn on childhood memories, but I soon realised there were other less obvious images that could now be reclaimed and reimagined. I went back through my films again and again, often at the urging of others, listening and searching for moments that could be reused in the service of the new story. I wanted to evoke the experience of early childhood and had constructed a number of images from a child’s point of view, even creating a character called ‘The Child’ in my short experimental filmShadow Panic (Nash 1989). I believed this character was a facet of myself, but as I began to use these images in the new film I slowly realised she had also been standing in for another little girl. I may well have created a character based on my childhood memories, but she didn’t look like me. I realised that this little girl was a tragic family secret, rarely discussed when I was a child. Her story and the story of my father’s mental illness were the two secrets I wanted to ‘speak’ in The Silences. In my feature drama Vacant Possession (Nash 1994), I made the character of the father a paranoid scientist like my own father. I recreated scenes from my childhood and constructed images that evoked the fear I had experienced as a child when my father was ill. Using these images, intercut with family photographs and clips from my other films, I quickly constructed a sequence that seemed to come together almost fully formed. I called it ‘The Nightmare’. Working quickly and intuitively, it was as if the films were ‘speaking’ to each other. For example, I noticed I had used the same earrings in two different films. InThe Silences we see a close shot of the main character’s hand from Vacant Possession picking up an earring from a jewellery box and there is a seamless cut to ‘The Mother’ from Shadow Panic putting the same earring on. It was surprising how easily these two films could be edited together even though they had been made five years apart. I cannot imagine finding connections like this sitting at the computer writing a script. These cinematic connections were exciting to find and I constructed a number of sequences during this early development phase that have barely changed over the years. The structure that emerged from this phase was, however, problematic and proved to be a major challenge. Overly influenced by the telling of history as episodic events—this happens and then that happens—rather than cause and effect, it lacked energy and mystery. Showing this early ‘rough cut’ to colleagues and family on my return, I could clearly see the dead hand of chronology and its effect on audiences, but I didn’t know how to fix it. Searching my family history had been fascinating, but audiences had no interest in Great Uncle Frank who had sailed the seven seas or my ancestor Thomas Watson who erected a number of statues of Captain Cook around Sydney. It also became apparent that the narratives of men, in particular my father’s experiences during World War II, were dominating the fragile traces of my mother’s maternal narrative during the same period. Here was a silence, a gap in the records where the untidy and contradictory story of my mother’s life during World War PUTTING THEORY INTO PRACTICE: STRUCTURING THE PERSONAL ESSAY… 151

II had been repressed and had consequently fallen outside ‘the boundaries of cultural knowledge’ (Renov 1999, p. 94). Here was the heart of the story I wanted to tell lying hidden in the silences. I remembered the plastic bag, which contained letters my father had written to my mother during World War II. I resolved to read them. I kept working on the film and showed it to other colleagues at key moments for feedback. A number of people commented on how absent I was from the story, even though my voice narrated the film in the first person. They wanted to know how the story had affected me and why I wanted to tell it. I had chosen to make a personal essay documentary, but I was giving away very little of myself. Had I internalised the narrative of the empowered where ‘self-reference was shunned’? Would I be shunned if I spoke? How much could I tell and still feel safe? How hard it is to break the patterns of silence that sustain power and speak the mess that lies beneath. Renov argues that the subjective ‘is the filter through which the Real enters discourse as well as a kind of experiential com- pass guiding the work towards its goal as embodied knowledge’ (Renov 1999, p. 88). I needed to speak the subjective mess if I wanted the Real to enter. I also needed to find a new structure. My intuition had delivered, but it had not offered up a coherent structure, nor had it alerted me to how much I had internalised the narratives of power. I needed to move into a more analytical phase in order to balance that free fall into the unknown. I began to actively seek that balance between discipline and spontaneity, the known and the unknown, passion and reason, where, I had argued, creativity lies. Although screenwriting is my field, I had deliberately ignored the classic three-act structural paradigm. I realised I had to go back and lay it across the film and see if it could help. Clearly, there was a first and a third act, but it was the pesky second act that was causing me grief. In his book Screenwriting the Sequence Approach, Paul Gulino argues that many feature-length films are made up of eight sequences: two in the first act, four in the second and two in the third (Gulino 2004). I broke the film into eight sequences, which showed me exactly where the second-act problems were, but didn’t help me fix them. The film lacked suspense and while I had experimented with moving backwards and forwards in time, parts of the second act were still driven by the dead hand of chronology. I knew the film needed shaking up, but how? I went back to the drawing board, but rather than jumping in again, I put the film aside and ‘brooded’.

Brooding and Photography The film contains well over a hundred still photographs. The majority are family photographs. Each one had to be selected, digitised and in some cases pho- toshopped in order to remove the marks of age and neglect that were threatening to overshadow the original image. Like housework, this cleaning process can take many hours and, as I worked, I found myself meditating on the nature of photography and ‘brooding’ about history and death, for so 152 M. NASH often the photographs were of the dead. This close reworking of an historical artefact draws the eye to the minutiae, which are so often missed, particularly as some of the original photographs were very small. Digital technology allows for high-resolution scans, capable of being projected onto a large screen but, while these scans can reveal details hidden for years, they can also reveal the hand of the filmmaker if the work is not skilled enough. I worked and reworked on some of the photographs many times. New worlds opened up and time stopped still, but how much to clean off and how much to leave so they still retained the patina of history? Although photographs are usually only on screen for a short period of time, I began experimenting with allowing some to remain for extended periods, allowing the audience time to contemplate the images. I also began using the editing software to move across the photographs, to create motion and draw the eye to details. In his book Camera Lucida, Roland Barthes discusses the idea of the ‘punctum’ in photography:

It is this element which rises from the scene, shoots out of it like an arrow and pierces me. [...] this wound this prick this mark […] also refers to the notion of punctuation, and because the photographs I am speaking of are in effect punctuated, sometimes even speckled with these sensitive points; precisely these marks, these wounds are so many points. (Barthes 1980, pp. 26, 27)

‘Punctum’, from Latin, also means: sting, cut, little hole—and also a cast of the dice. For Barthes, ‘A photograph’s punctum is that accident which pricks me (but also bruises me, is poignant to me)’ (Barthes 1980, p. 27). I had initially overlooked a fragile photograph of my mother holding my newly born sister Diana because of its poor quality, but one day I picked it up and looked at it again. There was something so translucent and wounded in it that it reached out and touched me. My mother had always said that she had prepared to die when she went into hospital to have my sister, but as soon as they put Diana in her arms, it gave her a reason to live. The punctum for me is the curve, the touch of the baby’s soft cheek against my mother’s, reconnect- ing her to life (Fig. 2). In her article ‘A Journey through Memory’, Annette Kuhn claims ‘Images are just as much productions of meanings as words, even if the “language” is different’ (Kuhn 2000, p. 182):

[P]hotographs may ‘speak’ silence, absence and contradiction as much as, indeed more than, presence, truth or authenticity; and that while in the production of memory they might often repress this knowledge, photographs can also be used as a means of questioning identities and memories and generating new ones. (Kuhn 2000, p. 184)

Then I read the letters, or some of them. My mother’s letters sent to her father while she was travelling in Europe and India as a young woman told of a dashing British army officer, stationed in India during the Raj, who had bro- PUTTING THEORY INTO PRACTICE: STRUCTURING THE PERSONAL ESSAY… 153

Fig. 2 Ethel and Diana Nash, 1946. (Nash family collection) ken her heart. We had grown up on this romantic story, but then we found a draft of a letter she had written to him that exploded the myths of grandeur she had perpetuated. It carried the ‘shock of the Real’ as did my father’s letters to my mother, sent from London not long after I was born, which told another side of the narrative I had grown up with about my birth.

Restructuring In 2014, I went to the Screenwriting Research Network conference in Wisconsin where American screenwriter Larry Gross gave a keynote address called ‘The Watergate Theory of Screenwriting’. The title was inspired by the 1970s Watergate scandal that brought down President Nixon and refers to the key questions that were asked at the time: ‘What did the president know and when did he know it?’ Translated into screenwriting: ‘what do the characters know – about narrative context, about themselves, and about each other, and when do they know it?’ (Gross 2014, p. 313). Gross argues ‘cinematic language works, as a question of information, a confidence game played with and for the audience ... deploying information’ (Gross 2014, p. 314). He used Kurosawa’s 1952 filmIkiru (To live) as a case study. In the opening, we see an X-ray showing the cancer that will eventually take the protagonist’s, Mr Watanabe’s, life, but when we meet Mr Watanabe, he is unaware that he is terminally ill. This knowledge that we, the audience, hold draws us in, engaging us and creating suspense. I decided to experiment with letting the audience in on the secret of my father’s mental illness in the opening sequence. Up until then the audience had discovered his illness when my mother did, after they were married. This new structure meant the audience knew what was in store for her before she had even met my father. This gave the audience privileged knowledge, foreshad- 154 M. NASH owed future events and creating suspense. But I still wanted the second secret to be a surprise so I went back to my original plan of the audience finding out when I did around the age of five. In the finished film, there is an elision in the chronology at the end of the first act that is thematically linked to the history of mental illness in my father’s family. A hand breaks the surface of a rock pool and the narration says: ‘Of course as children we knew nothing of all this.’ At this point the film jumps forward in time and the entire narrative of World War II is skipped over. Later this narrative is told in detail through moving backwards in time. At this point, unfolding the story prises open a ‘silence’ where the mess of life had been repressed and, in so doing, answers crucial questions for the audience. Australian screenwriter Laura Jones talked about searching for the key that might unlock the story (L. Jones, personal communication, 24 March 2009). For me this was the structural decision to disclose the secret of my father’s mental illness in the opening, for it foregrounded theme rather than chronology as a structuring device. Once this convention was in place the film could move forward and backwards thematically, rather than being a slave to the dead hand of chronology.

Conclusion The decision to repurpose images from my own cinema as auto-ethnography— images produced to tell different stories—resulted in a sub-textural layer where the psychological context in which the earlier films had been produced was rendered apparent, allowing the viewer to understand the relationship of creativity to experience. The decision to put a discovery-driven theory of creative development into practice created an initial space to free-fall, allowing new ideas and new connections to form. This process exercised a part of my brain that had been neglected in the aboveground world of knowledge and facts. It revealed things that could not have been imagined, and written into a script, without physically engaging with the materials. But the tools of script analysis and structure were necessary to discover the film’s unique shape, as was the time to ‘brood’ to open up spaces to question, listen, imagine and wait. What finally emerged was an elliptical, non-chronological thematic structure where the repressed narratives of abandonment and mental illness in my family history were excavated and finally allowed to speak. Here, in the elusive interplay of discipline and spontaneity, the known and the unknown, logic and intuition, passion and reason, the real work of creativity occurred. Here, also, in this slow subjective space, old memories were challenged and new memories were produced.

References Barthes, R. (1980). Camera Lucida. New York: Hill and Wang. Buxton Forman, M. (Ed.). (1947). The Letters of John Keats (3rd ed.). London: Oxford University Press. PUTTING THEORY INTO PRACTICE: STRUCTURING THE PERSONAL ESSAY… 155

Cantrill, A., Cantrill, C. (Producers), & Cantrill, C. (Director). (1984). In This Life’s Body [Documentary Film]. Melbourne: Arthur and Corinne Cantrill. Carrière, J. C. (1994). The Secret Language of Film. New York: Pantheon. Citron, M. (Producer & Director). (1978). Daughter Rite [Documentary Film]. USA: Iris Films. Citron, M. (1999). Fleeing from Documentary: Autobiographical Film/Video and the “Ethics of Responsibility”. In D. Waldman & J. Walker (Eds.), Feminism and Documentary (pp. 271–286). Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Dermody, S. (1995). The Pressure of the Unconscious Upon the Image: The Subjective Voice in Documentary. In L. Devereaux & R. Hillman (Eds.), Fields of Vision: Essays in Film Studies, Visual Anthropology and Photography (pp. 292–309). Berkeley: University of California Press. Gross, L. (2014). The Watergate Theory of Screenwriting. Journal of Screenwriting, 5(3), 313–322. https://doi.org/10.1386/josc.5.3.313_1. Gulino, P. J. (2004). Screenwriting: The Sequence Approach: The Hidden Structure of Successful Screenplays. New York: Continuum. Kuhn, A. (2000). A Journey Through Memory. In S. Radstone (Ed.), Memory and Methodology (pp. 179–196). Oxford/New York: Berg Publishers. Kurosawa, A. (Director, Co-Writer), & Motoki, S. (Producer). (1952). Ikiru [Motion Picture]. Japan: Toho Company. McMurchy, M., Nash, M., Oliver, M., & Thornley, J. (Co-Filmmakers). (1983). For Love or Money [Documentary Film]. Sydney: Flashback Films. Nash, M. (Producer, Writer, Director). (1989). Shadow Panic [Experimental Film]. Sydney: As If Productions. Nash, M. (Writer, Director), & Winter, J. (Producer). (1994). Vacant Possession [Motion Picture]. Sydney: Wintertime Films. Nash, M. (2013a). Unknown Spaces and Uncertainty in Film Development. Journal of Screenwriting, 4(2), 149–162. https://doi.org/10.1386/josc.4.2.149_1. Nash, M. (2013b). The First House and the Hop Farm. In P. Hamilton & P. Ashton (Eds.), Locating Suburbia: Memory, Place Creativity (pp. 31–50). Sydney: UTS e Press. Retrieved from http://epress.lib.uts.edu.au/books/locating-suburbia; https://doi.org/10.5130/978-1-86365-432-6 Nash, M. (Producer, Director, Writer). (2015a). The Silences [Documentary Film]. Sydney: As If Productions. Nash, M. (Producer, Director, Writer). (2015b). The Silences Trailer [Video File]. Sydney: As If Productions. Retrieved from https://vimeo.com/108751599 Poirier, C. (Producer, Director), Blais, M. C., & Poirier, C. (Writers). (1997). Tu as crié Let Me Go [Documentary Film]. Montreal: National Film Board of Canada. Renov, M. (1999). New Subjectivities: Documentary and Self-Representation in the Post-Verité Age. In D. Waldman & J. Walker (Eds.), Feminism and Documentary (pp. 84–94). Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Thornley, J. (Producer, Director). (1978). Maidens [Documentary Film]. Sydney: Anandi Films. Waldman, D., & Walker, J. (1999). Part IV Innovative (Auto)biographies. In D. Waldman & J. Walker (Eds.), Feminism and Documentary (pp. 269–270). Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Work-in-Progress: The Writing of Shortchanged

Margaret McVeigh

Introduction There are many ways of writing a screenplay. For me, the business of writing the low-budget feature Shortchanged was about researching the teachings of the experts, some of whom are known as Hollywood script “gurus”, and finding my own process. Most of all it was about learning how to stay true to my central idea when faced with indecision and uncertainty about “What happens next?” Research into the individual and their writing processes during script development is an emerging field. In their article, “Script Development: Defining the Field”, screenwriting researchers Batty and colleagues interrogate the definition of script development and note that there is still much research to be done:

The literature on script development ... is wide, varied and multi-faceted; and ... arguably fragile and still emerging ... this comprehensive overview ... points to the potential for further research. (2017, p. 240)

The practice of script development may take many guises, including personal journaling, readers’ reports, improvisations with actors and intensive workshops. Kerrigan and Batty, posit that “These aspects give script development a strong sense of not only industrialization, but also emotion whereby constant negotiations are made between the self (ideas, visions, feedback) and the commercial product” (2016, p. 136). Batty and colleagues suggest that considerations of plot, character, story, theme and emotional impact are paramount in script development and they question: “What development actually

M. McVeigh (*) Griffith Film School, Griffith University, Brisbane, QLD, Australia e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s) 2019 157 C. Batty et al. (eds.), The Palgrave Handbook of Screen Production, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-21744-0_12 158 M. MCVEIGH entails: which aspects of screenwriting craft beyond plot are used in/by/for script development, and what tools are used to achieve this?” (2017, p. 228). They also note that script development during the first stages of the screenplay has not “received sustained attention ... partly because it is a process often veiled and mysterious ... sustained and agonizing (the ‘development hell’ version); or simply personal, private, difficult to account for and articulate” (2017, p. 220). Elsewhere, Batty, in his discussion of theme as a tool for use in screenplay development, underlines the importance of the individual in the process and suggests how matters such as a preoccupation with plot can “take the writer out of the project rather than into it” (2013, p. 4). It is this notion of the individual “writer in the project” and the fact that the screenwriting process is unique to each individual and may involve different and often ambiguous modes of working, that is of interest in this chapter. The idea that individual screenwriting processes may be difficult to articulate is underlined by Screen Australia, who advise filmmakers to develop a bespoke approach to story development, emphasizing that it involves “art, craft and heart”. “It’s a process that needs to be flexible and responsive, embracing a diversity of tools and approaches that will enrich and focus creative vision at the heart of a story” (Screen Australia in Batty et al. 2017, p. 239). It is this process which balances the “what if” scenarios of creativity and the demands of craft that is considered in the section “The Role of Creativity and Craft in the Writing of a Screenplay”. In this chapter, the work of the individual “writer in the project” at the stage of the writing of the first draft is considered. Using a reflective methodology, I examine my own creative process and present under-explored elements of screenwriting research, including craft decisions made as evidenced by first- person journal entries, self-questioning and writing experiments. This work-in- progress was scaffolded by workshop deadlines and the six-stage creative process model outlined in Table 1. It was also guided by the concept of “the dramatic centre” (Cooper 1997, p. 35), which served as a means to maintain focus during the mysterious and often chaotic messy screenwriting and development process.

Table 1 The creative process

Envisioning Contemplation and inspiration Preparation Immersion Crafting Publication

Source: McVeigh (2015, p. 58) WORK-IN-PROGRESS: THE WRITING OF SHORTCHANGED 159

The Role of Creativity and Craft in the Writing of a Screenplay To examine what “creative story development” (Screen Australia 2017) means and how it aligns with craft, it is useful to consider the contemporary literature around creativity. Kerrigan and Batty cite creativity researchers Wallas (1976), Bastick (1982) and Csikszentmihalyi (1996) to situate screenwriting as part of systemic, iterative and recursive creative processes (Kerrigan and Batty 2016, p. 137). For example, psychologist Csikszentmihalyi defines creativity as a contribution to a system that recognizes the creative output as a tangible cultural, social or economic product (1990). Generally, Hollywood screenwriting manuals (Field 1979; Seger 1994; McKee 1999) do not emphasize the creative process as their focus is on the craft of screenwriting. However, Robert McKee does acknowledge that craft and creativity are integral elements of the process. He states:

Without craft, the best a writer can do is snatch the first idea off the top of his head, then sit helpless in front of his own work ... But when the conscious mind is put to work on the objective task of executing the craft, the spontaneous surfaces. Mastery of craft frees the unconscious. (McKee 1999, p. 22)

In her screenwriting manual, Writing Great Screenplays for Film and TV, Dona Cooper suggests that the creative process may be considered as a means of imposing order on chaos. She contends that to avoid uncertainty many writers “cling to the seeming certainty of formulas” but in doing so they lose contact with their “own personal insights and passions” which make writing more vivid and original (Cooper 1997, pp. 27–29). For Cooper, the integral nature of creativity and craft is a type of system of questions and answers where “you can focus on the craft to trigger the ‘function’ questions in your mind, then search through your creative instincts to find the answers” (Cooper 1997, p. 29). To develop my own “bespoke” approach to screenwriting, to understand “how the creative process works” and “find an approach that works” (Cooper 1997, p. 25) for me, I developed my own personalized model of the creative process (McVeigh 2014; 2016), building on the work of creativity theorists Todd Lubart (2001) and Anne Paris (2008), with stages as outlined in Table 1. It must be noted that these stages may or may not flow in a chronological order and may be recursive. These stages will be discussed in detail with reference to the writing of Shortchanged, but for now, I present a brief discussion of what each stage of the process involves:

Stage 1: Envisioning, sees the writer wanting or needing to write a screenplay. Stage 2: Contemplation and Inspiration gives rise to the “creative spark” that is impels the writer to write. Stage 3: Preparation involves the various ways in which the writer researches the material about which they will write. 160 M. MCVEIGH

Stages 4 and 5: Immersion and Crafting are the stages where the writer is actually writing and rewriting and deploying the tools of screenwriting craft. Stage 6: Publication is the first public reading of the script whether it is, for example, by a producer, funding body or in a read-through with actors.

Acknowledging that there were stages in the creative process freed me from the threat of writer’s block. It also freed me from the confines of a following a rigid structure for writing the screenplay as proposed by screenwriting gurus like Field (1994), with, for example, his advice to tie turning points in the three-act structure to page numbers in the script. Rather, I used structure as a guideline for the development of story at later stages of the script’s development and opened myself to Csikszentmihalyi’s (1996) notion of “flow”. In doing so, I was guided by Cooper’s advice to access the mode of thinking I needed to use; that is, whether I was creating or crafting depending upon what stage of the creative process I was involved in:

The right side of the brain helps you to develop an instinctive sense of what you want your story to accomplish, while the left side helps to determine which tools of the craft will best achieve that goal. (Cooper 1997, p. 28)

In the sections that follow, I illustrate the way in which I used the steps of the creative process to guide my work by outlining my work-in-progress writing of the first draft ofShortchanged .

The Creative Process: Envisioning, Contemplation and Inspiration Even though one may envision a screenplay about an intriguing idea or event, knowing what to write, or why one is inspired to write, is difficult to crystallize and often comes in fragments. Screen studies and screenwriting theorist Jill Nelmes believes the initial spark for a screenplay is triggered at a subconscious level and is personal: “The writer uses his or her life to pull out ideas, concerns, observations that have an emotional punch or dramatic quality and moulds these into a story” (2007, p. 110). American avant-garde filmmaker David Lynch notes in his treatise about creativity, Catching the Big Fish, that the notion of inspiration, of “getting” the idea that a writer wishes to develop, may be termed the “lightbulb” moment. He also notes that developing this idea is fragmented:

An idea is a thought. It’s a thought that holds more than you think it does when you receive it. But in that first moment there is a spark. In a comic strip, if someone gets an idea, a lightbulb goes on. It happens in an instant just as in life ... It would be great if the entire film came all at once. But it comes for me, in fragments. (Lynch 2007, 23) WORK-IN-PROGRESS: THE WRITING OF SHORTCHANGED 161

As befits all good fiction, my lightbulb moment, or my creative spark, that was to be developed into a story, came unexpectedly and it was personal. It was a yellowed newspaper fragment tacked to a makeshift gallery of family memo- rabilia that alerted me to the story of Mary Magdalene, my great-aunt by marriage. She made herself known to me one scorching hot summer’s day at a family reunion on a long-lost ancestor’s abandoned farm. Mary Magdalene was a mother who murdered her three children by drowning them in their sleep over a century ago. After the event, she had put them back to bed as if nothing had happened. The apparent unlikelihood of the event haunted me. I had to learn more about her. A reticent bachelor uncle knew a little. A garrulous cousin knew more. Later that day, with my husband, my three-year-old son and my baby, I travelled to the local cemetery to find the children’s mute and silent graves. I spent five months, from that creative spark of inspiration to the writing of a preliminary document for the screen, completing as much research as I could about Magdalene’s life, the murder and the topic of matricide. The more I researched her story, the more I felt for this mother of three, a woman trapped in a role dictated by her times—the social mores and sheer hard work of living and working in a harsh and challenging landscape. I learnt that the “best” room in my grandparent’s house, the room where I always felt cold when “sleeping over”, whether in summer or winter, was the room where Magdalene had put her dead children to bed for the last time. I was chilled to the bone with the thought that I had slept in their bed. I was haunted by the fact that the only way it seemed she could keep her children was to put them to rest for ever. I was tormented by the lost love and opportunity for all those involved—and the way they had all been short-changed in life. I felt a deep connection with her as a new mother. I wanted to explore her life more and share her story, and to perhaps find in her horrific crime an insight into what can happen if a mother is pushed too far.

The Creative Process: Preparation Initially, I thought that I would share Mary Magdalene’s story via writing in a documentary, but I wanted to challenge myself to write a feature film. I completed a one-day workshop, “Writing the Treatment”, run by the Australian Writers’ Guild (AWG) and successfully submitted the treatment to Film Queensland’s (now Screen Queensland) “New Writers’ Workshop Low Budget Feature Initiative”. This workshop involved collaborating with a script editor and five similarly funded new writer colleagues to write the first draft of a low- budget feature over a six-month period. The following is the synopsis for Shortchanged, which I submitted in the application for the workshop. Along with the treatment, it formed the blueprint for the low-budget feature script that was developed during the workshop.

Synopsis: Shortchanged 162 M. MCVEIGH

Eliza always knew she’d make it. But the cracks are starting to show in her showcase life. Just as she is offered the job-of-a-lifetime, the lure of a dark secret, hidden for generations invades her world. Eliza is haunted by memories of her ancestor, Mary Magdalene. Finally, she is confronted with the knowledge of a heinous crime that she is not sure she has committed. Will Eliza’s journey to the top be stopped dead in its tracks? Set against the pacy modern face of Brisbane’s high-rise CBD [central business district] and the sleepy lost world of the Darling Downs Goomburra Valley, Shortchanged deals with the big questions of life—family, happiness, commitment and the uncertain rewards of success. (McVeigh 2018)

The Creative Process: Immersion and Crafting

Where to Start? The synopsis and treatment that I had submitted for the workshop were written spontaneously over a one-week period with little regard for the dictates of craft. However, for me, the demands of writing a long-form screenplay meant that I needed to learn the craft of screenwriting. This involves considerations of theme, character, structure, metaphor, dialogue and emotion and, as noted, is still dominated by “how to” manuals. I found that there were texts that suited my way of thinking, creating and writing, and texts that did not. In the end, I took a little from each and developed a “bespoke” process that worked for me. In the following sections of this chapter, I discuss the way I addressed key craft factors, including the creation of character and the development of story, via the treatment and scene breakdown, as well as my use of the notion of the “dramatic centre”, the tool I used to bring order to the chaos of writing.

Keeping on Track As noted by Nick Cave (2013), “Ideas as such are overrated. It’s the work behind the idea that is important.” It is writers who capitalize on them. Once I had discovered my process for generating and crafting ideas, the discipline of the New Writers’ Workshop ensured they came to fruition. The workshop programme required submitting screenplay material— which included the key components: character notes, story outline, treatment, rough and a polished first drafts—in a predetermined sequence of deadlines over a period of six months. But adhering to the deadline schedule didn’t eliminate the intrinsic chaos of writing. Often I would wonder, “What am I writing about? What do I think I am doing here? Why do I need to say this?” I contemplated Ian Macdonald’s concept of the “screen idea” as a litmus test to evaluate the central truth of what I wanted to say. For Macdonald ‘the screen idea’ is an essence, an idea, “any notion of a potential screen work held by one or more people, whether or not it is possible to describe it on paper or WORK-IN-PROGRESS: THE WRITING OF SHORTCHANGED 163 by other means” (2004, pp. 90–91). It is like a blueprint that all involved in the making of a film may adhere to (McVeigh 2015). However, for me the concept of the “screen idea” was too theoretical; it was not visceral enough to access the emotions I wanted to explore. I found that the most powerful tool to create order out of chaos was Cooper’s notion of the “Dramatic Centre” (1997). It’s worthwhile considering this notion because the core of what a writer wants to say is often elusive and ephemeral. Cooper notes the focusing power of the dramatic centre when discussing her own writing:

Clarity on my dramatic centre also helped me understand exactly what questions I wanted the audience to be thinking about ... Once I knew the epicenter of the idea, I had both the inspiration and the clarity to make exciting and unified choices. (Cooper 1997, p. 37)

But, for Cooper, finding the dramatic centre is not easy. How does a writer capture this elusive concept? Cooper advises:

One of the ways I know I’ve found the real dramatic centre of my idea is that I feel a visceral click, a compelling mix of relief, clarity, certainty, and excitement. (Cooper 1997, p. 41)

This advice helped. When I was floundering for focus, by trying to recall that first shocking reaction, that spark, that impelled me to tell the world about Mary Magdalene’s story, I found that I could access the dramatic centre of my idea. I only had to imagine myself at the farmhouse again, at the grave of those young children. When I put myself in Mary Magdalene’s shoes, I conjured the cold, barren and remote world of her despair. This image and its associated “visceral click” in the pit of my stomach gave me the compelling drive to keep on track.

What Comes Next? As a novice screenwriter, I started my writing by obsessing about structure and “What comes next?” McKee asserts that character and structure are so inter- locked that “The event structure of a story is created out of the choices that characters make under pressure” (1999, p. 106). Following this advice, I found that by taking a step back from the action and becoming well acquainted with my characters meant there was no longer any need to rely on the machinations of plot to keep the story alive. The process of creation of fictional characters is different for each individual writer. Some writers are like bowerbirds, with a system of collecting images and characteristics of potential characters from their friends, relatives or acquain- tances. Some sit in coffee shops and watch the world go by. Others are like archaeologists. They intricately research the backgrounds of real people and use them as models for their fictional characters. 164 M. MCVEIGH

I utilized all of these processes to some degree: I researched Magdalene’s life and times through newspaper clippings and other means, and I reflected on the images I had first taken at the family reunion where I first learnt of her story— the dry and stony landscape, the children’s graves, the Spartan cottage. They all evoked a solitary and sad existence. I sat in coffee shops and wrote stream of consciousness. For each character, I wrote a “backstory” (McKee 1999, p. 183). However, I was not happy with the characters I had created. They appeared to be shallow and contrived, not characters who would be “best revealed through action that advances the story” (Seger 1994, p. 154). They also appeared to lack complexity. I found Linda Seger’s advice in this area helpful. Seger notes that “Character influences the story because the character, particularly the main one, has a goal. This goal gives direction to the story” (Seger 1994, p. 149). She terms this relationship between the character’s motivation and action towards this goal as the “character spine”—in effect, the combination of who the character is and why they do what they do. Characters need this spine to reveal to us what they’re willing to do to get to their goal. Seger suggests that if any of these elements are missing the character lacks direction and the story becomes confused and unfocused (Seger 1994, p. 150). I found the merging of Cooper’s concept of dramatic centre, with Seger’s concept of character spine to be an invaluable process for creating a complex character—thus impelling them by motivation and action—to explore the central precepts of my story. In Shortchanged, I attempted to distil the essence of the character Eliza via her character spine, which gave rise to the question: “What is her dramatic line?” (see Table 2): This process aside, I was still unhappy with the character of Eliza. I felt that she was not believable and that I didn’t know anyone who was remotely like her. To address this problem, I tried to capture Eliza’s voice. I talked with actor friends and asked them how they psyched themselves into roles. On their advice, I spent whole parts of my day trying to act like Eliza would in the context of my own life. I then tried to translate these new attitudes and feelings that I experienced into her dialogue in the script. I imagined myself putting my Eliza character on a coat hanger and taking her in and out of the cupboard to “wear” as appropriate.

Story Moments and the Treatment Writing a treatment for the workshop required me to conjure the look and feel of the film and to broadly describe the character’s journey through the world

Table 2 What is Eliza’s dramatic line? Creating the character spine Eliza wants to have it all. And this means for her there must never appear to be anything in her life that she can’t control or that anyone knows she can’t control

Source: McVeigh (2018) WORK-IN-PROGRESS: THE WRITING OF SHORTCHANGED 165 of the story in the present tense. While I had previously written a treatment for the film, so as to be selected for the workshop, the story had changed significantly as the development process unfolded. To develop this new treatment, I conjured up images of events and people I wanted to incorporate in my story, what I call “story moments”. Moments such as these are the springboards used by many writers. For example, instead of creating characters or imposing structure, American screenwriter Joan Didion starts with “pictures in my mind”, these being “images that shimmer around the edges”. She therefore allows the story to become, rather than to be formulated (Didion in Horton 1994, p. 33). I used the “story moment” as the first step in writing the treatment. I started with a central visual image, elaborated by a present-tense description of what would initially be a moment, then a scene and finally a sequence. Underlying this was the focus of the dramatic centre—the feeling of a woman driven to the edge to commit the unthinkable—and the need to drive the main character, Eliza, towards her goal through the choices she makes based on her motivations (her “character spine”). Table 3 contains an example of one such “story moment”.

The Scene Breakdown Writing the scene breakdown after the creative work of writing the treatment was the most technical part of composing the screenplay. In building terms, it could be classified as the mechanical engineer’s analysis of what is in the script and why. Within the New Writers’ Workshop, the scene breakdown was the term used for the intermediary step from treatment to rough first draft. This document contained scene headings and a scene-by-scene description of the screenplay, with action summarized in a few sentences. Every scene was numbered, just as it would be in the script. There was no dialogue. What the characters would say was noted in prose form. While not every writer tackles the time-consuming process of writing a scene breakdown (which no one else will read), it allows one to instantly see “whether the structure works, what the dynamics are and whether momentum is maintained” (Drouyn 1994, p. 102) as outlined in Table 4:

Table 3 Story outline/treatment We see Eliza coming home after the celebration. The atmosphere is of pervading loneliness. She looks in on the empty beds of her children’s bedroom. She flicks late night TV from station to station. We catch snatches of urgent buy-now ads, eerie new age music, and the final words of a true crime program: “She took them from their beds and drowned them like two unwanted kittens.” She listens to her phone messages—mundane messages of daily life—then a message from her little boy—“Good night. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

Source: McVeigh (2018) 166 M. MCVEIGH

Table 4 The scene breakdown: Self-editing questions This was the technical part. I found it heavy going at first. I think I got bogged down in my initial summaries but sped up towards the end. Then again, I don’t know about the climax scene. And the visual—I trust I’ve tackled it sufficiently. And the characters on the periphery? Why are they there?

Source: McVeigh (2018)

While writing the scene breakdown was tedious, it was extremely useful in helping me to reflect upon the logistics of character, location and plot. It also helped me to consider how these elements connected to my dramatic centre, and in particular, to focus on Eliza’s journey. This meant eliminating scenes and characters that were not essential to the key action.

The Creative Process: Publication—The Rough First Draft The crucial point in the overall writing process was the writing of the rough first draft—a document that would in effect be “published” as it would be read by potential collaborators and funding bodies as a completed work. It was the time to stop driving, reading, dreaming, drinking in coffee shops and to “write”. We were given three weeks to write the rough first draft, but in truth, we had taken a number of months to get to this stage. I aimed to write eighty pages of the screenplay in full, using dialogue and stage directions based on the scene breakdown. For this stage, I was keenly anticipating the intense experience of writing continuously from beginning to end. During this period, I lapsed in and out of the stages of immersion and crafting. At times I immersed myself in the world of my characters—lapsing into how I felt my characters would be feeling and reacting many times in a given day. I was obsessed with them. I found my feelings echoed by William Froug in his book, Zen and the Art of Screenwriting:

As you get inside your characters, you will know them intimately and they will become so real that they will speak their dialogue to you. This is one of the true joys of writing. (Froug 1996, p. 144)

As the script neared the climax, and whilst in the process of “flow” (Csikszentmihalyi 1996), writing was limited to one-hour periods, as the experience was emotionally draining. This intense period never involved rewriting or editing—the focus was on writing new material. I started each writing session where I had finished, reading only the previous page to refresh my memory. This, of course, is all part of keeping the story alive. By writing quickly, I found it easy to maintain momentum and the energy of the storytelling. Admittedly, the process is different for everyone. By the deadline, I had written WORK-IN-PROGRESS: THE WRITING OF SHORTCHANGED 167 a first draft that was suitable to be read by others and could be submitted to funding bodies for consideration for development assistance.

Conclusion: Where to Next? The treatment that I had originally submitted for workshop funding was for a high-budget contemporary drama with period-drama flashback sequences. It was to tell the story of Eliza, the high-powered publisher who uses her research skills to uncover a horrendous crime hidden in her family history. In labori- ously unravelling this story, Eliza is faced with a scenario that parallels the sense of entrapment in her own life. The film was to have a strong visual contrast between each of the locations and mise en scène. The script that resulted from the workshop process was for a character- driven, low-budget feature film. It relied on the creation of a strong lead character, rather than big budget sets. The storyline changed quite significantly. With the loss of the period-drama flashbacks and the varied locations, much of the screenplay unfolds in Eliza’s home and office and at the family farm. In writing this screenplay, I learnt that there are many great “how to” feature-film screenwriting books and I read them earnestly. I learnt that the process of writing a screenplay is one of continual refinement from one draft to the next. I learnt to value my own voice and to reflect upon what is important to you, for, as Froug argues,

The single most important gift you must bring to your screenplay is writing what you feel deeply about. Very likely what you are about is what every human being on this planet is about ... you are a bottomless well of experiences and emotions, and as a screenwriter, the place to put them is in your script. (Froug 1996, pp. 197–198)

Writing Shortchanged in workshop mode was an invigorating and thought- provoking experience, resulting in a screenplay inspired by a hidden family story that had affected me strongly. In this chapter I have discussed the “personal, private, difficult to account for and articulate” (Batty et al.2017 , p. 220) aspects of screenwriting craft and shared a model of the creative process that enabled me to manage the uncharted territories of writing fiction and the no- man’s-land of “what if?” and “what next?” The chapter serves as testimony that there are many ways to write a screenplay and that for each and every writer it is important to find the process that works for you—a “bespoke” process that celebrates the “art, craft and heart” of screenwriting and the power of story.

References 7.30 Report. Interview with Nick Cave. ABC. 26 Feb. 2013. Television. Batty, C. (2013). Creative Interventions in Screenwriting: Embracing Theme to Unify and Improve the Collaborative Development Process. Creative Manoeuvres: Making, 168 M. MCVEIGH

Saying, Being – Refereed Proceedings of the 18th Conference of the Australasian Association of Writing Programs, 1–11. Batty, C., Taylor, S., Sawtell, L., & Conor, B. (2017). Script Development: Defining the Field. Journal of Screenwriting, 8(3), 225–247. https://doi.org/10.1386/ jocs.8.3.225_1. Cooper, D. (1997). Writing Great Screenplays for Film and TV. New York: Macmillan. Csikszentmihalyi, M. (1996). Creativity: Flow and the Psychology of Discovery and Invention. New York: HarperCollins. Drouyn, C. (1994). Big Screen Small Screen: A Practical Guide for Writing for Film and Television in Australia. Sydney: Allen & Unwin. Field, S. (1994). The Foundations of Screenwriting. New York: Dell Trade Paperback. Froug, W. (1996). Zen and the Art of Screenwriting – Insights and Interviews. Los Angeles: Sillman-James Press. Horton, A. (1994). Writing the Character-Centered Screenplay. Berkeley: University of California Press. Kerrigan, S., & Batty, C. (2016). Re-Conceptualizing Screenwriting for the Academy: The Social, Cultural and Creative Practice of Developing a Screenplay. New Writing, 13(1), 130–144. https://doi.org/10.1080/14790726.2015.1134580. Lubart, T. (2001). Models of the Creative Process: Past, Present and Future. Creativity Research Journal, 13(3–4), 295–308. Lynch, D. (2007). Catching the Big Fish: Meditation, Consciousness, and Creativity. New York: J.P. Tarcher Penguin. MacDonald, I. W. (2004). Disentangling the Screen Idea. Journal of Media Practice, 5(2), 89–99. https://doi.org/10.1386/jmpr.5.2.89/0. McKee, R. (1999). Story: Substance, Structure, Style and the Principles of Screenwriting. London: Methuen. McVeigh, M. (2014). Can Creativity be Taught? Screen Education, ATOM (Australian Teachers of Media), 75, 57–63. McVeigh, M. (2015). The Making of Away and the Telling of a Cinematic Story. In R. Wirth, D. Serrati, & K. Madedulska (Eds.), Storying Humanity: Narratives of Culture and Society. Oxford: Interdisciplinary Press. McVeigh, M. (2016). Finding the Lightbulb Moment: Creativity and Inspiration in the Teaching of the Craft of Screenwriting. In ASPERA (The Australian Screen Production Education and Research Association) 2016: Screen Production Research: The Big Questions. Canberra. http://aspera.org.au/research/. November 2016. McVeigh, M. (2018). Shortchanged. Writers Notes Updated. Unpublished Personal Journal. Nelmes, J. (2007). Some Thoughts on Analyzing the Screenplay, the Process of Screenplay Writing and the Balance between Craft and Creativity. Journal of Media Practice, 8(2), 107–113. https://doi.org/10.1386/jmpr.8.2.107_1. Paris, A. (2008). Standing at Water’s Edge. California: New World Library. Screen Australia. (2014). Notes on Notes: Notes on Supporting Material for Development Applications. https://www.screenaustralia.gov.au/getmedia/7881e0b3a5e1- 43e6-97dbf8fc89b8d37f/Notes-on-notes.pdf. Accessed 13 May 2017. Seger, L. (1994). Making a Good Script Great (2nd ed.). New York: Dodd Mead & Co. Developing Baxter and Me: Maintaining Authorial Voice Despite Industry Pressures

Gillian Leahy

Introduction Baxter and Me (Leahy 2016) is an 80-minute feature documentary, in part a memoir, in part a close observation of my relationship with my large brown Labrador, Baxter (pictured with me in Fig. 1). The style is that of the poetic essay documentary, structured in three acts and organised along seasonal lines. Starting in summer, the film shows my relationship with Baxter in the present and then flashes back to my past with other dogs with whom I have lived. The story of my and Baxter’s present life and the past story of my life are interwoven throughout the seasons, with the winter section carrying the bleakest parts of both stories. The film ends on a positive note in summer, portraying my happiness now as a single older woman enjoying my companionship with Baxter. The film was funded by the national Australian film funding body, Screen Australia, through their Signature Documentary Fund. Independent filmmakers often fear that their collaborations with screen- funding bodies and with producers, undertaken so as to get their films made, will negatively impact on their filmmaker’s voice (Gibson and Leahy2003 ). Several filmmakers have documented their negative experiences of film development; for example, on the redrafting of her feature filmTravelling Light (2003) Kathryn Millard describes how ‘as the project progressed down the financing route there came increased pressure for the screenplay to conform to a more classic, protagonist-driven, three act structure’ (2010, 12). According to Millard, this pressure came from the ‘public broadcaster and government screen-funding agencies who would form a vital piece of the financing jigsaw if the script was to make it to the screen’ (12). On a related note, Margot Nash

G. Leahy (*) University of Technology Sydney, Sydney, NSW, Australia e-mail: [email protected]

Fig. 1 Baxter and Gill in bed from the opening sequence describes ‘risk-averse film development agencies and their quest for formulas and certainty in an uncertain marketplace’ (2016, 2). Both Nash and Millard argue for a creative development process that frees the author from market pressures, with Nash advocating instead for a ‘discovery-driven process’ (2). This chapter acknowledges the value of such a process, but argues that in relation to the development of Baxter and Me, the market pressures driving the demands of both the funding body and the film’s producer were ultimately of value. Unwanted pressure to bend to industry-driven ideas finally proved fruitful, resulting in a highly engaging film. This chapter details how I was able to incorporate such ideas and still keep most of my own, and the tactics that enabled this to occur. My original idea for Baxter and Me involved a script that addressed the history and science of dogs, drawing on the work of academics from the arena of critical animal studies. This is a cross-disciplinary field of study where academics write about theories and philosophy on the natures of animals, including subjects such as dogs’ rights and the ethics of the ways humans treat animals. This dry material aside, I nevertheless wanted to create a film that would be shown at film festivals and reach large audiences. This meant that it would need to have high production values—a good music track, a great edit and beautiful imagery—all of which are only achievable on a reasonable budget. With this desired outcome, I needed to find a producer that the national funding body, Screen Australia, would accept. It is difficult to apply for funds from Screen Australia without a well-respected producer and an experienced crew. DEVELOPING BAXTER AND ME: MAINTAINING AUTHORIAL VOICE… 171

Going down this ‘mainstream’ documentary path brought changes to the script and the overall conception of the film. My early script set out a largely poetic documentary, with some sections that were in an expository style. Nichols notes that ‘Poetic and expository modes of documentary often [sacrifice] direct engagement with specific individuals to construct formal patterns or compelling perspectives’ (2017, 132). This was the case with this early draft. My initial film script did not include clips from my previous films or make references to my previous life. It was largely a film focused on dogs. But my producer, Sue Brooks, a successful feature film director, was critical of ‘boring facts’ from history and science and of ‘academic ideas’ from critical animal studies that ‘stepped her out of the emotional story’ that was my intimate relationship with Baxter and with my former dogs. As a result, many of these ideas were lost in later drafts of the script. In this chapter, I outline both the challenge to obtain funding and the resulting challenges to develop the script. The two issues are intertwined. Obtaining government film funding requires that the script be approved by the funding body and also meet the wishes of the film’s producer, these figures having the ultimate power over the script and the funding arrangements, including the budget.

The Original Documentary Idea Since the age of eight I have lived with dogs, and although to some extent I took them for granted, I have always loved them. I have been a dog obedience trainer for over 20 years and I started training my first dog, Sandy-Sox, when I was ten years old. At the beginning of my journey towards the realisation of Baxter and Me I considered that making a film on this subject would also allow me to look again at the issues of love and intimacy that I had visited in my essay film My Life Without Steve (Leahy 1986) and at issues about the wild and the tame that had been the theme of my documentary Our Park (Leahy 1998). I desired to give voice to the ideas espoused by animal theorists Thomas (2010) and Haraway (2003, 2008). Thomas posits that dogs are necessarily slaves, while Haraway, a cultural studies theorist, suggests that instead we ‘become with dogs’ so as to create a two-way ‘team’-like relationship. I would show myself and Baxter teaching at my dog-training club and discuss the changes in thinking about dog training via narration. These changes involve a shift from notions of punishment to play-based training and positive reinforcement. The first treatment for the project was arranged in chapters around particular dog issues such as the right to de-sex dogs and the value of dog obedience training. It was also strongly informed by other dog memoirs such as The Hidden Life of Dogs (Thomas 2010), Travels with Lisbeth (Eighner 1994), My Dog Tulip (Ackerley 1999) and Marley and Me (Grogan 2006). These memoirs are all accounts of one-on-one intimate relationships between individuals and their dogs. Along with these dog memoirs, my wide reading on dog behaviour and dog training informed the script overall. 172 G. LEAHY

Finding Funding and Finding a Producer Fortunately, at the time that I was looking for funding Screen Australia had a fund called ‘The Signature Documentary Program’. This opportunity did not require a broadcaster attachment, and was designed to support ‘individual creative vision and innovation’ (Screen Australia 2011a). The programme provided production funding for projects that were ‘bold in form and content’ and required ‘an Australian team with a strong vision’ (Screen Australia 2011b). Since this fund would allow for a film that did not conform to a television format, it seemed ideal for what would be a personal essay film. An application to Screen Australia required me to have a producer of a certain calibre for the film. I set about a search, and eventually found Sue Brooks, a successful drama feature film director who also directs and produces documentaries. Brooks was sympathetic to a longer poetic essay film, and generally shared my vision on the style of the film and the sort of audience we wished to attract. Brooks’ partner in the production company Gecko Films is Alison Tilson, a scriptwriter and script editor with whom I had previously collaborated on My Life Without Steve (as script editor). Brooks and Tilson’s vast filmmaking experience meant that, later in the process, I would find it hard to ignore their market-driven suggestions. This experience reflects the fact that the producer is generally the one who has the power in the director–producer relationship. The producer can fire the director, they can insist on changes to the final edit and they allocate how the budget is to be spent. Directors and producers often have different priorities. Baker and Faulkner observe that, ‘as in any art world, filmmaking is plagued by the intrinsic dilemma of commercial versus artistic interests’ (1991, 286). Noting that artistic problems are complex, they suggest that ‘there must be a great deal of mutual coordination between those who supervise the transformation of “raw materials” and those who provide the expertise and talent for this process’ (287). One might consider the successful undertaking of the roles of director and producer to involve this concept of ‘mutual coordination’. Brooks made it clear she would allow me the right to decide on the final cut of the film; however, in line with Baker and Faulkner’s observations, our producer/director relationship was nevertheless one that had to be nurtured and protected if the film was to be completed.

Script Development In 2011, Brooks and I went to talk to the officers at Screen Australia who dealt with documentaries. They were interested in the project, partly because they admired my earlier film,My Life Without Steve (1986), but they thought that we needed to apply for development funding in the first instance, in order to create a full script, ‘sizzle reels’ and an on-camera ‘director’s statement’. These short video works indicate the style or ‘flavour’ of the proposed documentary, and are necessary to obtain more substantial funding. DEVELOPING BAXTER AND ME: MAINTAINING AUTHORIAL VOICE… 173

It is interesting to look at the one-paragraph synopsis that Brooks and I were contemplating when initially applying for Screen Australia funds:

BAXTER AND ME examines the intimate relationship between dogs and humans through an autobiographic look at my own relationship with Baxter, a large brown male Labrador. Baxter IS my family and I’m not ashamed to admit my love for him. But do dogs actually love humans or do we project that emotion onto them? Do we really love them? What do dogs want? Are we denying their dog natures by the way we treat them? What do they do for us? And we for them? Dogs evolved to live closely with people. Why? What does that mean? I have been training dogs and their owners since I was 11 years old and I still do. I have lived with dogs virtually all of my life. I’m one of a breed of humans called ‘dog lovers’ for whom dogs provide my major intimacy and affection. Are we putting dogs in the rightful place of humans? Should humans be on top of other species? This film will be a meditation on these questions that come up more and more in the modern world. Scenes include my work with Baxter in agility, obedience training and in our home together. My aim is that it be beautifully shot and structured, sometimes amusing and via my personal narration get into real depth on these questions. (Development Application, Brooks and Leahy 2011)

As this synopsis evidences, the application at this time retained the scientific idea of an intertwined dog–human evolution and made no mention of the later thread of my own life memoir.1 While our first submission to Screen Australia did not lead to production funding, we were successful in obtaining $25,400 (AUD) in development funding, a ‘sort of offer you cannot refuse’ accompanied by instructions that the film should change course in a major way and become more of a memoir of my life. While Brooks and I did consider making the film with no money by pulling in favours from crew, we decided that only a higher budget would allow us to reach the production values that we envisaged and to make the impact we desired. The money was used to undertake further shooting and editing of video material and to provide a small buyout from teaching to give me time to write a strong treatment and script. Our first application for ‘Signature Fund’ production funding in August 2012 was an encouraging rejection, in that Screen Australia would allow us to apply again. This is not usually possible after a rejection. The script at that point had evolved to be set in the past and the present but did not involve my personal memoir. However, the Screen Australia officers believed that ‘people were more interested in people than dogs’. Their attitude reflects industry conventions in relation to film narratives and audiences, namely the idea that an active and sympathetic human protagonist is necessary for the audience to identify and empathise with. This is an issue that is often debated but still

1 While it is still a matter of debate, many writers working in this area believe that dogs evolved alongside agrarian societies. It is thought that this was because dogs scavenged from agrarian set- tlements but also protected them from invaders to mutual benefit (Morey 1994; Mithen 2007, 125). 174 G. LEAHY

generally promoted (see Seger 1987; Dancyger and Rush 1995). In defence of the Screen Australia officers, I note that even the most successful drama films featuring dog actors are mediated by a human character. For example, Isle of Dogs (Anderson 2018) centres action on a boy named Atari, while White God (Mundruczó 2014) creates audience identification with a girl named Lili. Both of these young characters are trying to find their lost or banished dogs. From Screen Australia’s point of view, a film without a likeable human with which to identify would probably not attract audiences. Motivated by the desire to get my film made, I settled down to write the version that Screen Australia wanted. The new draft included clips from my previous films and stories of my past life mediated via my dogs. I was encouraged to include my experience as one of the forerunners in a number of movements, such as feminism and the right for women to fill technical roles on feature film productions. As I starting redrafting, I began to warm to the task. Brooks referred to me a book titled Dog Years (2008) by the respected poet Mark Doty, which was extremely influential on my redrafting at this time.Dog Years is a poetically written account of Doty and his partner’s life with their two dogs. Brooks hoped that Doty’s poetic style of writing might be a useful reference for my scriptwriting, encouraging a more elegant and less academic narration. One particular passage from Doty’s book involves reflections on the author’s relationship with his dogs, written as his beloved pet, Beau, was close to death:

He was a vessel. Himself, yes, plain, ordinary, and perfect in that sloppy dog way—but he carried something else for me, too, which was my will to live. I had given it to him to carry for me, like some king in a fairy tale, whose power depends upon a lustrous, mysterious beast, and who, without that animal presence, will wither away into shadow. I didn’t understand till much later how I’d given that power to both of them, my two speechless friends; they were the secret heroes of my own vitality. (Doty 2008, 14)

This passage, which offers insight into the bond between human and animal, influenced my writing on the death of my dog Ajax, which appears as narration in Baxter and Me:

I come home to find him missing and a note telling me to ring a phone number about my dog Ajax. They are very nice. When I ring the number on the note they say ‘Are you sitting down?’ ‘We could see he was loved’, they say. They put flowers around him. They say it had happened in an instant and they think he had no pain. The car didn’t stop. I remember the vet last time he had been hit by a car but had survived. ‘You don’t deserve to have a dog if you can’t look after him’, she said. So I blamed myself. D and I buried AJAX in the back yard under the lemon tree and burned a candle through the night to light his soul, his Ajaxness, or whatever it is, through to wherever he is going. I think that is nowhere but back into the earth—but his spirited nature lives in me still. (Leahy 2016) DEVELOPING BAXTER AND ME: MAINTAINING AUTHORIAL VOICE… 175

While I do not think my writing ever reached the poetic heights of Doty’s texts, I nonetheless attempted to use this poetic approach to narration throughout the film. It quickly became apparent that the narration needed to have a different style from my other written text. It had to be simple to speak aloud, have rhythm and be easy for the audience to understand. Despite Doty’s influence, the narration that appears in the final film is fairly prosaic. I consider the most poetic aspects of the Baxter and Me to come from the images; that is, from things that aren’t said but are conveyed in pictures. As the development process continued, Baxter and Me morphed into an increasingly autobiographical film with performative elements. Driven by feedback from Brooks and Tilson that the story wasn’t yet ‘deep’ enough or well structured, I began to think of the film as having an A story, this being my life with Baxter over the past eight years, and a B story, which would be about my past dogs. The latter strand functioned as a way of telling my own past life story mediated and mitigated by the dogs I had owned in the past. Clips from a number of my previous films and archival still photos helped me illustrate the major moves and issues of my past life. Agnès Varda’s The Beaches of Agnès (2008) could be said to work in a similar way, in that it represents the filmmaker in the present day while using installations, re-enactments and clips from her past films to discuss her life history. Bluher writes that ‘beyond narrating episodes of her fascinating life, [Varda’s] installations and (re-) enactments represent the emotional significance of these happy or difficult moments as Varda remembers them for us’ (2013, 67). Like The Beaches of Agnès, Baxter and Me went on to include performative elements, such as the re-enactments of events and scenes where Gill and Baxter are dancing in the kitchen. Baxter proved to be an excellent actor and would repeat the actions for shots exactly and land on his marks each time. He even managed to fake looking ill for a scene that pre- ceded a real stomach operation scene. Nichols describes the performative mode as ‘Embodied; Affective and situated; what we learn from direct, experiential encounter rather than second hand from experts or books’ (2017, 107). This observation suggests a tension between personal experience and expert opinion, which may provide a reason for another significant change in the film’s direction at this time. Most of the material about dogs, science, evolution, dog training and the ideas of animal studies theorists in the script was dropped. The new version revolved around a central theme—intimacy—dogs and intimacy and issues of love, intimacy and agency in my own life. The final draft script (one of more than ten drafts) was presented using Final Draft scriptwriting software, including narration, dialogue and descriptions of action in ‘big print’, just as a feature drama film would be formatted. We felt this format, rather than the conventional treatment required for documentaries, would convince the funding body that we had a less conventional and more dramatic film that would better fit within the Signature Fund guidelines. This final version rejected the ‘chapter’ structure described in the second section of this chapter in favour of a seasonal structure, with both the present-day and past sto- 176 G. LEAHY ries fully intertwined. This moved from an introduction in spring and summer covering aspects of Gill and Baxter’s relationship and the earlier part of Gill’s life, through to autumn and winter, where darker topics were raised about Gill (break- ups, abuse) and dogs (the right to kill (euthanize) and the deaths of dogs). Finally, the story lands in summer again, ending with a calm and happy tone that suggests the joy of living with dogs. Most importantly, there was now a strong narrative arc driving the story, rather than an assemblage of loosely related topics. We put in an improved application to the Signature Fund in 2014, which was approved in February 2015. Finally, we had the go-ahead! On the back of this funding success, I was granted sabbatical leave from my teaching job at the University of Technology Sydney in 2015 to shoot the film. This shooting was undertaken in stages, so as to fit in with the seasonal structure of the script and to accommodate cinematographer Steve Macdonald’s availability.

Reclaiming My Authorial Voice in the Edit It is an often-repeated mantra that documentaries are made in the edit. While Baxter and Me was fully scripted, and one might imagine that all we needed to do was follow the script and arrange the shots, sounds and narration to fit together, this was far from the case. The editor of Baxter and Me was Denise Haslem, a documentary editor renowned for her ability to give structure to the films on which she works. Her experience as an editor of engaging projects for television broadcast means that she is familiar with industry formats and pressures. Haslem worked with me to rewrite my narration so it would better ‘fit’ with the images, would better express what I wanted to say and would roll off my tongue more easily when I performed it. Most of all, she tried to make the film fit into a three-act structure of sorts, an approach that reflected her belief that all documentaries need a strong ‘story’ or narrative structure. The idea of a three-act structure as a framework for successful feature film writing was originally put forth by Syd Field in his 1979 text Screenplay and has become industry convention. In an updated version of his famous book, Field suggests that ‘It’s not uncommon for major film studios and production companies to contractually stipulate that a delivered screenplay must have a definite three-act structure’ (2005, 12). Such is the importance given to this format. It was reasonably late into the 12-week edit that I realised I was unhappy to have lost the material from previous drafts that had been removed to satisfy the producer and the funding body. We were getting close to the final cut and I had been distracted by the task of locating and scanning still images as part of the editing process. I wondered if the version at that time was the film I had wanted to make? In particular, I felt that my ideas about what I might call ‘dog liberation’ had not emerged fully in the final film. By ‘dog liberation’ I mean the sort of ideas put forward by Peter Singer (2009) and his followers, who see pet dogs as no better than slaves (Francione and Charlton 2016). Several ideas from critical animal studies were also missing, such as the questioning of the hierarchy of humans being ‘above’ animals and the ways in which we control, DEVELOPING BAXTER AND ME: MAINTAINING AUTHORIAL VOICE… 177 and in many cases torture, domestic animals. I felt I should be more upfront about my agreement with these sort of views. Driven by the feeling that my film was slipping away from me, I stood my ground and rewrote parts of the narration to include some of these ideas. Both Brooks and Haslem were sceptical as to how we could include these passages without them ‘sticking out like the proverbial dog’s balls’. My task then, was to make these critical ideas palatable for a mainstream audience. The answer, it seemed, was to connect them to my own experience, and to images of Baxter and other dogs. This managed to both personalise the material and make it less likely that audiences might be distanced by academic speak. It also meant that quite complex ideas could be expressed simply. For example, I wanted to say that much of the world had addressed issues of racism, colonialism and discrimination against women, but now we needed to consider animals as colonised. But where to put this statement and how to make it work? Haslem found a way to segue from my concern for environmen- talism that is evident in a film clip fromOur Park (Leahy 1998) to my concerns for animals. We used footage of my previous dog, Bib, enjoying himself in the water in the canal from Our Park and used the following narration to express the idea I was after:

The issue of the environment is still playing on my mind. And I start to ask myself—if I think women are the equals of men, and other races are equal as well, what of the animals? Why should we exploit them? Why should they be at the bottom of the pack? (Leahy 2016, 00.55.00)

Another of my original ideas had been to talk about freedom and control: how dogs were over-controlled and few dog owners recognised that they had their own agency and desires. Haslem created a new image sequence to illustrate this story and it found a place in the cut. This sequence included shots of Baxter crossing paths, playing with dogs who didn’t like him, and ones who did, and coming home from the park on a lead, now under my control. In presenting one last example, I refer to Colin Dayan’s critical text, With Dogs at the End of Life (2016). I wished to reference Dayan’s ideas on the ethics of dog ownership, as evidenced in the following passage:

It is with dogs before us and beside us that we are prompted to reconsider the ethical life: the conscience it demands, the liabilities it incurs. For those of us who believe the sharp distinction between human and nonhuman animals is unsustain- able, this book offers ways of thinking through the making and unmaking of life on earth. (Dayan 2016, 11)

I absorbed these ideas into a simple, personal statement, presented as narration: 178 G. LEAHY

When I sit on the ground with Baxter I sometimes wonder what the world would be like if dogs were really free. What would they choose? Would they still come and live with us? How would the world have to change? (Leahy 2016, 00.74.40)

This was by no means a direct quote or even a paraphrase but it included ideas of ethical behaviour towards dogs and the idea of dogs beside us. It also allowed me to make a point about animal liberation. This narration was accompanied by an image of myself and Baxter sitting on a seawall in a park by Sydney Harbour (see Fig. 2). We shot this image during the edit specifically to illustrate this new narration. This was the tactic I adopted in a number of instances, so as to insert academic ideas into the film and to ease the doubts of my producer and editor. As demonstrated, I personalised the material and related somewhat dry or abstract concepts to my relationship with Baxter or other dogs. The challenge of having to consider a mainstream audience when introducing academic ideas, rather than one made up of my academic peers, ultimately made for a film that would reach a wider audience.

Conclusion As I have explored in this chapter, there were significant changes made to Baxter and Me as industry pressures altered the film’s development path. These changes impacted on the film’s form, narrative structure and content, involving transformation from a poetic and expository film about dogs to a self-memoir and portrait of dog–human intimacy. The final product now includes my own story of failed attempts at intimacy and my more supportive and ultimately

Fig. 2 ‘When I sit on the ground with Baxter …’ DEVELOPING BAXTER AND ME: MAINTAINING AUTHORIAL VOICE… 179 more rewarding intimacy with dogs. It is a highly engaging film that, to date, has had considerable success at film festivals in Australia. The completed documentary is a different film from the one I would have made on my own because I chose the industry model. Working collaboratively on a film is a standard practice within the industry, as opposed to within the academy, where one might be able to work as a solo filmmaker artist. Working in an industry context, the input from major collaborators, (producer, editor, script editor, composer and funding body), has to be given due weight as they are co-creators of the film. Had I made this film using only my own funds, I may have produced a product that was more academic, more eclectic and more jumbled in its style, factors that may have prevented engagement with a mainstream audience. Therefore, despite my fears of losing my authorial voice, the industry pressures that I have explored in this chapter were ultimately of value. The move to include myself as a human protagonist in the story, to shape the narrative into a three-act structure of sorts and to absorb academic ideas via personalised narration made for a more audience-friendly film. While I often found the pressures from my major collaborators disheartening or annoying, their constant questioning and the repeated insistence on bringing me back to the task—a film about human–dog intimacy, about emotions—was in the end very fruitful. I was able to overcome the restrictions I encountered, using creative manoeuvres so as to weave the ideas that I held dear nto the final film.

References Ackerley, J. R. (1999). My Dog Tulip. New York: New York Review of Books. Anderson, W. (Director). (2018). Isle of Dogs. Motion Picture. Baker, W. E., & Faulkner, R. R. (1991). Role as Resource in the Hollywood Film Industry. American Journal of Sociology, 97(2), 279–309. Bluher, D. (2013). Autobiography, (Re-)enactment and the Performative Self-Portrait in Varda’s Les Plages d’Agnès/The Beaches of Agnès (2008). Studies in European Cinema, 10(1), 59–69. Brooks, S., & Leahy, G. (2011). Development Application for Baxter and Me. Unpublished. Dancyger, K., & Rush, J. (1995). Alternative Scriptwriting. Boston: Focal Press. Dayan, C. (2016). With Dogs at the Edge of Life. New York: Columbia University Press. Doty, M. (2008). Dog Years. London: Vintage Publishing. Eighner, L. (1994). Travels with Lizbeth. London: Bloomsbury. Field, S. (2005). Screenplay: The Foundations of Screenwriting (4th ed.). New York: Bantam Dell. Francione, G., & Charlton, A. (2016). The Case Against Pets. https://aeon.co/essays/ why-keeping-a-pet-is-fundamentally-unethical. Accessed 21 Aug 2018. Gibson, S., & Leahy, G. (2003). Repression and Expression of the Film-maker’s Voice in Australian Documentary. Metro, 135, 90–96. Grogan, G. (2006). Marley and Me: Life and Love with the World’s Worst Dog. Sydney: Hodder. 180 G. LEAHY

Haraway, D. (2003). The Companion Species Manifesto: Dogs, People and Significant Otherness. Chicago: Prickly Paradigm Press. Haraway, D. (2008). When Species Meet. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Leahy, G. (Producer/Director). (1986). My Life Without Steve. Motion Picture. Sydney: Galfilms. roninfilms.com.au Leahy, G. (Producer/Director). (1998). Our Park. Motion Picture. Sydney: Black Dog Pictures. roninfilms.com.au Leahy, G. (Director). (2016). Baxter and Me. Motion Picture. Melbourne: Gecko Films. www.baxterandme.com Millard, K. (2010). After the Typewriter: The Screenplay in a Digital Era. Journal of Screenwriting, 1(1), 11–25. Mithen, S. (2007). The Hunter-Gatherer Prehistory of Human–Animal Interactions. In L. Kalof & D. Fitzgerald (Eds.), The Animals Reader: The Essential Classic and Contemporary Writings. Oxford: Berg. Morey, D. F. (1994). The Early Evolution of the Domestic Dog. American Scientist, 82(4), 336. Mundruczó, K. (Director). (2014) White God. Motion Picture. Nash, M. (2016). ‘The Silences’: Process, Structure and the Development of a Personal Essay Documentary. Sydney Studies in English, 42. Nichols, B. (2017). Introduction to Documentary. Indiana: Indiana University Press. Screen Australia. (2011a). Review of Television Production Funding Final Guidelines. https://www.screenaustralia.gov.au/sa/new-directions/past-reviews/television- production-funding/final-guidelines. Accessed 28 Mar 2018. Screen Australia. (2011b). Media Release. https://www.screenaustralia.gov.au/sa/ media-centre/news/2011/mr_111212_signaturedoc. Accessed 28 Mar 2018. Seger, L. (1987). Making a Good Script Great. Hollywood/New York: Samuel French. Singer, P. (2009). Animal Liberation. New York: HarperCollins. Thomas, E. M. (2010). The Hidden Life of Dogs. New York: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. Varda, A. (Director). (2008). The Beaches of Agnès. Motion Picture. Writers, Producers and Creative Entrepreneurship in Web Series Development

Steinar Ellingsen and Stayci Taylor

Introduction The global web series ecology today is vastly different to what it was only three or four years ago in 2015/2016, and it is rapidly changing. Aymar Jean Christian observes that by the early 2010s in the USA ‘web platforms like YouTube hosted legions of indie comedy creators whose work legacy networks like Comedy Central, IFC, and MTV slowly began to develop and curate for both online and linear distribution’ (2018, p. 63). In other words, networks, studios, production companies and funding bodies have begun embracing the medium, both as a development platform and as a means to its own end. In early 2018 in the USA, Jeffrey Katzenberg raised $800 million for NewTV, a new platform which will be focusing on short-form content (Shaw 2018). Blackpills, a mobile streaming app dedicated to ‘edgy, impactful and youthful’ programming, was launched in Europe and the USA in 2017, with 12 original shows (Jarvey 2017). Co-founder Patrick Holzman told Variety ‘It’s like producing a single 120-minute movie every week’ (Spangler 2017), but with episodes of approximately ten minutes each and production budgets ranging from $500,000 to $3 million. In Australia, the peak funding body has granted over $25 million for web series and online productions since 2012, which have collectively generated more than 3.5 billion channel views just on YouTube (Screen Australia 2017a, b). In 2016, the Australian Broadcasting Corporation (ABC) alone made more than 100 hours of original digital-first programming for its iview platform (Bizzaca 2017b).

S. Ellingsen University of Wollongong, Wollongong, NSW, Australia

S. Taylor (*) RMIT University, Melbourne, VIC, Australia e-mail: [email protected]

Thus, the web series increasingly plays a significant role in the ‘post-network’ era of television, becoming an important locus of understanding for makers, scholars, teachers and students of episodic screen storytelling practices. ‘Shifts in the basic practices of making and distributing television’ writes Amanda Lotz, ‘have not been hastening its demise, but are redefining what we can do with television’ (2014). To situate the web series in this ‘moment’ that Lotz describes, is to understand that, as Christian puts it, ‘Web series are television, because stories are told episodically, in seasons, or through channels. Yet they are different from what people understand as “television” in the way series develop’ (2018, p. 13). It is this ‘way of developing’ that our chapter seeks to explore, especially how such processes of development might challenge traditional notions of key creative roles. This chapter will focus on two of these roles, the Writer and Producer, investigating how they function throughout the development of a web series. We will consider these sometimes separate and sometimes entwined roles within the context of the low-budget, independent web series (as defined in the following paragraph) including the question of what, if anything, changes about these roles once such series attract external funding. Ultimately, the purpose here is to investigate the development phase of a web series, and for this discussion to be centred on a practitioner-based enquiry of the key creative roles, in order to better understand the opportunities and limitations that working within this form presents. Further to this, an argument will be put forward about how individuals fulfilling these roles are evolving into what Cunningham and Silver refer to as ‘entrepreneurial and innovative creators’ (Ellingsen 2014, p. 107); those who can identify opportunities presented by a form for which few conventions appear yet to be established, and have the ability to not only create and distribute their content, but also to integrate promotional outcomes and commercial opportunities into their concepts from the outset. For as long as web series have existed there has been a parallel debate about terminology and definitions; however, the term ‘web series’ has persisted. Today there are more than 60 festivals dedicated to web series around the world, and most of these operate with a requirement for submissions that two or three episodes must have been made, and that episodes run for a maximum of 20 minutes. Some have requirements for episodes to be shorter than 15 minutes. For the purpose of this chapter, we will follow that as a definition: short, (screen-based) episodic series, made for online delivery. To that end, we subscribe to Aymar Christian’s terminology, whereby we refer to traditional, heritage or terrestrial broadcasting as ‘linear’ or ‘legacy’ television where the ‘development process is controlled by teams of network executives who solicit, license, and produce a select number of series’ (2018, p. 13). From there, we will proceed with the objectives of our chapter, to examine the roles and development processes of the web series or, as Christian defines them, ‘open TV, web or networked distribution’ (2018, p. 3). In this way, Christian has evolved the scholarship that previously hinged upon distinguishing ‘web’ from ‘terrestrial’ television, which, by very definition, necessarily included thestreaming WRITERS, PRODUCERS AND CREATIVE ENTREPRENEURSHIP IN WEB SERIES… 183 video-on-demand services (SVODs). While we do not necessarily argue for such internet-based content to be excluded from broader definitions of the web series (and, moreover, as argued elsewhere, commissioning processes practised by platforms such as Netflix differ in significant ways from broadcast networks; see Taylor 2015, p. 4), our chapter is interested in those web series that are ‘digital, on demand and peer-to-peer, meaning any participant in the web—a producer, a fan, a sponsor—can directly connect to another at any time, eliminating the need for legacy network executives’ (Christian 2018, p. 13). Further, we suggest that we can understand the notions of ‘open’ and ‘networked’ series as those that are made freely available to their audiences by the creators. At the time of writing, scholarship and discourse around web series is still emerging, and necessarily responds to the ever-shifting parameters presented by the affordances of online platforms. This chapter, then, draws on both academic literature and industry discourse, especially interviews with practitioners. Agency guidelines and press releases are also useful and important, as they help us understand the evolving processes of development, in terms of what is required to secure funding and what is considered a viable track record. While the online space within which web series are distributed and consumed tran- scends (to a certain extent) notions of geographical positioning, we situate this enquiry within the Australian context, insofar as it is those creators and government agencies we reference to track an understanding of how writers and producers develop their content in a space where ‘the one who writes or creates the show often ends up managing the entirety of its production cycle, from preproduction and production to post production and marketing’ (Christian 2018, p. 68). Our conclusion will include a discussion of where the roles of writer and producer intersect and where they remain distinct within the development processes of these types of independent web series, ultimately suggesting these roles are now more often subsumed by the creative entrepreneur.

Indie-velopment The web series is often celebrated as a mode of production which allows for a creative voice ‘[un]diminished by consensus’ (Miller cited in Williams 2012, p. 179). Early scholarship on the topic, including that of our own, tends to present ‘an optimistic view of the potential of web series to destabilise established script development practices towards new and more useful processes for screenwriters and their collaborators’ (Taylor 2015, p. 1). More recent scholarship challenges the ‘utopian view of the digital, wherein content is evaluated as revolutionary because it is interactive, given audiences greater access to community and an increased sense of participation’ (Monaghan 2017, p. 84), especially where that participation is tokenistic or nominal. But emerging from all this discourse is that the very development of web series in the way we have defined them hinges upon this relationship with the audience. 184 S. ELLINGSEN AND S. TAYLOR

Dan Williams has observed that one of the great benefits of making web series is that they provide ‘an opportunity for content to be produced and distributed to audiences whilst still being developed’ (2012, p. 67). This opportunity has become devised as a development strategy by some, beyond simply attracting views. Australian screenwriter and script editor Mike Jones said one of the great differences in developing for web is that the process is more iterative than linear TV. Jones advocates for ‘inviting people in’ from the beginning, as a way of building an audience early on, by sharing and being ‘open about your processes’ (2017). A notable difference between this approach and the more traditional strategy of finishing a project before launching it to the market is that the connection between creators and audience is arguably a much closer one. Instead of an audience, ‘you get fans [...] who become your agents and evangelists’ (Jones 2017). Creators who are successful in this development strategy will have more currency negotiating for funding:

Invariably, the investment paradigm has been shifted. It’s no longer ‘come to get money to prove I can make a show with an audience’. It’s come with the audience and then you leave them [funding bodies] with no argument to not give you the money. (Jones 2017)

Jones, borrowing a term from entrepreneurial economics, claims that writers and producers should think about their ‘minimum viable product’ to prove their vision to both audiences and funding bodies (2017). He suggests that creators understand this notion of minimum viable product by asking themselves to identify ‘the smallest version of the bigger thing I can make within the resources that I have available’ (2017). The way that Jones and others talk to and about web series creators reveals something about the development culture of the online space. It assumed that everyone in the creative development will see the project through to distribution. This could be a simple matter of funding, whereby ‘productions cannot afford to hire separate people for all the necessary roles, so workers naturally end up doing more than they signed up for’ (Christian 2018, p. 60). However, we suggest this occurs because, as Jones believes, the whole development process is iterative and ‘audience-facing’ (2017), and therefore notions of linear processes of development and production, with roles at each end, become less significant. To explore these ideas, we offer two case studies of creative teams behind Australian web series (Bryant and Velinsky, and McCartney, McLennan and Simpkin) that have approached the development process in slightly different ways. Rather than examining one-off productions, here we examine career trajectories built around a range of web series works by these makers. We discuss how these creators have approached the incorporation of writing and producer roles in their processes, and how, to differing extents, these roles become porous and are absorbed by a new way of working: that of the creative entrepreneur. WRITERS, PRODUCERS AND CREATIVE ENTREPRENEURSHIP IN WEB SERIES… 185

Bryant and Velinsky The Melbourne-based six-part comedy web series Method, written by (and starring) Tawni Bryant and Jerome Velinsky, follows two struggling actors ‘doing whatever it takes, wherever it takes them ... based loosely on [the creators’] personal experiences as out of work actors’ (Melbourne WebFest 2017). The creative duo had three funding applications rejected in the early stages of the project, but during this process, they made and capitalised on their minimum viable product. By mid-2016, they had released a trailer that gained more than 40,000 views, shot a pilot and successfully crowdfunded $13,535 to produce their first season (from 158 backers on Kickstarter). Bryant and Velinsky said they were both sick of turning up to auditions and not getting hired, and therefore taking their ‘careers into their own hands’ was a big part of the motivation behind the series (personal communication, 24 January 2018). To a degree, Bryant and Velinsky became writers by necessity (although Velinsky now has a number of screenwriting awards to his name) and both of their agents encouraged them to create their own material. They built the story world and wrote the pilot together, after which Velinsky wrote the rest of the episodes. However, they insist that sharing the creative and production roles was ‘a necessity. You’re in this alone, and you’re in this together. You equally need the support, and you need to be able to trust the judgement of your partner’ (personal communication, 24 January 2018). In the spirit of creating a ‘minimum viable product’, they put aside one episode that they realised would be too difficult and unwieldy, but have kept it on the backburner for a second season, should they get funding. The exercise in scaling down is often part of the challenge for all independent productions. The key, then, is to spend a lot of time surveying the web series landscape and working on the script. Method was eventually acquired by Australian commercial free-to-air network, Channel 9 and its on-demand platform, 9Now, premiering in January 2018. While both creators agree they enjoyed the creative freedom of working online and working on their own original project, they saw lack of support as the biggest issue—beyond it simply being a question of financial support. In addition to a successful crowdfunding campaign, Bryant and Velinsky were able to organise cast and a skeleton crew from favours, making every dollar count. However, they describe the development process as a somewhat lonely experience and emphasised the importance of the partnership in keeping the project alive—both in terms of keeping the project on track and making the most of the ideas but, importantly, also in terms of helping each other stay sane throughout the process. Said Velinsky: ‘You have to be ruthless. That’s why you’re sharing roles. It’s easy to fall in love with your own bits, and you need someone to help you make tough decisions’ (personal communication, 2017). ‘You have to share’, Bryant agreed, adding: ‘You need the support, and you have to be able to trust the judgment of your partner’ (personal communication, 2017). 186 S. ELLINGSEN AND S. TAYLOR

Interestingly for the purposes of our study—that is, how the roles of writer and producer play out in the specific context of web series development— Bryant and Velinsky then got producer Kristin Sargent on board, who helped the project secure post-production funding through Screen Australia’s Online Production Fund and the acquisition deal with Channel 9.

McCartney, McLennan and Simpkin The ABC ‘breakfast TV’ parody series, Get Krack!n (2017), debuted as the most viewed programme on Australian TV in its time slot (Samios 2017) and received critical acclaim (Buckmaster 2017; Neutze 2017; Razer 2017). Writers (and stars) Kate McCartney and Kate McLennan, and producer Tamasin Simpkin, built a platform to launch their careers by way of independent web series, beginning with Bleak (2014). Bleak is a four-part black comedy following the life of a young woman returning to the family home after an unhappy relationship comes to an end. It marked the start of the creative partnership between McLennan and McCartney as writers. The project was originally conceived as a TV series for which they won a writer’s grant (the Kit Denton Disfellowship), but they were unable to connect with a network. In a panel discussion at the 2014 Emerging Writers Festival, asking ‘Are web series the new spec script?’ McLennan said that the development of Bleak as a web series was a result of the two writers making a website for the project and keeping an ongoing presence for the project on social media. Eventually, the series became a product of the ‘snowball effect of social media’ (Clayton 2014). In mid-2013, they started a crowdfunding campaign on Pozible, which reached its target of AUD $5000 within 24 hours of launching, and eventually provided $9499 (Bleak 2013). The series was released weekly on YouTube in March/April of 2014. When pushed to comment on whether the Internet and the web series had provided ‘a brilliant new world where talented people like yourselves can put your raw work up without influence of producers and commercial interests’ (Clark 2014), McLennan suggested that she and McCartney had been fortu- nate to have that chance, given that (Clark 2014):

It’s hard to fully realize your vision on the television screen, because there maybe a few too many people throwing their opinions into the conversation. The way we’ve done it we can show people and say ‘Here, this is how we’re doing it. See. That’s the tone. That’s the template for the series.’ Of course people may look at it and say ‘No, we don’t like that’, and that’s just the way it goes, at least we’ve had a chance to make something we’re proud of and on our own terms.

This interchange suggests that, for McCartney, the web series released directly to the Internet constituted an opportunity for experimentation for those determined to realise their independent vision, albeit on a tight budget and with little or no financial returns. As has been noted elsewhere, ‘It is WRITERS, PRODUCERS AND CREATIVE ENTREPRENEURSHIP IN WEB SERIES… 187

perhaps unnecessary to point out the creative freedom that comes from working within an independently produced and distributed form’, but it is also true that this element of web series development ‘dominates the emerging discourse’ (Taylor 2015, p. 7). For instance, Anna Kerrigan, multi-award-winner creator of the American comedy series The Impossibilities (2015b) has said: ‘The glory of self-producing on the web is that you don’t have to answer to anyone but yourself and your collaborators’ (2015a). That sentiment is, for many writers and producers, the motivation for taking on their first web series project, whether as a first-time filmmaker, or as a person with some degree of industry experience, who embarks on creating and producing their first intellectual property in hopes of transitioning to different roles within the industry. In other words, making web series are career-building endeavours for many writers and producers. It seems for McCartney, McLennan and Simpkin, the writing and producing development processes were clearly delineated from the start in the tradition of linear TV—perhaps as a result of the project originally being conceived for a traditional format. However, as noted with regard to developing the series for web, as a writer you need to embrace the web as a medium and engage your audience. ‘You have to get over the beauty of television,’ said McLennan, ‘[o]wn your content, have a plan and decide what message you want to communicate to your audience. You have to constantly be updating, retweeting and commenting. It’s fun work but it is also endless work’ (Clayton 2014). In other words, though McCartney and McLennan are credited as writers, they were also doing fundraising, and marketing and promoting the project. With Bleak, McCartney, McLennan and Simpkin had proven that they could create relatively high production values with limited funds—and they could build a cult following for their work. Their next project, The Katering Show (2015)—parodying contemporary obsession with food culture and cooking shows, with feminist undertones—was backed by Screen Australia’s multiplatform fund and had an estimated budget of $200,000. Again, it is notable that the discourse around the career trajectories of McCartney, McLennan and Simpkin focuses less on the show’s development, but rather tracks the team’s movement over platforms. For instance, it is widely celebrated that within the first week of its launch on YouTube,The Katering Show clocked more than a million views (The Katering Show 2015). Likewise, it is routinely noted that the team eschewed opportunities to transition from YouTube to a half-hour series on linear television, instead accepting a commission from ABC iview (its online on-demand platform) for the second season of The Katering Show (Simpkin, personal communication, 4 December 2017). For the creators, this was an important step in their development whereby staying online helped develop the characters and story world. It also had benefits in terms of helping the audience migrate. Said Simpkin: ‘It was like taking “a half step” in bringing the audience across from YouTube and getting them used to watching it on other platforms before [we] transition to a new show [on television]’ (personal communication, 4 December 2017). 188 S. ELLINGSEN AND S. TAYLOR

The second season of The Katering Show became the most watched ‘iview original’ in 2016 with more than a million views in the first month (Kentera 2016). It appears, then, that ‘success’, both in terms of audience and future career prospects, is a product of good storytelling, but also of the team’s creative strategies and entrepreneurial skills. In this more iterative approach to development, for the writers—who in the cases of Method and Bleak/The Katering Show are also the actors in the series—it becomes imperative to think about audience engagement strategies as part of the development of their story world. Writing, and producing, engaging ancillary content for social media is arguably both a great marketing and development strategy. Tamasin Simpkin said that when she is talking to first-time web series creators she often finds they are overwhelmed by this aspect: ‘I understand that side can feel like a whole second show in itself. You have to figure out a way to generate enough content to sustain it without making too much work for yourself, so it’s this balancing act’ (Bizzaca 2017a). This suggests somewhat of a reversal of the Bryant and Velinsky process—whereby roles that were at first porous become more delineated once the product is developed. Either way, there is no fixed, ‘authentic’ or established process for these web series writers and producers.

Conclusion It has been our objective to examine notions of ‘creative control’ and interactivity that play out in the online space of the independent web series and what this means for the roles of the writer and producer. While the practices of web series creators destabilise mainstream processes of development (Taylor 2015), there are particular considerations that steer such processes into familiar chains of production. Christian believes pure independence is an illusion, because ‘aspi- rants cannot break completely from dominant frames and practices, where capital flows’ (2018, p. 155). Yet the web series offers unique factors, in terms of form, format and medium, which will always see it enact ‘a bottom-up approach to development, in which creative workers, fans, and sponsors pilot new stories, represent new experiences and communities’ (Christian 2018, p. 12). In the case studies, it becomes clear that even when roles are more traditionally delineated, as they are in the case of McCartney and McLennan (writers) and Simpkin (producer), the affordances and demands of the medium see writers enter into development with not only distribution processes in mind, but also engaging with audiences before and through the development. Beyond the case studies, there are other web series creators making clear their developmental points of difference. For instance, US web series High Maintenance (2016–) co-creator Ben Sinclair reveals he and his co-writer Katja Blichfeld ‘don’t really write scripts so much as shooting drafts’ (cited in Christian 2018, p. 94), a situation Christian believes is reflective of filling multiple roles, which contributes to flexible production styles (2018, p. 93). Further, we suggest this is indicative of a subsuming of designated writer and producer roles into creative entrepreneurship, whereby despite the pick-up of High Maintenance to Vimeo’s on-demand platform and then, ultimately, WRITERS, PRODUCERS AND CREATIVE ENTREPRENEURSHIP IN WEB SERIES… 189

Home Box Office (HBO), Sinclair and Blichfeld developed the series in a way that remains open to the influence of arbitrary production conditions, availability and, potentially, audience intervention (see Christian 2018, pp. 93–94). Emerging creators understand this; when discussing the development of their Australian web series Leftovers (2015), creators Andrew Mills, Helena Ruse and Pippa Mills look back to their beginnings, where the initial appeal was ‘to post videos online and get reactions from an audience’ (Settinelli 2017). As it has grown, they strategically built that audience ‘through having a pre-determined time for uploads that allow people to know when we’re publishing’ (Settinelli 2017). In early 2018, Special Broadcasting Service (SBS) released its first commissioned short-form series for SBS On Demand. Homecoming Queens is a dram- edy series in seven episodes, described as a ‘low budget anti-comedy’ (Knox 2018) and filmed in Brisbane, Australia. Co-creator Michelle Law insists the project was always envisioned as a web (as opposed to ‘television’) series. She believes web series get a ‘bad wrap’ as purely a stepping stone, when they should be acknowledged in their own right: ‘It’s a different form of storytelling and it forces writers to contain a story within a particular framework, but it’s also inviting viewers to consume something in a way that’s perhaps more con- ducive to their lifestyle’ (Bizzaca 2018). Increasingly, though, there is an expectation from investors that creators are looking ahead. Simpkin points out that in their initial funding application to Screen Australia for The Katering Show, one of the criteria was to consider where the show could potentially go beyond the first season (personal communication, 4 December 2017). Arguably, the notion of web series as ‘calling card’ is no different to the independent short film—a process Clare Sladden, the creator of Australian comedy Freudian Slip (2018) could be describing when noting she made the web series as ‘proof of both the project, and of my ability to take an idea from concept, all the way through to distribution, and deliver on my vision’ (Vogt 2018). However, the medium, as Christian points out, offers something else ‘by opening mass distribution to those excluded from legacy development processes, fostering new ways of creating and marketing series’ (2018, p. 13). It is our contention that these ‘new ways’ demand a rethinking of traditional roles and production hierarchies, and that further and ongoing research, for scholars, creators and educators, must necessarily continue to respond to this rapidly evolving landscape.

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Martin Potter

Introduction Big Stories, Small Towns is a transmedia participatory documentary series that commenced production in 2008 and has facilitated the telling, recording, archiving and dissemination of more than 500 auto/biographical narratives in Australia, Cambodia, Hungary, West Papua, Malaysia and Indonesia across thirteen towns. Big Stories is based around professional media makers living in a town, as filmmakers-in-residence, and creating stories with local people. In this chapter I will reflect on, from the perspective of a practitioner, the processes of working with small communities and non-professional media makers to facilitate creative documentary work and key theories and practices that have supported this work. I will also discuss theoretical and practice-based developments of participatory modes of engagement with the media, examining production processes in the light of culture and technology, in particular projects that have influenced the multi-year, multi-siteBig Stories, Small Towns project. Through case studies from Big Stories, Small Towns this chapter will explore the process of professional and non-professional media makers co-creating stories. Spurgeon et al. (2009, p. 275) describe co-creative media as

a tool for describing the ways in which participatory media are facilitated by people and organizations, not just technology

M. Potter (*) Deakin University, Melbourne, VIC, Australia e-mail: [email protected]

To further define a human-centred approach, it is necessary to recall Illich’s (1979, pp. 17–18) descriptions of “Tools for Conviviality” to offer a small divergence from Spurgeon et al.’s description of co-creative media. In Illich’s understanding, organisations are also tools. This notion of co-creativity as people-centred and therefore relationally oriented, rather than technologically (or organisationally) determined, has been central to the Big Stories project. At the Massachusetts Institute for Technology (MIT) Co-Creation Studio, founded in 2017, a proposition that draws on Spurgeon’s foundational description and deepens the human, collective and process orientation found in Big Stories states that

Co-Creation offers alternatives to a single authored vision. It’s a constellation of media methods and frameworks. Projects emerge out of process, and evolve from within communities and with people, rather than being made for or about them. Co-Creation also spans across disciplines, organizations and can also involve non- human systems. Co-Creation ethically reframes who creates, how, and why. Co-Creation interprets the world, seeks to change it, with a commitment to equity, and justice. (MIT Co-Creation Studio 2017)

The purpose of this chapter is to focus on processes of developing stories with people in the Big Stories project, specifically on my work with local content producers (LCPs), who are participants in the project and make substantial contributions in terms of producing content and facilitating the participation of other community members. The chapter is refracted through a constellation of methods and frameworks, but, in keeping with a human-centred approach, I reflect on the people who have inspired practice, rather than on models of practice. My roles in the Big Stories, Small Towns project are multi-faceted. I am creative director—setting the overall context for the project and overseeing production. I am one of two producers sharing in the roles of resource gathering and partnership development with community and institutional partners. I have also been a filmmaker-in-residence across most sites. As producer and filmmaker-in-residence I oversee delivery of stories to participants, community, funders and other stakeholders. The Big Stories project has been driven by my interest in working with communities to produce creative works central to their lives and relevant to the world that may also facilitate communal transformation. In this project, there are attempts to collectively represent various human experiences, as well as my own creative voice, through the personal expressions of myriad participants. In approaching the Big Stories project and the processes of collaboration I made two assumptions. The first assumption is that humans cast their identity in some narrative form in all cultures and therefore storytelling is at the core of describing both individual and collective experience. Not only are we, individually, made of stories, but our collective identity and our LOCAL CONTENT PRODUCERS: CO-CREATING COMMUNAL STORIES… 195 sense of community is composed of the stories that we tell and share. The second assumption is that participatory media have the potential to create a more nuanced, ethical, diverse and democratic media culture. This is an unashamedly utopian attempt to reimagine community by enabling space in everyday life for a community to articulate and reaffirm progressive tenden- cies through the application of new technologies, new ways of learning and new critical theories. An additional foundational assumption from the outset of the project has been that the role of the artist in society is to actively listen and create. These assumptions, taken together, construct an overarching vision for the project that “the stories we tell others and ourselves are how we imagine and re-imagine our world as well as our selves” (Potter 2014, p. 2). The structure of Big Stories has been shaped by an understanding of the intrinsic value of telling and documenting stories about the lives of people in community, with the active involvement of the local community at every stage of production.

Project Beginnings and Structure Big Stories emerged as a response to gaps in Australian regional and remote communities’ participation in screen and digital cultures, which I became aware of during my work in regional South Australia (SA) for the screen development agency, the Media Resource Centre, and on independent participatory media projects from 2004 to 2007 (Potter 2014, pp. 75–76). Funded through Film Australia’s National Interest Program, the South Australian Film Corporation, Country Arts SA and Port Augusta City Council, the first iteration of the Big Stories project took place in Port Augusta, SA. The project was based around filmmakers-in-residence living in a small town and creating stories with local community members, using a variety of participatory methods. The project showcased stories produced over the course of the residency in a range of settings from local exhibitions and screenings to TV, and in a global forum via the bigstories.com.au website. This overarching structure of a filmmaker residency model (local showcase of works produced, followed by wider broadcast and online exhibition) that was established in Port Augusta has remained consistent across all subsequent sites. The structure has allowed for ongoing feedback by participants and the broader community about the stories that are made and the project as a whole. The project has been an evolving and process-led work that seeks to describe a complex reality of multi-layered communities. The processes of participatory production changed with each town, but I note that Big Stories has drawn on a number of traditions in documentary and other art forms that explores ways of “recording everyday life through story, and as a reflexive interplay between subjects and documentary makers” (Potter 2014, p. 23). The idea of this reflexive process has been at the core of funding proposals for all iterations of 196 M. POTTER the project. Process-oriented production, rather than product-oriented production, is a defining characteristic of the project. The filmmaker’s residency at the heart ofBig Stories sees filmmakers undertaking a range of facilitated filmmaking and community media interventions as well as producing observational documentary films. The facilitated works and documentary films are site specific and develop according to community interests and in response to local, social innovations. The intent was to engage community members who were connected to local social innovations to tell their stories, as well as to introduce key community members to techniques and practices for creating their own stories. Both the ‘About’ Big Stories page on the website and the briefing document provided to filmmakers working on the project describe this as “shining a light on people caring for and creating their community” (Potter 2014). Another part of the process proposed at the outset was to screen back content produced in the town in various settings to get feedback from the community, and to engage and inspire the community with their own stories. However, the process of engaging people with the project was complex. A key part of the work was in the development of relationships with local people who would make extraordinary contributions to the project.

Project Influences Aspects of Big Stories, notably the immersive residency, were inspired by the 2006 National Film Board (NFB) of Canada project Filmmaker in Residence, centred on documentary filmmaker Katerina Cizek being in residence at St Michael’s Hospital in Toronto over a number of years. Cizek had, in turn, been inspired by the Fogo Process (1966–1967) of the NFB’s Challenge for Change programme of the 1960s and 1970s (Filmmaker in Residence, 2005–2007). The Fogo Process was a ground-breaking participatory communications initiative aimed at empowering people through the use of film. Film was used as a mechanism to communicate across communities on Fogo Island, to present local expert perspectives on significant issues shared by islanders in disparate communities and to showcase local experiences and ideas in addressing these problems. Screenings of the locally focused films were followed by discussions, with over thirty screenings and discussions taking place. In addition, films were shown to other decision makers off the island, some of who recorded response films that were subsequently screened back across the island. Director of the Fogo Process, Colin Low, has offered reflections on the experience in Nemtin and Low (1968) and Low (1972, 1984). Co-initiator of the Fogo Process, Don Snowden, also reflected on the project in Quarry (1984). The project has been detailed in a number of articles and books, including Newhook (2009), Williamson (1989), Evans (1991) and Crocker (2008). The resulting films also offer a description of sorts of the community development process and an insight into how the filmmakers shaped stories to trigger discussion. However, as director of the overall Challenge for Change programme for the NFB, George Stoney, noted, LOCAL CONTENT PRODUCERS: CO-CREATING COMMUNAL STORIES… 197

The films and tapes were not important in themselves. It was the process and the ideas. (Stoney in Sturken 1984)

The Fogo Process was to become an historical touchstone of participatory media process for the Big Stories project, especially in the conception of key community roles such as the “social animator” and processes of screening back and seeking local approval prior to distribution of stories beyond the community. The Fogo Process had been arrived at through a cross-sectoral collaboration among filmmakers, community development workers, academics, community members and government officials contributing to the project. A collaborative interdisciplinary approach was also used in Big Stories. The filmmakers are deeply engaged with residents who are both local experts and facilitators— social animators. Big Stories has also used the feedback process of individual, family, then community screenings and approvals, prior to any broader public release. The works of Jean Rouch from the late 1940s were also an important influence on the Big Stories collaborative and transmedia approaches. While many of the films of Rouch (such asJaguar , 1965, and Petit à Petit, 1968) are primary documents that embody community engagement, key written texts (see Rouch 1974, 1978 [2003]) offer detailed insight into the processes and theories that shaped Rouch’s notions of participation—what Rouch (1974) describes as a “shared anthropology.” These texts outline the possibility for achieving transformative outcomes for participants, community and beyond, through the use of story to enable collective identification and reflection. The influences of theFogo Process and the broader project of Rouch’s work in developing the skills and careers of local collaborators are felt on Big Stories in a number of ways. Both influences speak to a clear necessity for documentary makers to be self-reflexive in their approach and to be aware of the impact of both their presence and the stories in order to facilitate meaningful individual and social transformation. There is the work of reconciling the aims of institutions, community, participants and filmmakers. There is the historically important reconceptualisation of how documentary and media can be used for community benefit. There is the community engagement, specifically in the creation of particular community roles; there are numerous stylistic approaches that have been influential; and there are the filmmakers’ reflections on their processes as a whole, illuminating a reflective and critical practice.

The LCP as Community Facilitator or “Social Animator” One of the most substantive models of participation that evolved within the Big Stories project was that of the LCP. The role was shaped by participatory models found in both the Fogo Process and in the films of Rouch. It was Colin Low’s work with Fogo locals Fred Earle and Randy Coffin that most informed 198 M. POTTER the LCP role within Big Stories. Low had termed the Fogo locals, notably Fred Earle, “social animators” who negotiated mechanisms of participation with the community and whose knowledge of the community and their issues, proved indispensable. As I’ve previously noted,

Earle was instrumental in facilitating agreement between the film crew and the community. He identified local experts who could address particular problems as interview subjects. In most cases, Earle and Low conducted interviews in tandem. (Potter 2014, p. 27)

Within Big Stories, the LCP role was developed to become an extension of the “social animator” through increased involvement in targeted workshops and community-based advocacy for the project. LCPs were framed as ongoing contributors and advocates for the project—they became the local face of the project to the community. In the second iteration of Big Stories, Small Towns that spanned towns of Raukkan and Murray Bridge in SA and Banlung in Cambodia, I set out, in collaboration with the other filmmakers-in-residence in these towns, to address filmmaker-centric production methodology and our understanding of the unevenness of participation in the project by engaging local people in each location through a variety of means. These means included development of the community-based LCP role, a key production role that would also be a professional development opportunity for the individuals assuming these positions. While models of creative media participation were important, ultimately it was the relationships with particular members of the community that drove broader community engagement and an understanding from local people that these stories were “made with, not about” them. In multiple funding applications, I described stories as being made “with, not about, the community” (excerpted in Potter 2014, appendices 1–6). This is a significant part of what the residency component is all about—the facilitated filmmaking and community engagement process. This language, “stories with” draws on historical practices described by John Grierson, founder of the NFB, as the shift from films made about people to films made with people (Sussex and Grierson 1972, pp. 29–30). The models of participation used to facilitate this shift were inspired by a range of practices, from participatory photography works created by Ewald (1985) and Wearing (1992–1993) to digital storytelling workshops (Lambert 2002, 2007), to a range of participatory video and documentary practices invented for the project or inspired by other practitioners, such as Lunch and Lunch (2006). The role of the filmmakers-in-residence came to encompass many functions: research, mediation, teaching, activism and extensive, diverse community engagement, as well as multi-tasking on various production and post-production tasks, including filming, recording sound, taking photos and editing. An important underpinning was in developing appropriate models of co-creation and ensuring the resulting co-creative works remained engaging. LOCAL CONTENT PRODUCERS: CO-CREATING COMMUNAL STORIES… 199

Carpentier (2009) shows that participants and viewers of community- produced media perceive a strong need for these works to use aesthetic, narrative and technical languages that are perceived as high quality, and to nar- rate stories that are socially relevant. Just showing everyday life on screen or organising participation is not enough. For groups with media awareness and literacy there is an expectation that the stories must be deeply engaging as well, or “enchanting” as Carpentier (2009) describes it. Therefore, for local stories to connect with people inside the town and beyond, it is necessary to ensure films are engaging in their form and content. Participatory and alternative media, according to Fuchs, may otherwise fall into the trap of privileging the private and the personal without transcending it. Fuchs (2010, p. 189) states,

there is the danger that small-scale local alternative projects will develop into psychological self-help initiatives without political relevance that are more bourgeois individualist self-expressions than political change projects.

I observe in Potter (2014, pp. 82–83), drawing on a range of studies, that projects such as digital storytelling, which focus on individualised voices, often result in transformative or therapeutic outcomes for the storytellers but do not result in stories that connect beyond a limited, often familial, audience. Thus, a central role of the Big Stories filmmaker-in-residence is to bring a professional toolkit of aesthetic, narrative and technical languages that can be made accessible for LCPs and other participants in service to the creation of their stories. Part of the filmmakers’ toolkit is both the awareness of a range of creative participatory models and the pragmatic ability to match suitable models to people based on individual and group needs, interests, skills and available time. This professional toolkit is an expectation of both participants and audiences. Balancing this professional perspective with the possibility of the filmmaker colonising participants’ stories becomes a central issue in the critical relationship between filmmaker and participant. Thumim (2009) and Carpentier (2009) touch on the diminishing authorial control and individuation promised to participants in institutionally framed participatory media programmes such as the BBC’s Capture Wales digital storytelling series (2001–2007). Participation, according to Thumim (2009), can be formulaic and limited, and the constructs of “ordinary person” and “community” can be defined by the organisation facilitating participation, all of which have a homogenising effect on the individual stories that sit within a larger, grander project. People will listen if the message has aesthetic, technical and narrative power—if it is “enchanting”. But to facilitate both “enchanting” and “authentic” work takes time, patience and ongoing dialogue. For the Big Stories project, a key model for sustaining ongoing dialogue has been the development of LCPs. In Big Stories, Small Towns, LCPs have created stories that have transformed their own lives: sometimes in everyday, intimate ways through rebuilding connections to family and friends; sometimes using stories to replicate local social innovations; sometimes winning awards, setting up creative collectives or other 200 M. POTTER forms that have creative, social impact. Older emerging artists include photographers from local photography clubs who extended their practice from stills into digital stories, photo essays and online presentations, as well as exploring new ways of working and collaborating. The motivation for participation varies, but sustained participation is inevitably due to the development of the relationship between a filmmaker-in-residence and a LCP (keeping in mind that for Big Stories there are often two to three filmmakers-in-residence and multiple LCPs). The more sustained the participation within the project time frame, the higher quality and more far-reaching the outcomes. Increasing local authorial capacity and the potential for longer-term participation increases shared responsibility and ownership for the films. Long-term participants’ expertise and independence, and by implication their view of themselves, is recognised as having equal merit to that of the filmmakers. Recognition comes not only from filmmakers and participants, but also from the community and other stakeholders in the project. This questions assumptions of a unidirec- tional power that sees filmmakers empowered and participants disempowered. Some examples of the works co-created with LCPs: In Beaudesert, Queensland, emerging filmmaker Elijah Cavanagh produced a series of films with Vanuatu and South Sea Island community members as well as Mununjali elders and relatives of early white squatters and landowners. In Malaysia, a group of young Dusun women in Sabah created participatory photos and fiction films. In Raja Ampat, West Papua, three aspiring West Papuan filmmakers were trained to make films and co-created the majority of stories featured on the bigstories.com.au site for Raja Ampat. Through the ongoing support of one of the Big Stories filmmakers-in-residence in West Papua, Enrico Aditjondro, a group of LCPs who had participated in Big Stories formed a video collective called Papuan Voices Balabia. In Flores, Indonesia, members of the Lepo Weaving Collective created photos, music and digital stories with a mixed team of creatives from across Indonesia and Australia, including one of the Papuan filmmakers, FX Making. In each town, through the process of mentoring, participation and, most importantly, through the relationship built with filmmakers-in-residence and other like-minded people in the town, the LCPs created works that often connected deeply with local audiences. The audience responses collated by Putland indicate a high level of engagement with one aspect of the work at the Murray Bridge art gallery, with feedback reflecting on the breadth of stories in their community, the emotions they inspired, reflections on how the stories together create a picture of community and comparisons to mainstream media: “this is better than ‘Australian Story’!” (Putland in Potter 2014, appendix 7).

Facilitating Local Content Producers: A Case Study: Murray Bridge and The Oldies During research in 2010 by co-producer Anna Grieve and myself to develop the second iteration of the Big Stories project, community members and local organisational representatives directed us to particular peoples or places. LOCAL CONTENT PRODUCERS: CO-CREATING COMMUNAL STORIES… 201

Development began with desktop research on the town, with a focus on community innovations and innovators. This research was augmented by discussions with a key contact at Murray Bridge Council, Di Gordon, and Country Arts SA worker Sam Yates, who had been working in Port Augusta during the first Big Stories. Both the local council and Country Arts SA had indicated interest in supporting Big Stories when we received development funding from Screen Australia to pursue a second iteration. Murray Bridge had been selected as it had been nominated as Country Arts Regional Centre for Culture, as Port Augusta had been in 2008. Anna and I assembled a list of story possibilities that included character- driven studies of individuals working with Lower Murray Nungas Club (an Indigenous community organisation including a gym), the New Settlers Program (run by Lutheran Community Care offering a range of support services to refugees and new arrivals to Murray Bridge) and Community Cops (an innovative programme with Indigenous community liaisons working with police). We also assembled a list of people interested in workshops or as subjects of the portrait series. These lists were arrived at through referrals from community members. As in Port Augusta, we sought individuals who would illustrate an idea or an experience that seemed unique to the town and con- formed to the idea of positive deviance. The question underpinning this notion of positive deviance was “How was this particular person able to find solutions, both for their own life and for others around them, that addressed significant social issues?” The list of story possibilities and the initial twenty Murray Bridge contacts are included in Potter (2014, pp. 240–247, 273–275). From the connections and possibilities made during the research and pre- production period, four main elements emerged in the Big Stories programme in Murray Bridge. When filmmakers-in-residence Jeni Lee, Sieh Mchawala and myself began the residency period, we decided, in light of our research to date and previous experience in Port Augusta, that each filmmaker would lead a single documentary work that they would shape with the participants, with the other Big Stories filmmakers supporting them. Jeni Lee led a documentary and media project with the Longriders Motorcycle Club; Sieh Mchawala supervised a series of filmmaker-led portraits of “New Arrivals” to the town and of Indigenous elders; I led a digital history project with the Friends of the Murray Bridge Library (The Oldies) and a digital storytelling workshop that allowed local people to create a short autobiographical film. Each of these four main programmes focused on communities and individuals who had not previously been involved in making media. In the case of the Longriders, the relationship with the filmmakers was seen as an opportunity to present an alternate story of biker culture in SA and to “unlock the doors” of the clubhouse. This was an endeavour on behalf of the Longriders to engage with the wider community and to become a more transparent organisation. Members of the club working in Indigenous health also found value in using the cameras that we provided and the filmmaking skills of Jeni Lee to explore using video and story as tools for therapy and rehabilita- 202 M. POTTER tion. One of the most powerful films featured on theBig Stories: Murray Bridge website was created by a former client of Laklinjeri Tambutin Waal, a residential rehab unit overseen by Longriders member Mac Hayes, who also ran the gym for the Lower Murray Nungas Club. The co-creative works led by Jeni and Sieh in Murray Bridge mainly involved the Big Stories filmmakers behind the camera, with participants often co- directing storylines or suggesting scenarios, as well as performing the more “traditional” subject roles on camera. A substantial “hands-on” LCP outcome emerged from a pre-existing project initiated by the Friends of the Murray Bridge Library called Tapping into the Oldies (The Oldies). Led by Ann Hughes, a team of elderly volunteers conducted oral history interviews with seniors in the town. The Oldies ended up co-creating a digital, oral history project which spanned forty interviews, a DVD series, twenty-four digital stories featured on the Big Stories website and a collection of oral history books. The work won awards and community acclaim (see Potter 2014, pp. 151–152). For me, Ann’s role constituted the first true LCP inBig Stories, Small Towns in that she initiated the project, oversaw production of much of the community- generated content and then activated that content at a community level. Ann’s role extended beyond that of “social animator” described by Colin Low (1972) in relation to Fred Earle, who worked with the NFB filmmakers on Fogo Island. Like Ann, Earle identified issues and people in the community to speak about particular issues. Earle was involved in the production of the films as co- interviewer with Low, but Ann’s creative engagement in the process was more extensive as she conducted and recorded interviews, photographed participants, scanned images and gave editorial guidance during post-production. Ann also managed her team of volunteers as they undertook interviews, scanning, photography and transcriptions of interviews. Like Fred Earle, Ann led community discussions and was involved in feedback. Ann and her group also created additional material in the form of a series of books of oral histories drawn from the interviews. My role was in identifying the project and the people as collaborators, resourcing the group through providing training on equipment, and designing formats and a workflow for the stories that would be achievable given the skills and time of the volunteers. The design of formats that would be accessible for the volunteers yet engaging for viewers was an important part of the project, and I drew on pre-existing material from Big Stories in Port Augusta as well as senior-focused programmes I had worked on at the Media Resource Centre to show Ann and the team examples. From this I developed a framework for the volunteers in terms of interview questions and techniques, as well as images to be scanned and photographed. I subsequently edited, archived and designed the materials captured by the team. I designed the screening and showcase of the work in galleries and online, and produced material that enabled Ann and her team to continue to use, reuse and reformat the material for other purposes. LOCAL CONTENT PRODUCERS: CO-CREATING COMMUNAL STORIES… 203

Challenges In participatory media projects, criticisms of power relations between professional facilitators and non-professional participants abound, often concluding that handing over the camera does not mitigate against these imbalanced relations, nor exonerate the facilitator in terms of responsibility for representation (see Thumim 2009 and Ruby 1991). Isolating the facilitator as simply a provider of technical support does little to dilute these issues. Cleaver (in Cook and Kothari, 2001, pp. 36–55) asserts that if the role of the professional outsider is restricted to simply that of technical “facilitator” this may stand in the way of “genuine dialogue and exchange.” LCPs often come to an encounter with a pre-existing power relationship firmly inscribed between themselves and the storyteller and pre-existing assumptions about the form and function of the story and the project as a whole. Participants also bring their own perspectives and expectations to this encounter, shaped in advance by their relationship with the local facilitator and their perception of their place in the community. Including a local facilitator does not automatically result in unhindered representation, as the following comment from a community member in Putland’s 2011 report on the Big Stories project in Murray Bridge shows:

This is a wonderful project but it’s a pity we don’t hear more from some of the other people involved – it is always the same ones who are asked to stand up and talk. This gives people the idea that is what our community is about. (Potter 2014, p. 155)

Ann and other LCPs in different towns focused on issues they felt were important to their understanding of community and drew on their local networks to realise this understanding. As Turner (1991) noted during his work with the Kayapo, the Murray Bridge project involved consideration of social hierarchies. Communities are complex arenas of competing interests and none of the sites that we have visited through Big Stories are an exception. Inevitably, we have encountered local rivalries and politics, and have had to negotiate between following a story and keeping everyone happy. Of the forty oral history interviews conducted by The Oldies’ team there was a fairly balanced gender selection (60% female, 40% male), with the imbalance in selection possibly a result of longer life spans for women and the gender of interviewers (all The Oldies interviewers were female). However, in terms of including diverse cultural backgrounds, the majority of interviewees were Anglo-Australian. In the twenty-four videos only one person was from a non-UK migrant background and there was no Indigenous representation. Thumim (2009) strikes a note of caution against the expectation that self-representation necessarily equals truth. Choices made at a community level may be seen by external facilitators to be problematic, due to intra-community disagreements based on personal precon- ception and pre-existing social hierarchies and networks. 204 M. POTTER

So while The Oldies had been a creatively satisfying and well-received project, I felt Big Stories needed additional stories to offer a more socially, culturally and politically accurate portrayal of the town. A series of stories led by Sieh Mchawala from local Indigenous Ngarrindjeri people and from migrants form a part of a series of filmmaker-created portraits that attempt to offer a more diverse representation of local demography. These stories were intended to balance The Oldies’ demographic framing of elder experiences of the town. However, while the inclusion of filmmaker-created portraits resulted in increased diversity of representation in the stories it also represented a mediation of The Oldies’ framing of their own community. This illustrates an ongoing authorial impulse to select, interpret and frame regardless of the participatory intent, as pointed out by Chambers (2005, p. 83).

Conclusion The Big Stories project stands as one example of a successful, contemporary participatory media project. The issues noted in section “Challenges”, around the truth of self-representation and of re-mediation by external facilitators, raise the question: What position does an external facilitator take to address these perceived problems and local networks? Should local choices be uncritically enabled in the interest of “giving voice”? I would argue that, for the professional creator in general, the role of active listener must involve critical thinking and critical engagement. Through critical reflection on the stories that are co-created there is the possibility of new forms of knowledge, new ideas, new perspectives that might emerge in this co-creative space. Accepting either external knowledge or local knowledge uncritically can lead to simply perpetuating pre-existing understandings and hierarchies. However, dismissing either external or local knowledge is far riskier. Chambers (2005) observes that a critical awareness of how knowledge is formed by the interplay of what is outside and what is inside ourselves can lead to modifying how we seek to learn. This potentially means changing the approaches and methodologies we use, trying to understand and offset our mindsets and orientations, and being more sensitive to, and aware of, the realities of others. In the case of The Oldies, fundamental assumptions made on behalf of both the Big Stories filmmakers andThe Oldies team were challenged through the need to balance individual desires to share particular stories with community mediation. Seeking “a positive way forward” while still honouring self-expression recalls Nemtin and Low’s (1968) concept of a “precarious position”—the intersection between definition and recognition, and division. TheBig Stories project evidences that navigating this “precarious position” is complex and often conflicted. The filmmakers inBig Stories had to acknowledge and navigate pre- existing local relationships, perceptions and power structures. In the section LCP as Community Facilitator or “Social Animator” I note the filmmaker-in- residence role moves beyond the provision of media and technical skills into roles of mediation, activism and community engagement. A key lesson from this LOCAL CONTENT PRODUCERS: CO-CREATING COMMUNAL STORIES… 205 project, for me, has been that relationships and dialogue are at the heart of these roles. While methods, formats and the technology are important enablers in terms of the nuts-and-bolts practice of co-creativity, ultimately it boils down to a dialogical relationship defined by values, articulated by Freire (1970) as love, trust, hope, humility, faith in the capacity of others and critical thinking.

References Carpentier, N. (2009). Participation Is Not Enough: The Conditions of Possibility of Mediated Participatory Practices. European Journal of Communication, 24(4), 407–420. Chambers, R. (2005). Critical Reflections of a Development Nomad. In U. Kothari (Ed.), A Radical History of Development Studies: Individuals, Institutions and Ideologies. London: Zed Books. Cizek, K. (Director) & Flahive, G. (Producer). (2005–2007). Filmmaker in Residence filmmakerinresidence.nfb.ca/ [Cross-Platform and Online Documentary]. Canada: National Film Board of Canada. Cleaver, F. (2001). Institutions, Agency and the Limitations of Participatory Approaches to Development. In B. Cooke & U. Kothari (Eds.), Participation: The New Tyranny (pp. 36–55). London: Zed Books. Crocker, S. (2008). Filmmaking and the Politics of Remoteness: The Genesis of the Fogo Process on Fogo Island, Newfoundland. Shima: The International Journal of Research into Island Cultures, 2(1), 59–75. Evans, G. (1991). In the National Interest: A Chronicle of the National Film Board of Canada from 1949–1989. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Ewald, W. (1985). Portraits and Dreams: Photographs and Stories by Children of the Appalachians. New York: Writers and Readers Publications. Freire, P. (1970). Pedagogy of the Oppressed. New York: Continuum. Fuchs, C. (2010). Alternative Media as Critical Media. European Journal of Social Theory, 13(2), 173–192. https://doi.org/10.1177/1368431010362294. Illich, I. (1979). Tools for Conviviality (2nd ed.). London: Fontana. Lambert, J. (2002). Digital Storytelling: Capturing Lives, Creating Community. Berkeley: Digital Diner Press. Lambert, J. (2007). The Digital Storytelling Cookbook (2nd ed.). Berkeley: Center for Digital Storytelling/Digital Diner Press. Low, C. (Director). (1968). Introduction to Fogo Island [Documentary]. Canada: National Film Board of Canada, Challenge for Change Program. Retrieved from http://www.nfb.ca/playlists/michael-brendan-thomas-waugh-ezra-winton/ challenge-for-change/ Low, C. (1972). The Fogo Island Communication Experiment, Report to National Film Board of Canada. Toronto: National Film Board of Canada. Retrieved from http:// onf-nfb.gc.ca/medias/download/documents/pdf/1972-Fogo-Island-Communi- cation-Experiment.pdf Low, C. (1984). Grierson and ‘Challenge for Change’. In The John Grierson Project, John Grierson and the NFB (pp. 111–119). Toronto: ECW Press. Lunch, N., & Lunch, C. (2006). Insights into Participatory Video: A Handbook for the Field. Oxford: Insight. Retrieved from www.ids.ac.uk/ids/particip/dbdocs/ PVhandbook.pdf 206 M. POTTER

Massachusetts Institute for Technology (MIT) Co-creation Studio. (2017). Definition of Co-Creativity [MIT Co-creation Studio Website]. Cambridge: Massachusetts Institute for Technology. Retrieved from https://cocreationstudio.mit.edu/ symposium/#Definition Nemtin, B., & Low, C. (1968). Fogo Island Film and Community Development Project, Report. Toronto: National Film Board of Canada. Accessed http://onf-nfb.gc.ca/ medias/download/documents/pdf/1968-Fogo-Island-Project-Low-Nemtin.pdf Newhook, S. (2009). The Godfathers of Fogo: Donald Snowden, Fred Earle and the Roots of the Fogo Island Films 1964–67. Newfoundland and Labrador Studies, 24(2), 171–197. Potter, M. (2014). Big Stories, Small Towns; a Participatory and Web-Based Documentary. PhD Thesis, Flinders University, Adelaide. Available at https://www.academia. edu/11786257/Big_Stories_Small_Towns_a_participatory_and_web-based_docu- mentary_and_exegesis_www.bigstories.com.au_ Quarry, W. (1984). The Fogo Process: An Interview with Don Snowden. Interactions, 2(3), 28–63. Rouch, J. (1974). The Camera and the Man. Studies in the Anthropology of Visual Communication, 1(1), 37–44. Rouch, J. (1978, 2003). On the Vicissitudes of the Self: The Possessed Dancer, the Magician, the Sorcerer, the Filmmaker, and the Ethnographer. In S. Feld (ed.), Cine-Ethnography: Jean Rouch. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Ruby, J. (1991). Speaking for, Speaking About, Speaking with, or Speaking Alongside: An Anthropological and Documentary Dilemma. Visual Anthropology Review, 7(2), 50–67. Spurgeon, C., Burgess J., Klaebe H., McWilliam K., Tacchi J., & Tsai M. (2009). Co-creative Media: Theorising Digital Storytelling as a Platform for Researching and Developing Participatory Culture. ANZCA09 Communication, Creativity and Global Citizenship. Queensland University of Technology, Brisbane, Queensland. Retrieved from http://eprints.qut.edu.au/25811/ Sturken, M. (1984). An Interview with George Stoney. Afterimage. Visual Studies Workshop, Rochester. Retrieved from: www.experimentaltvcenter.org/ interview-george-stoney Sussex, E., & Grierson, J. (1972). Grierson on Documentary: The Last Interview. Film Quarterly, 26(1), 24–30. Retrieved from http://www.jstor.org/stable/1211408 Thumim, N. (2009). ‘Everyone has a story to tell’: Mediation and self-representation in two UK institutions. International Journal of Cultural Studies, 12(6), 617–638. https://doi.org/10.1177/1367877909342494 Turner, T. (1991). The Social Dynamics of Video Media in an Indigenous Society: The Cultural Meaning and the Personal Politics of Video–Making. Kayapo Communities in Visual Anthropology Review, 7(2), 68–76. Wearing, G. (1992–1993). Signs That Say What You Want Them to Say and Not Signs That Say What Someone Else Wants You To Say [Photo Series]. London: Tate Gallery. Retrieved from https://www.tate.org.uk/art/artworks/wearing-signs-that-say- what-you-want-them-to-say-and-not-signs-that-say-what-someone-else-66092 Williamson, T. (1989). The Fogo Process: Development Support Communications in Canada and the Developing World. AMIC-NCDC-BHU Seminar on Media and the Environment. Singapore: Asian Mass Communication Research and Information Centre. Retrieved from http://hdl.handle.net/10220/895 PART III

Realising the Screen Work: Practice, Process, Pragmatism

In this part, the practices, processes and pragmatic decisions of screen producers underpin an exploration of what it means to make for the screen. The part begins with filmmakers writing about how their practice-led research accounts for their filmmaking decisions through the creation of documentaries and feature films. The part also provides accounts from screen production researchers looking into the processes and practices around visual effects, serial television productions, advertising and the teaching of screen production. These screen production experiences present unique practitioner-centred case studies of working across a range of forms and genres, which showcase the complexities of creative practice and the possibilities and limitations of creating a screen work. Each chapter has a specific focus that is framed by the filmmaker- researcher’s speciality, which highlights the different components of working in screen production, and which explains the logistical and creative boundaries that exist for those working in fiction film, documentary, serial television and screen advertising. Each chapter discusses both individual filmmaking practices and collaborations with others. The first five chapters are authored by filmmakers who present various -per spectives on components of their screen production work, including documentary production, sound design, ethics, editing and visual effects in post-production. The first chapter in Part III is by Phoebe Hart, who examines ethical and aesthetic responses to homophobia and misogyny through two of her films,Orchids: My Intersex Adventure (2012) and Handbag: The Untold Story of the Fag Hag (2018). Both films delicately and respectively deal with fighting shame and discrimination, and the chapter describes how filmmaking can create a supportive relationship that cherishes openness. Following this is award-winning sound designer Damian Candusso’s chapter, which describes the role of a feature film sound designer by drawing on his own insights from working on the soundtracks for The LEGO Movie (2014) and The Great Gatsby (2013). The next chapter, by Willemien Sanders and Kate Nash, explores documentary authorship and ethics. The authors draw on their own documentary work from the Netherlands and Australia to consider how 208 Realising the Screen Work: Practice, Process, Pragmatism filmmakers and participants negotiate a range of ethical considerations including consent, disclosure, self-presentation, power, manipulation and trust. Alastair Cole also discusses documentary filmmaking, with a focus on the editing process of his filmColours of the Alphabet (2016). Cole’s chapter presents an insightful way to look at documentary editing as a two-phased process of evaluation and value creation. He uses his own filmmaking experience to illustrate the framework he is proposing, in the hope that it will help others understand how to critically engage with their own editing practice. Following this, Shreepali Patel, Rob Toulson and Luis Azuaje discuss their collaboration on the multi-platform project The Crossing (2016). The chapter focuses on cross-disciplinary teamwork and the relationship between the director’s vision and its effective realisation through sound design, cinematography visual effects and editing. The second half of this part sees authors looking into various other aspects of screen production, including visual effects, serial television production and screen advertising. Tara Lomax explores visual effects processes and the idea that films can be ‘fixed in post’, suggesting that in fact films are ‘made in post’. Her chapter critically dissects notions of fixing something and creating something using digital visual effects, and explores the temporal dynamics impacting the value of creativity in post-production. Two chapters then look at international television co-productions. First, Rosamund Davies presents an account of the key collaborations that took place on Icelandic production Trapped (Ófærð) (2015). Based on interviews with series producers, writers and directors, she provides an in-depth account of the show’s creative practices, as well as the possibilities and limitations of the artistic and the commercial elements for international television co-productions. Following this, Daniel Klug and Axel Schmidt examine German reality television and the unique scripting practices that have emerged through a particular shooting method. Based on interviews and on-set observations of the German reality television show Mieten, kaufen, wohnen (Rent, Buy, Live), they discuss a style of reality television production called ‘faction’, which sees the merging of fictional and factual production methods. Finally, Ben Crockett and Chrissie Feagins look into the teaching of screen advertising, with a focus on emotion. The production of advertising is an under-researched area, and this contribution outlines the complexities and collaborative processes and procedures used in the making of screen advertising. Creative Practice: A Love Story

Phoebe Hart

Introduction In this chapter, I examine potential ethical and aesthetic screen-based responses to homophobia and misogyny, and ask how affective, loving interventions can fight shame and discrimination through screen production. It is not an easy process, staying loving. Love and hate are intertwining emotions and even the gentlest lover can exude rage. Some may express anger when their passions are sublimated or injustice perceived, but this destructive power may in fact lead to further creativity (Crowley Jack 1999). Kristeva (1987, 5) noted love makes for a ‘sorrowful pleasure’. Even writing in this form about ‘the intrinsically subjective dimension of artistic production’ presents an enormous challenge (Barrett 2007, 135), but a heartfelt approach in any creative undertaking, including the making of a screen documentary, may be potentially transformative for all involved—subjects, makers and viewers. Two case studies with which I was intimately involved exemplify my approach. Both are screen interventions by a predominantly female production team, where the author works across both professional screen practice and academia, in which the text adopts a ‘stronger critical research focus and often mirrors the distinct vision of a single writer- researcher’ (Baker 2013, 4). The resultant works are transformative documentaries, imbued by love and marked by a certain (and increasingly prevalent) hybridity of screen documentary form (Powers 2004), which offer an emancipatory encounter between the participants and the viewers. The first case is an autobiographical documentary I produced and directed called Orchids: My Intersex Adventure (Hart 2012). Orchids charts my experience of having a biological intersex variation, whereby my reproductive organs are at variance with my genetic sex. The film investigates the negative impacts

P. Hart (*) Queensland University of Technology, Brisbane, QLD, Australia e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s) 2019 209 C. Batty et al. (eds.), The Palgrave Handbook of Screen Production, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-21744-0_16 210 P. HART of social stigma and medical intervention. Historically, a person with an intersex variation may have been known as a hermaphrodite (Dreger 1997, 47). Nowadays, many intersex peer support groups and health care specialists also term an ‘intersex’ condition a disorder of sex development or DSD (Groveman Morris 2006; Hughes et al. 2006, e488). The narrative arc follows me, introduced in the opening sequences of the documentary, as I begin my quest to understand my own identity and place in the world. After my mother refused outright to be involved in the project, I recruited my sister, who is also intersex, to go on a road trip to find others like us. This served as a time to reflect on the traumas I faced growing up intersex. At the same time, I struggled with infer- tility, as I wished to start a family with my partner. Via my narrated observations and engaging interviews with the subjects, I elicit fears, conflicts and hopes, leading towards a reconciliation of myself (Fig. 1). The second example is an autobiographical documentary film of which I am the producer, entitled Handbag: The Untold Story of the Fag Hag (or Handbag) (Davidson forthcoming). Handbag is a love letter of sorts which attempts to value straight–gay alliances, sustaining friendship and the role of women in the struggle for equality. The narrative arc follows that of the director/writer Monica Davidson, who sets out to understand why she—and indeed many generations of women in her family—has been such a magnet to gay men throughout her life. Monica’s journey of discovery takes her around Australia and abroad to the USA, where she discerns a distinct lack of pride felt by many

Fig. 1 Publicity still image for Orchids: My Intersex Adventure. (Copyright Hartflicker Moving Pictures 2010) CREATIVE PRACTICE: A LOVE STORY 211

Fig. 2 Publicity poster for Handbag: The Untold Story of the Fag Hag. (Copyright Handbag Enterprises Pty Ltd 2018) such women. With the help of her family and friends, Monica determines to reinvent the label and make it a celebration by creating a float for the Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras parade, the first in the event’s long history. For the purposes of this chapter, the term ‘fag hag’, which is undoubtedly pejorative, is defined as a straight woman who enjoys the companionship of gay men (Moon 1995) and is replaced, where appropriate, by the term ‘handbag’ (Fig. 2).

Love and Creativity The connection between love and creativity might seem like the stuff of Sufi mystics and inspirational posters and memes. Imbued as it is with spiritual and New Age undertones, the idea of love(-making) and creativity as one may also serve as constructive metaphor for the act of working in the field of creative arts and documentary filmmaking as an empowered and aware practitioner and as a feminist. Cognitive theories on creativity are often linked to innovation, invariably due to the economic benefits of a workforce more able to solve problems (Runco 2007, 14). As such, creativity has been described ‘variously as an act, a process, a concept, a strategy or even as an ideological tactic’ (Steers 2009, 128). However, psychiatrist Susan Kavaler-Adler asserted that the psychological states of love and creativity are inexorably linked, forming a dialectic whereby one may go inwards to explore notions of love relations and intimacy and ‘into the state of imagination that is the essence of creativity, a state of vision within the mind, which is removed from touching and doing in external reality’ (2014, 16). Connectedness to one’s own state of imagination is an indicator of good psychic health. 212 P. HART

Many of my creative practice outputs have emerged as an act of abreactive catharsis (Csikszentmihalyi in Runco 2007, 14–15). Without doubt, I work with a sense of having survived a trauma of a particular kind. In my early life, my intersex variation was kept a secret from me; I was confused, I was told to keep quiet about who and what I was. Later, I was subjected to medical scrutiny, surgery and pathology. It was a painful coming of age. These experiences led me to question the underlying factors that caused my teenage years to be a nightmare, and continue to make the process of ‘coming out’ even now extremely challenging. People with intersex variations suffer as a consequence of the social stigma of being intersexed, being seen as ‘different’ or ‘freakish’ by society, and treated by doctors and family members accordingly (Preves 2003, 20, 62). Medical treatment contributes greatly to a sense of social infe- riority and shame, as cosmetic surgery seeks to normalise aberrant bodies, making individuals with intersex either (more) male or female (Davis 2015). In effect, such pathology represents a social shift to sequester people with intersex variations (as well as other sectors of social life that connect individuals to ‘issues of morality and finitude’) from the normal population (Giddens 1991, 8). Orchids presents as a portrait of survival and courage, revising societal and historical perspectives of the intersex body by creating understandings of difference, which originate from a highly subjective space. Similarly, the Handbag project grew out of the director’s need to express her past and a cyclic experience of deep connectedness and subsequent trauma around significant interpersonal relationships in childhood. The director, Monica, grew up in a single-parent family, having lost her father at an early age, and remembers fondly the gay men who filled an important role in her development. In many ways, these men became part of Monica’s ‘logical’, if not her biological, family (Maupin and Koval 2007). Davidson simultaneously recalls the trauma of homophobic comments from school friends, the personal impact of the HIV AIDS epidemic, and the loss of a close gay male friend to depres- sion and suicide. Handbag provided a creative outlet to lovingly recuperate lived experience here and now in the flesh and on the screen.

Loving Interactions Embodiment ‘through the camera-eye’ is an act of identity politics and suggests that loving interactions on screen occur and are read in larger arenas (Chanan 2007, 246). Whereas once homosexuality could only be subtly inferred in mainstream cinema texts, there now exists a proliferation of films made by and for sexual- and gender-diverse individuals (Benshoff and Griffin 2004, 1). Feminists ‘have thought long and hard about the politics of people filming people’ (Walker and Waldman 1999, 13). Moreover, women filmmakers working in the field of autobiographical documentary disclose ‘the striking ... positions that women occupy in modern society’ (Lane 2002, 190). Feminist phenomenology arguably provides one of the most suitable frameworks for the philosophical investigation of the creative reconstituting of the CREATIVE PRACTICE: A LOVE STORY 213 lived experience of people with intersex variations, women and gay men (Fisher 2011, 91). Kerrigan, inspired by Csikszentmihalyi’s systems approach to creativity, argued that the creative documentary originates somewhere between the personal realm and social/cultural influences, and ‘is a systemic and iterative process that can be internalised by an agent [read: individual] who is conditioned through creative practices’ (2013, 124). The documentary is the love child of these factors, raised by those who choose to enter the parenting arrangement, who, through facing the rigours of creative practice, get stronger and better at dealing with the challenges love (that is, hate) presents. As a result, films like Orchids and Handbag (shot entirely on digital formats and often in the intimate setting of the subjects’ homes) alter audience expectations of what a documentary is. For us, the creation of one’s own embodied, gendered identity is ‘influenced specifically by the people and contexts of interaction in which we participate’ (Fivush and Buckner 2003, 164). Agnès Varda’s semi-autobiographical documentary The Gleaners and I (2000) is an example of embodied filmmaking. The Gleaners and I is a lyrical and visually arresting film about people who choose to pick over society’s waste to find food, shelter, clothing or inspiration, or even for fun. Varda, who, as a filmmaker, is a gleaner of sorts, draws extensively on the visual power of the reflection, as she passes comment on her own aging body by juxtaposing self- portraits against a discarded clock with no hands (in effect, halting time) and using a mirror to study her maturing face. Rutherford notes that ‘all spectatorship is potentially affective’ and describes the affective experience contained within this inspiring documentary:

Ethics, the legal code, self-scrutiny and parody all jostle for position with the sweet taste of a ripened fig, the beauty of afternoon light in an apple orchard and the experience of old age ... [In The Gleaners and I] there is no implicit hierarchy here between image and word, no phobia of the image or its potential indeterminacy – the full capacity of the sound and image is put into play, and with it the affective experience of the spectator. (2003, 129)

Kate Ince discerns in The Gleaners and I, ‘a performance of feminist phenomenology deriving from her woman-subject’s desire, experience, and vision’ (Franz et al. 2011, 613). Ince draws upon Young’s seminal work on feminine embodied experience, Throwing Like a Girl (2006), stating that Varda’s work ‘privilege[s] female subjectivity and embodiment at the expense of representing as a cultural construct, either in the narratives or the material structure of her film-texts’ (613).Handbag seeks to privilege feminine subjectivity, to tell women’s stories and, via affective sound and imagery, demonstrate bodily experiences, thoughts and feelings, and outlooks, loves and longings. Inspired by Varda, Orchids attempts to create ruptures through artistic manipulation of sound and image. Montages of bright, day-lit sequences of my journeying through picturesque Australian landscapes create affect, as do 214 P. HART scenes of my sister Bonnie and I gleaning eccentric country ‘op shops’ in order to find treasured objects. Photographs and personal objects from the characters’ lives are shot and edited to arrest the attention of the viewer, and the rich sexual shapes and textures of the film’s symbol—orchids—are intended to be beautiful and fascinating. Handbag incorporates observational material, intimate narrations, vividly drawn animations, filmed interactions and interviews, interlaced with archival footage and still photographs—a glitter-bomb of colour and sound. There is a cheeky nod to queer cultural icons such as Liza Minnelli in a series of re-creations of famous instances of the ‘fag hag’ on screen, including Cabaret and Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. The director-as-presenter and guide to the world of the ‘handbag’ places herself in stylised scenes from the seminal movies she admired growing up and that spoke to her experience of having gay men as a constant feature of her life.

The Affective Hybrid The hybrid nature of many documentaries nowadays, that is, the reworking of documentaries to include re-enactments, mock-umentary aspects, animation and scripted narratives (Svetvilas 2004, 22), augments the affective potential of our piece. The multiplicity of styles and formats allow filmmakers to push the affective boundaries of the documentary genre, as the hybrid film ‘resonates without relying solely on empirical representation’ (Robertson 2016). Whether such seeming transgressions erode the integrity of other more ‘serious’ documentaries is highly contentious and brings into question the philosophical nature of truth, and the assumed ability of the viewer to discern play from seriousness, image from imagination and fact from fiction. From my perspective, the product of the playful influence of hybridisation is all the more alluring and satisfying to the viewer, who becomes engaged in an audio-visual game of untangling. Aside from their seductive powers, hybrid forms may offer comfort to the embattled embodied creative practitioner. In truth, some areas of love, life and creativity are difficult to bare, and escape into the shimmering veil of fantasy. The idea that documentary could be used as a therapeutic tool is not new, and, potentially, such texts ‘modify and reconfigure the very nature of therapy and confession as practices for producing social and individual identities and knowledge’ (White 1992, 7). On both productions, I faced plenty of resistance. In Orchids, family relations were sorely tested both on screen and off. In the intensity of kindred togetherness, my sister and I asserted our differences, both philosophically and emotionally, which led to tensions between us during the filmmaking process, resulting in a temporary split. My (male) partner stated on camera that he worried he might be gay at the time when he and I first made love, identifying a homophobic ‘knee jerk’ reaction many men may have to the prospect of being with a woman who is, possibly, male. During Handbag’s final crowdfunding campaign, coinciding with the 2017 Australian marriage equality CREATIVE PRACTICE: A LOVE STORY 215 postal survey, we had to deal with the destructive spray-painting of Nazi swas- tikas on loved ones’ houses which displayed rainbow flags, and with internet trolls stalking the production team’s social media posts. These occurrences were simultaneously saddening and maddening. Conflict is the sandpaper used to craft a documentary film which pierces the skin and lands in the heart, and so such films require courage and a willingness to take risks. In Orchids, it was important to include the fractious moments between myself and my sister and partner. In particular, my partner’s declaration of his fear of being gay because of his wish to be with me not only serves to reach a new audience, but also forcefully addresses the multifarious nature of desire and the complexity of human relationships. Such an assertion gives a crucial point of access to non-hetero-normatively gendered and sexualised identities for those people who could or would be Orchids’ most antagonistic or reluctant audience members. Moreover, bodies with intersex are routinely ‘stripped of their ability to pleasure and be pleasured’ by medicalisation and social erasure. The positioning of my partner and I together, sexually strong, was a rupture of ‘asexual preinscription’ (Colligan 2004, 50). For Handbag, in one of Monica’s daily crowdfunding vlogs, filmed at night in a pool of street lamplight, she asks viewers to ‘look out for each other’ during the spate of homophobic attacks (Davidson 2017). These vlogs, which formed part of the greater transmedia storytelling around the core property (Jenkins 2010), created an outpouring of support and sharing of experiences, even if, by the act of speaking out, we could have caused our humble production and its cast and crew to become the focus of malintent. In this instance, we were determined to exploit the potential impact and social, cultural and political change possibilities available via online technologies and DIY distribution models of contemporary documentary production (McLagan 2012, 313), and we gamely used the conventions and poetics of cinema to fashion an authored impression of these ‘trying times’. By gathering the captured fragments from personal histories and the remembered past, we were able to assemble these glimpses into a representation that approximates the present I. This process of self-inscription required a mapping of certain geographical and temporal spaces, an orienting of the place where one belongs in the world. As the collaborative maker of Orchids and Handbag I explored these worlds imaginatively, allowing ‘free capacity to move back and forth between internal psychic life and external reality’ (Kavaler-Adler 2014, 15). The ability to discover and rediscover familial relationships both real and imagined via the careful use of the video camera and edit suite has had a beneficial, therapeutic effect. The text also still holds a very real political, social and cultural promise of change, as there is a pressing need to alter the social and legal systems that discriminate against people who choose to love someone of their own sex. It was my aim to acknowledge the challenges of autobiography and use the experience of making an autobiographical film to assist others, as empowered mentors, particularly female viewers. 216 P. HART

A Site of Desires My stated objective of both Orchids and Handbag is to fight shame and discrimination, and address the social and economic disadvantage in the gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, intersex and queer (GLBTIQ) sector (Hart 2018). As women speaking to women, our hope was to subvert discourses ‘owned’ by patriarchal voices (Silverman and Foucault in Humm 1997, 41). Yet it is unclear how our message might be ‘heard’, because, as Michel Renov stated, ‘documentary spectatorship is the site of multiple, even conflictual, desires that traverse the presumed barriers between conscious and unconscious processes’ (Renov 2004, 103). Therefore, spectator identification can only ever be understood as ‘shifting, oscillating, inconsistent, and fluid’ (Evans and Gammon 2004, 217). Under such fluctuating conditions, controlling engagement seems near impossible. In my films, I feel I can only come back to how I speak and see, and then present, what is heard and seen. I adopt a psychological approach of assertive engagement in order to create an access point for the multifarious viewer. A part of this approach is the empowered reveal, which represents an invitation to access a certain gendered gaze. As the teller of the story of the ‘intersex person’ or ‘handbag’ both on screen and off, I have deployed (or deployed in consultation with my collaborators) both voiceover narration and intimate pieces to camera in order to allow access to deeply personal moments in history. Although such revelations could be interpreted as ‘trite [and] self-serving’ (Whittle 2005, 124), I have attempted to transcend naïve rumination and refused to accept possible ‘narcissistic indul- gences’ inherent in autobiography (Lane 2002, 21). This ‘transcendence’ often relies on revealing an emotional truth that was difficult to share and therefore impossible to fake. My goal, in effect, is to create a space between ourselves and others to effect a transformative interaction based upon mutual disclosure and generate a contract with our participants and audience in order to establish a supportive relationship that cherishes openness (Giddens 1991, 6). Many of these revelations emerged organically during the production process. Initially, I may not have wished them to be known, but as my trust of the camera grew, and my confidence in the power of the project became enhanced, I realised the inherent potential of such revelations. In Orchids, for example, revelations such as trying to unsuccessfully insert a tampon as a teenager, being prescribed dilators by my doctors to lengthen my vaginal canal, my subsequent relationship with my body that led me to have an eating disorder, my first sexual experiences—all these elements were conscious decisions to share something intensely private about my life. Another way that the empowered reveal was realised relates to my decision to film myself (or to have sister film me) as I ‘outed’ myself to random strangers. There was not much of a system to it; I just selected people whom I thought might be open to what I had to say. The first time I did this in the film was at an ‘op shop’ in rural New South Wales. Fifi, the kindly Frenchwoman behind the counter, was curious about what we were doing, and her friendly disposition inspired me to ask if she minded if we CREATIVE PRACTICE: A LOVE STORY 217 filmed her while I told her about the project. Although this woman has little investment in my story or mission, such interaction, now arrested on videotape and edited into the film, serves as a point where normative audiences might grasp that such an exchange could be a privilege and an opportunity. This creates an open, safe and loving space, and a place for active engagement for viewers. In one scene from Handbag Monica chooses to return to her working-class hometown of Newcastle on the east coast of Australia in order to retrace a significant relationship with a gay man in her childhood. Barefoot on the beach, with gulls calling, overlooking the surf and cruising coal tankers, Monica medi- tates on the pain she felt when her favourite gay uncle Bobby disappeared from her life for many years during her childhood, leading her to believe he had died from complications of HIV AIDS. Here, her heartfelt vulnerability trumps any self-absorption. Likewise, in later scenes, the chaotic crafting element of Monica and her mother Pat (a textile artist and self-declared ‘handbag’) whilst creating a float for the iconic Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras takes on a sensory quality as the women struggle with body and soul—ripping, cutting, sewing, painting, moulding, affixing and gluing—to give physical form to their fondness for their gay friends and family members. Monica openly struggles with self-doubt as the deadline to complete the float looms large, and she reflects on her most challenging experience with gay men when she fell in love with her (not-yet-out) best male friend as a young woman and was subsequently rejected. To the strains of Stand by your Man and over-exposed VHS home movie footage, Monica remembers that while heart- broken she was able ‘rise above’ and transmute her romantic attachment into friendship. Both moments, confessional in nature, exhibit vulnerability and invite a shared sense of empathy. Further, they align with our objective to choose love in the fight against shame and discrimination.

Conclusion I strongly advocate for affective interventions on screen as part of my creative practice. When it was released, Orchids enjoyed widespread critical acclaim and distribution. It has been broadcast nationally in Australia, North America and across Europe. The film appeared in almost 100 film festivals, won prizes for excellence in filmmaking, screened at a range of academic, medical and scientific conferences and gatherings, and generated a large outpouring of feedback from viewers (Hart 2014). Although the journey was often arduous, it was one per- meated with a love for the craft, my community and the world. Currently the post-production on Handbag is being finalised and as yet it is unknown if our offering will have the impact which we so strongly desire. It is our hope Handbag will manifest further transformation via wider distribution and exhibition. Interviewed some years after the publication of her book Gender Trouble, philosopher and gender theorist Judith Butler reiterated the value of creating works and acts ‘that challenge our practices of reading, that make us uncertain 218 P. HART about how to read, or make us think that we have to renegotiate the way in which we read public signs’ (1996, 122). Her sentiments offer encouragement to us as authors of Handbag, bolstering the deconstructive aims of the project, which were set upon the demystification and destabilisation of assumed knowledge about male–female friendships. That filmmaking has (and always will be) demanding should not discourage documentarians who make their creations ‘from the heart’. As feminist-poet Adrienne Rich notes, ‘[a]n honorable human relationship – that is, one in which two people have the right to use the word “love” – is a process, delicate, violent, often terrifying to both persons involved, a process of refining the truths they can tell each other ... It is important to do this because in doing so we do justice to our own complexity’ (1979, 188).

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Damian Candusso

Introduction Working in the Australian film industry since 1998 as a sound editor, sound supervisor, sound designer and re-recording mixer, I have had many years of experience in all aspects of screen sound. My work has seen international industry recognition, with some notable credits including: Better Watch Out (Peckover 2017), The LEGO Movie (Lord and Miller 2014), The Great Gatsby (Luhrmann 2013), Sanctum (Grierson 2011), Legend of the Guardians: The Owls of Ga’Hoole (Snyder 2010) and Happy Feet (Miller 2006). In 2010, I was also the first Australian to be elected onto the Board of Directors with the Motion Picture Sound Editors (MPSE). In this chapter, I will reflect upon this industry experience and practice to provide a brief overview of creating an immersive soundscape for screen, using a live action and an animated feature film as case studies. The power of the soundtrack has the potential to contribute so much more to the film narrative beyond merely acting as support to the visuals. The soundtrack provides an audience with varying levels of complexities, meaning and narrative articulation not possible from vision alone. Bresson states ‘that a sound always evokes an image (but never the reverse)’ (Rosenbaum 1978, p. 40). In contemporary cinema, there has been a shift in sound thinking. The cinema audience is becoming increasingly aware of digital surround sound (DSS) and the recent introduction of immersive sound technologies. Although the audience is gaining an understanding of the modern soundtrack and the possibilities offered through surround sound and high-quality sound reproduction, Kerins states that sound could be further explored in terms of aiding narrative. Thom (1999, p. 2) con-

D. Candusso (*) Queensland University of Technology, Brisbane, QLD, Australia e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s) 2019 221 C. Batty et al. (eds.), The Palgrave Handbook of Screen Production, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-21744-0_17 222 D. CANDUSSO curs, stating that ‘starving the eye will inevitably bring the ear, and therefore the imagination, more into play’. Although advancements in technology have led to the narrative burden of film being shared by the soundtrack through voices, sound effects and music, the technology of DSS has not been fully exploited (Kerins 2006, p. 41). As filmmakers explore film technologies beyond 2D film, including 3D, 360° and the new realities, a well-designed soundtrack creates a greater awareness of, and increases, the immersive space. Digital sound in the cinema first appeared in the 1990 release ofDick Tracy (Beatty 1990). The introduction of DSS and digital sound editing tools including digital audio workstations (DAW) in the 1990s, not only increased sound quality but also flexibility with regard to the creation of soundtracks. Multichannel sound has opened up many possibilities for creative sound design and it provides an audience with greater aural satisfaction. Having the flexibility to pan a sound around the auditorium, or having an audience feel surrounded by musicians through the orchestral score, has seen surround sound embraced by all. In addition, the introduction of the low-frequency effects (LFE) channel or sub-woofer channel as it is colloquially known, means that ‘this physical power creates the very physical sensation of being at an earth-shaking event, not just watching one’ (Kerins 2010, p. 134). Although the average cinema goer may not have a thorough understanding of sound literacies, they do expect to hear clear dialogue and immersive sound effects and music, and, particularly if they are watching a blockbuster, they also expect to feel these sounds. An example may be the increasing hint of danger as the LFE track offers the low-frequency rumble of horses’ hooves approaching prior to an imminent attack. The sound editor, sound designer and re-recording mixer are focused on exploiting these moments in the film where LFE can help the audience feel the sounds. Examples taken from The Great Gatsby and The LEGO Movie will illustrate these points. In addition, I will also introduce a new concept I have coined: ‘micro-diegetic’ sounds. Table 1 briefly outlines the typical roles associated with soundtrack creation. Only a few of these roles are concerned with the placement of sound within the cinema space (through panning), including sound editor, sound designer and re-recording mixer. It should be noted that in many instances the music department is separate from the sound team. The groupings shown in Table 1 illustrate the production roles in terms of location sound, post-production sound, music and mixing. Although the terminology and job descriptions may differ depending on the country, essentially these roles are universal. Throughout my career, my expertise has primarily been in the roles of post-production.

Contemporary Sound Editing The introduction of the DAW has provided the greatest change in industry practices in the crafts of sound creation, editing and mixing. A DAW may be as simple as a common laptop computer with dedicated audio software, through CREATING AND DESIGNING THE CONTEMPORARY SOUNDTRACK: A CASE STUDY 223

Table 1 Various roles commonly involved in sound for screen

Location Boom Positions the boom and other microphones in the best position swinger(s) possible to capture the dialogue from each character on set Location Responsible for ensuring that all dialogue is recorded on set at sound the best possible quality recordist/ Mixer Post- ADR Re-records lines of dialogue by the actors synchronized with the production recordist/ images. This may be required due to excessive background noise Mixer on original recordings, or for improved performance or additional lines of dialogue ADR editor The ADR is edited in sync with the images, without compromising performance Foley Responsible for recording the performance of the Foley artist recordist/ Mixer Foley editor Edits the Foley recordings synchronized with the pictures Foley artist/ Recreates all sounds primarily made by the characters including Walker walking, scratching, clothes rustling, hand grabs and any other sounds that the characters make Dialogue Endeavours to create a ‘clean’ dialogue edit, free from editor extraneous noises Atmosphere Creates the aural environment for each scene that help situate editor the character. It is general practice that the atmosphere editor will utilize all of the speaker channels available. This includes creating atmospheres that are in 5.1 or 7.1 formats depending on the film specifications. In regard to spatial sound design, the atmosphere editor can create an ambience as wide as their imagination allows Sound effects Records, creates and edits sound effects that may be diegetic or editor non-diegetic. This may include anything from an alarm clock to vehicles, weaponry and animal sounds. Generally, any on-screen sound not made by a character (Foley) is a sound effect. Increasingly, they may also pan sounds in surround Sound designer This is undoubtedly one of the most debated definitions within the film sound community. The term can refer to someone brought onto a film to create specific kinds of effects, or to someone who is brought onto a film to supervise and design the overall soundtrack Supervising In some countries, including the United States of America, this sound editor describes the person responsible for all dialogue within the film, including supervising the dialogue editing and ADR. In other countries, including Australia, the term can refer to the person responsible for the overall soundtrack of the film, including the supervision of the dialogue, sound effects, Foley and the final mixing process

(continued) 224 D. CANDUSSO

Table 1 (continued) Music Music Often working with the composer, the music recordist is recordist/ responsible for capturing the live musical performances of the Engineer composed musical cues Music editor Responsible for editing music cues to the various picture edits and timings Music mixer Mixes the musical score, underscore or source music. Music mixers balance the various instruments within the multitrack recordings, adding reverberation and other effects where necessary, and they are responsible for positioning the music within the cinema space Mixing Re-recording The re-recording mixer is responsible for the completed final mixer soundtrack, including the relevant volumes, tonality, reverberations and final spatial positioning of all sound elements

Note: ADR automated dialogue replacement to a custom-designed computer workstation with specialized software and hardware. As a direct result of the technology and hardware becoming increasingly affordable, the creative flexibility of the practitioner is also increasing, with the DAW allowing for greater crossover between the various roles of screen sound professionals. As a consequence, this flexibility is increasingly blurring the divisions among sound designer, sound editor and re-recording mixer. For example, it is not uncommon for sound designers to provide a mix- down of certain sounds, with all spatial information and panning assignments embedded, directly to the mixing stage. This is important, as the spatial decisions made by the editorial crew may remain unchanged during the final mixing process. The ability to create an acoustic space can now begin in the editing suite, and by increasing this attention to spatial detail, the soundtrack can provide the audience with a sense of greater immersion. Recent developments in surround formats, including more speaker channels (5.1, 7.1, 9.1 etc.) and immersive sound formats (for example, Dolby Atmos and recent multidimen- sional audio (MDA) formats including Auro Max and DTS:X), have allowed for new opportunities for immersive soundtrack design. Beginning with the atmosphere and ambience tracks, these provide the foundational building blocks on which all other sound elements are built. The atmosphere and ambience tracks aim to immerse the audience in the on-screen environment. This could be a city, a forest or underwater. As noted by Kerins (2010, p. 167), through creating the right multi-channel ambient space, the foundation allows audiences to feel they are immersed in the diegetic world. The atmospheres may originate as edited mono, stereo, 5.1 or ambisonic recordings, or they may be synthetically designed to take advantage of the particular surround speaker format. With a combination of editing the discrete channels and/or the use of spatial software and hardware, including reverb, the audience can be acoustically situated anywhere from a vast desert, dense forest, canyon or the inside of a coffin. CREATING AND DESIGNING THE CONTEMPORARY SOUNDTRACK: A CASE STUDY 225

Sound effects differ from ambiences as they do not necessarily situate the audience within a location. Instead, the sound effects, diegetic and non- diegetic, relate to the characters, action and other story elements. These may take place on-screen to match the visual action, such as a scene where we see someone sitting in a car, inserting the keys into the ignition and then driving off, or the sounds may be positioned off-screen to allude to other key narrative elements. For example, the sound of a door opening off-screen, may hint at an intruder breaking into a house despite the audience not actually seeing them. The introduction of surround sound and immersive sound formats allow the sound practitioner to position sounds that appear to come from within the visual frame. In addition, this flexibility extends to having the ability to place sounds beyond the screen and into or beyond the auditorium. This technique is also used to bring content from beyond the screen into the frame. An example is to utilize the surround speakers to introduce sounds from behind the audience, as in the filmAustralia (Luhrmann 2008), where we first hear the sound of wind in the surround speakers before a stealth-like Japanese Zero bomber appears on-screen. Or we may hear the sounds of arrows being fired by an army, originating from behind the audience. The introduction of surround sound brought with it new mixing possibilities, as noted by Chion:

As new technologies of sound mixing were developed, it became easier to produce sounds that were well-defined and individuated in the mix. The means became available to produce sounds other than conventionally coded ones, sounds that could have their own materiality and density, presence and sensuality. (Chion 1994, p. 148)

In addition to atmosphere and sound effects, other sonic elements include dialogue, narration, Foley and music. Conventionally, dialogue is mostly panned to the centre speaker with the Foley. However, in recent years, this notion has increasingly been challenged. For example, Gravity (Cuarón 2013) uses panned dialogues extensively to help orientate the audience with the characters floating through space. Music is also often mixed to be immersive; however, it is often non-diegetic and can therefore have greater creative flexibility. Creativity and expression within the soundtrack have been further enhanced through the introduction of recent immersive sound formats. Not only has mixing for screen been afforded the luxury of moving sounds beyond the screen and into the auditorium to follow the action, but additionally the mixing can now provide height information to the soundtrack, adding further dimensionality. It was not so long ago that the available tools for panning a sound into the ceiling channels were reserved for several exclusive film mixing stages, but increasingly they are being introduced to common DAW software platforms. Having the quantity of speakers required to monitor in these formats is another issue. The push for virtual reality and 3D mixing tools for headphones may have contributed to demands for 3D sound tools for film. 226 D. CANDUSSO

Approaching Soundtrack Creation Although advancements in film production, including 3D, may require ways of rethinking the sound space, the fundamentals of soundtrack creation remain relatively unchanged. For example, despite a film having a 3D release, in many instances the sound team create the soundtrack to 2D vision, with the exact same soundtrack used for both versions of the film. It is also often common practice for 3D images not to be screened alongside the soundtrack until the final mixing stage, if at all. This requires guesswork in terms of panning the sounds; however, with an increase in visual effects, having final renders throughout the sound production process is a rarity in any case. As noted by Gwen Whittle, on Avatar (Cameron 2009) they worked with ‘blocky blue people until the very end. The visual effects came in late, even during the pre-mixing, with some final shots not making it for the final mix’ (Whittle 2012). Live action captures both image and sound from the film set, whereas all imagery and sound need to be created from the ground up for animated films. In a growing trend, audiences are also witnessing a hybridization of both live action and animation, as many contemporary live-action films contain heavily animated components and sequences. For example, during filming ofThe Great Gatsby, many characters were filmed primarily in front of green screens, with the backgrounds composited in towards the end of the filmmaking process. In this section I discuss a few select scenes from the filmsThe Great Gatsby and The LEGO Movie. On both films I am credited as a sound effects editor, with my role primarily consisting of creating many of the stylized sound effects. Sound teams can comprise of only a few people on a low-budget film, to teams of over 50 engaged on big-budget films. The time frames for sound post- production can also vary considerably from several weeks through to a few years, depending on the film budget. Typically, the time spent on an animation is greater than on a live-action film. It is often also the case that sound teams will scale up as deadlines approach. The scenes outlined here have been selected as they provide examples of unique immersive sonic opportunities through their relationship with the accompanying imagery.

The Great Gatsby (2013) The Great Gatsby is a significant film to analyse in terms of both imagery and sound due to it being a 3D release. Despite being live action, the film contains many visual effects, with many created to enhance the 3D visual style and take advantage of the depth of the 3D medium. Typical of Luhrmann’s films,The Great Gatsby is a stylistic visual feast. From early in the pre-production process, Luhrmann’s vision for the film in 3D was highly anticipated, as Dowd suggests, ‘The next big test may be Baz Luhrmann’s version of The Great Gatsby, due for release in May and starring Leonardo DiCaprio. It doesn’t seem like a natural fit for 3D, but Luhrmann’s a very stylistic director and he may make it work’ (Dowd 2012). Some of the contributions I made to the film included design- CREATING AND DESIGNING THE CONTEMPORARY SOUNDTRACK: A CASE STUDY 227 ing sonic accompaniments for many of Luhrmann’s most stylized visual shots, including the green light, the slow-motion death of Myrtle and several other stylized effects, such as the flashbacks. From the opening moments of The Great Gatsby, when the film transitions from the 2D logos into a 3D world, the first image we see and the first sound we hear is that of the green light. This is a signature motif that appears several times throughout the film. The character Jay Gatsby, played by Leonardo DiCaprio, is in love with his former sweetheart Daisy Buchanan, played by Carey Mulligan. Daisy lives across the bay from Gatsby and it is this green light that continually pulls at Gatsby’s heart as it symbolizes the woman he loves. Generally speaking, lights are quiet, with the exception of some high- powered lights or the electrical capacitors of fluorescent lights. The green light in this film has both a physical presence and a narrative responsibility as it sits just beyond the jetty. My design considered a realistic light sound combined with the aural symbolism of what the light means to Gatsby. It is in this respect that we have two separate elements for the light: one that is diegetic and the other in Gatsby’s head, or meta-diegetic, as defined by Gorbman (1976, p. 450). The light is unobtainable by Gatsby. It is an ephemeral calling that constantly reminds Gatsby of Daisy, pulling him towards her. In one scene we actually see Gatsby reaching, trying to grab the light with one hand. Through sound, this was achieved by creating two separate sound sets that played in unison with each other. Depending on the shot and how the light is framed, they were mixed accordingly. That is, on a long shot, and only seeing the illu- mination of the light, we hear the light calling; however, when we are in close up, we hear the more realistic, organic sounds. For the opening shot of the light we see a strobing green hue illuminated from a long distance across water on a moonlit night, before this transitions into snow. The light in this shot appears very faint and delicate as the audience is introduced to the light without anything being given away. As a long shot, the sound of the light is monophonic in the centre speaker with some very slight reverb playing in the other speakers to provide perspective, acoustic space and distance. In this instance the sound was primarily a buoy bell with some high-pitched resonating tones that fluctuated in volume with the sound of waves. At 12 minutes 30 seconds into the film, we are taken back to the green light for the second time. It is only now that the source of the green light is revealed as the camera provides an opportunity to explore it in detail. The camera first zooms in to the light from a distance, before slowing down in close-up to allow the audience a moment, and then tracking past the light on the right-hand side. The camera then continues to track beyond the light and across the bay to the headlights of Nick Carraway’s (played by Tobey Maguire) approaching car on the other side of the bay. The camera zooms into the headlights, providing the opportunity for a designed sonic transition. This entire sequence provided several opportunities to exploit 3D and the use of the surround space. It was created in a similar way to the opening sequence, with the exception being that the bell on the buoy was less distin- 228 D. CANDUSSO guished and more of the meta-diegetic designed resonant tones were used. As the camera zooms in, however, the diegetic sounds are introduced, both for the light and for the structure that is holding the light. In the creation of the realistic light sounds, much time was spent creating alternative variations before settling on the final sound. By being framed as a close-up, we could exploit the conventions of reality and therefore hear what I term the ‘micro-diegetic’ light filament flutter within the light bulb. Micro-diegetic is an original term that defines the sound that the character would hear if the noise was amplified to a volume or scale matching the imagery. For example, in real life it would be difficult to hear a light filament vibrating; however, if the screen shows the filament in close up, and if the filament sound was also amplified, this would allow the sound to be heard. From the light, the camera then zooms into the oncoming glow of headlights. Here we witness a sonic pulse where the light sonically explodes from the front screen speakers into the surrounds and the LFE. The purpose of this was to heighten the reality of the on-screen action whilst providing an opportunity to sonically flash the transition into the following scene. Sound was used to emphasize the 3D visuals whilst adding value to the narrative, utilizing every single speaker, including low frequencies, to create sonic depth. Throughout The Great Gatsby the vehicles are a feature that not only serve as props but are also integral to the story. In a tragic turn of events, when driving home from town, Gatsby’s Duesenberg hits and kills Tom Buchanan’s mistress, Myrtle (Isla Fisher). What makes the story of further interest is that it is Gatsby’s true love, Daisy (Tom Buchanan’s wife), who is actually driving. When we first see the Duesenberg approach in the scene, we are greeted with a combination of authentic Duesenberg engine sounds and aggressive ani- malistic roars. Of note is the fact that the final sound of the car is a combination of actual Duesenberg recordings edited by Fabian Sanjurjo and stylized animal sounds I created. These animal sounds increase as the vehicle approaches Myrtle as if a predator is going in for the kill. Using a combination of intercut real-time and slow-motion shots, the sequence increases the use of negative parallax (the image coming off the screen and into the auditorium) until we see Myrtle floating through the air after being hit by the Duesenberg. In this shot, Myrtle is entirely detached from the screen plane, surrounded by visual and sonic stylistically created shards of glass. The sounds created for the glass were a blend of actual glass breaking and synthesized high-frequency sound design, symbolizing a tragic yet beautiful moment. These sounds utilized the entire 5.1 speaker array, surrounding and enveloping the audience. Throughout the film, Luhrmann generally utilized 3D sparingly, careful not to overuse the negative parallax. Instead, the film is framed like a staged theatre, with most of the action happening beyond the screen plane. This technique of framing the 3D image beyond the screen plane is representative of the origins of films, the stage. The soundtrack complements the imagery, using surround sound to sonically immerse the audience within the 3D visual space. CREATING AND DESIGNING THE CONTEMPORARY SOUNDTRACK: A CASE STUDY 229

The LEGO Movie (2014) Having completed several 3D films prior toThe LEGO Movie, the question was raised: ‘Would we treat the film as a 2D film or 3D film during the editing process?’ The answer was to treat The LEGO Movie as every other film; that is, keep all sound in the front speakers unless the action was obviously off-screen to the side or behind us. Although knowing that The LEGO Movie was going to be a 3D release, at no point during the sound editing process did the sound crew edit or mix to 3D imagery. Throughout the production process the visual updates to the scenes were rolling in regularly. This posed many challenges, as not only were we working to the 2D version of the film, but in many instances scenes were still in sketch form. As scenes were updated, the soundtrack also required updating to reflect these changes, usually requiring additional sounds as further details were included in the visuals. Supervising Sound Editor Wayne Pashley often divides sound effect elements out amongst the editors, and in the case of this film, the sound effects were split five ways. For example, some of the sound elements I was responsible for on The LEGO Movie included: the transformation between President Business and Lord Business, the hero motorcycle, the cars, the crazy spacecraft and the ‘awesome’ tunnels that transport the main character, Emmet, between the different LEGO worlds. A challenge while working on the LEGO film was finding a balance between the actual sound of LEGO and the sound of what you would expect to hear if everything in the film was real and not made out of plastic! If the soundtrack was only the sound of LEGO or plastic, it would become very annoying very quickly. Likewise, if the audience didn’t hear the iconic sound of LEGO that we all know they would become detached from the narrative. The final result for much of the soundtrack was a combination of the two. Depending on what the narrative was doing, this balance was adjusted accordingly. For example, the construction of the rollercoaster transforming into the submarine utilized a combination of metal hits and plastic snaps. Much of the panning of the sound elements for The LEGO Movie began in the sound editing rooms. The tight timeline and the constant updates to the picture meant that any additional work covered by the editors would save time for the mixers further along in the production process. If the mixers needed to revise pan decisions in the mix, then the flexible nature of the DAW easily allowed for further refinement.

Conclusion The introduction of digital filmmaking and immersive sound formats in recent years has brought with it an opportunity to rethink the use of the cinema sound space. The notion of defined roles in film sound post-production, including sound editor, sound designer and re-recording mixer, are continually being challenged. As much of the specialized technology is becoming increas- 230 D. CANDUSSO ingly affordable, everyone now has access to the tools that were previously reserved for exclusive roles. The conceptualization of new originally designed sonic elements and immersive events, including the panning of sonic elements, now begins in the editing room and not just at the mixing stage. The creation of these stylized sound effects described from two feature films,The Great Gatsby and The LEGO Movie, provide examples of how immersive sonic sound experiences are conceptualized, designed and executed by the sound team during the editing phase. This new way of working brings with it its own set of new challenges. Although the immersive soundtrack can begin in the editing rooms, designers need to be cautious of exploiting the sound space. When working on contemporary films there can be dislocation between the image and the soundtrack due to competing technologies. For example, for one situation we may have a 3D film with 5.1 audio, and another example may present the inverse, where there is a 2D film with a 3D immersive soundtrack. Technologies will always continue to evolve and change. What is important, is that the soundtrack represents the narrative and not the technologies.

References Beatty, W. (1990). Dick Tracy. Buena Vista Pictures Distribution. Cameron, J. (2009). Avatar. 20th Century Fox Film Corporation. Chion, M. (1994). Audio-Vision (C. Gorbman, Trans.). Columbia University Press. Cuarón, A. (2013). Gravity. Warner Bros. Pictures. Dowd, V. (2012, December 25). Has 3D Film-Making Had Its Day? Retrieved April 15, 2013, from http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/entertainment-arts-20808920 Gorbman, C. (1976). Teaching the Soundtrack. Quarterly Review of Film Studies, 1(4), 446–452. Grierson, A. (2011). Sanctum. Universal Studios. Kerins, M. (2006). Narration in the Cinema of Digital Sound. Velvet Light Trap, (58), 41–54. Kerins, M. (2010). Beyond Dolby (Stereo): Cinema in the Digital Sound Age. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Lord, P., & Miller, C. (2014). The LEGO Movie. Warner Bros. Luhrmann, B. (2008). Australia. 20th Century Fox. Luhrmann, B. (2013). The Great Gatsby. Warner Bros. Peckover, C. (2017). Better Watch Out. Rialto Distribution. Rosenbaum, J. (1978). Sound Thinking. Film Comment, 14(5), 38–41. Thom, R. (1999). Designing a Movie for Sound by Randy Thom. Retrieved September 5, 2009, from http://www.filmsound.org/articles/designing_for_sound.htm Whittle, G. (2012, February). Personal Interview: 3-D Sound Discussion. Skywalker Sound, Marin County, USA. The (Braided) Documentary Voice: Theorising the Complexities of Documentary Making

Willemien Sanders and Kate Nash

Introduction Voice has long served as a metaphor for documentary authorship (Leahy and Gibson 2002). However, recent research on the complexities of documentary production, from institutional practices to the relationships between documentary makers and participants and the affordances of digital media, have brought to the fore the possibility of a ‘braided’ documentary voice (Aaltonen 2016; FitzSimmons 2009). Voice has also drawn attention to questions of power, the politics of representation and the documentary maker’s ‘power over’ the participant (Nash 2010; Nichols 1993; Winston 1988, 2000). Our aim in this chapter is to explore the braided voice as a theoretical framework for empirical studies of documentary production. In developing this framework we are conscious of the need to link voice, as a metaphor for authorship, to the interrogation of power relations. In particular we want to take up the challenge of engaging in a ‘microanalytics of power’ (Jenkins and Carpentier 2013, p. 267) that acknowledges the very different levels at which power circulates in the production of documentary. We start by exploring voice as it has been theorised in documentary studies and the politics of representation before including more recent research on voice and recognition. We will then consider how these different dimensions of voice are evident in our own empirical explorations of documentary-making through two primary case studies. We aim to show the deep imbrication of

W. Sanders (*) Utrecht University, Utrecht, The Netherlands e-mail: [email protected] K. Nash University of Leeds, Leeds, UK

© The Author(s) 2019 231 C. Batty et al. (eds.), The Palgrave Handbook of Screen Production, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-21744-0_18 232 W. SANDERS AND K. NASH voice as textual, practical and as political, and to show how these various dimensions of voice might be useful as a framework for production studies.

Documentary Voice In a now seminal article in documentary studies, Nichols (1983, p. 18) introduced the concept of documentary voice thus: ‘By “voice” I mean something narrower than style: that which conveys to us a sense of a text’s social point of view, of how it is speaking to us and how it is organizing the materials it is presenting to us. ... Voice is perhaps akin to that intangible, moiré-like pattern formed by the unique interaction of all a film’s codes, and it applies to all modes of documentary.’ Watching documentaries, we encounter the voice of the text which communicates its ‘social point-of-view’. For Nichols, the documentary maker should have a ‘controlling position’ (p. 24) with respect to a film’s voice. This controlling position has subsequently been considered as an inevitable, if problematic, aspect of documentary practice (Minh-ha 1993; Nichols 1991; Ruby 1992; Winston 2000). The past decade there has been an attempt to develop a more nuanced account of documentary voice. FitzSimmons (2009) in particular has argued that documentary voice has been unhelpfully unitary, eliding both the contributions of participants and the impacts of what she calls ‘institutional voice’— the multiple ways in which broadcasters, funders and governments ‘speak’ through the decisions they make at the levels of policy and resourcing. Aaltonen (2016) has recently drawn attention to the important influence of the voices of history and myth. However, FitzSimmons cautions against overstating the contributions of participants, pointing to the persistence of a ‘ventriloquistic voice’ in which participants are arranged according to the documentary maker’s agenda. Forms of dialogic voice, she argues, are characterised by an intentional diminution of the authorial voice and collaborative sense-making. The ‘choric voice’ offers a way of conceptualising the coming together of multiple voices to represent something collectively,1 while the ‘braided voice’ describes documentaries that reflect the voices of many, with the filmmaker’s perspective at its core. FitzSimmons’ (2009) notion of braided voice resonates, in particular, with production studies of documentary that have drawn attention to the importance of institutions, funding, policy and production conventions in shaping content (Leahy and Gibson 2002; Sørensen 2012; Zoellner 2009). While FitzSimmons has approached voice from a more macro view, her theoretical intervention also chimes with research emerging since 2010 into the relationship between documentary makers and participants with whom they have been closely involved (see, for instance, a special edition of the New Review of Film and Television Studies 2012(3); Aaltonen 2016; Ouellette

1 As in Greek theatre, there is a sense of multiple, perhaps anonymous, voices that might come together where a documentary maker has sought to structure reactions or potential actions from an audience. THE (BRAIDED) DOCUMENTARY VOICE: THEORISING THE COMPLEXITIES… 233

2016). While our research findings are broadly aligned with FitzSimmons’ notion of the choric voice, we have also sought ways of developing the concept to account for the often informal micro-tussles that characterise documentary production. We have therefore turned to recent research into media participation and political voice.

Participation and Recognition: Expanding Voice as a Critical Framework Carpentier (2011, p. 68) defines participation in the media as having some input into decision-making in the context of media production (content- related participation) or within a media organisation (structural participation). He understands media production as a site of struggle and calls for critical attention to the dynamics of power that shape key moments of decision- making. Although he does not specifically discuss documentary, Carpentier refers to factual TV formats to draw a distinction between emancipatory and manipulatory approaches to production. Where the former is driven by a desire to facilitate participants’ contributions to public debate, the latter is concerned primarily with the commodification of participants (a view that aligns with much research on participation in the context of reality TV).2 While minimal forms of participation are characterised by strong imbalances of power in decision-making (dominated by the (principally financial) goals of media organisations), more maximal participatory intensities move towards an equalisation of power relations and a concern with the participants’ discursive contributions. Here the equalisation of power relations represents a key touchstone, either a utopian goal or normative benchmark (Jenkins and Carpentier 2013), in ways that resonate with documentary ethics (Winston 2000; Nichols 1991). In developing his account of participation, Carpentier (2011) points to a number of structuring elements that may either facilitate or impede participants’ involvement in decision-making: identity, organisational structures, technology and quality. These provide a framework for a microanalysis of power and a critical reflection on participatory intensity. Identity points to the role of subject positions, including professional roles such as ‘documentary maker’ and the extent to which a participant’s ‘expertise’ can shape participation. Organisational structures and cultures draws attention to organisational remits, practices and cultures, as well as to political and economic structures. Technology is deeply intertwined with organisational structure, professional culture and technical quality. While specific technologies have affordances that support and/or shape participation, production cultures and notions of professional standard shape the kinds of technologies that can be used and who can use them (Caldwell 2009).

2 See, for example, Grindstaff, L. (2014). DI(t)Y, reality-style: The cultural work of ordinary celebrity. In L. Ouellette (Ed.), A Companion to Reality Television (pp. 324–344). Hoboken, NJ: John Wiley & Sons, Inc. 234 W. SANDERS AND K. NASH

Participation stops short, however, of being able to account for the vocal ambitions of those who participate and it is this aspect of voice that has, to date, been most absent in accounts of documentary production. As Couldry (2010, p. 1) has argued, human beings are distinguished by their ability to ‘give an account of themselves and their place in the world’. Consequently, ‘voice’ needs to be broadened beyond ‘the simple act of speaking in one’s own name, important, of course though, that is’, to include the ‘second-order value of voice that is embodied in the process of recognising our claims on each other as reflexive human agents’ (Couldry 2009, p. 580, italics in the original). Recognition draws attention to listening as ‘the other side’ of voice (Dreher 2012, p. 159) and it is from this perspective that many of the offers of voice that have proliferated in the media have been shown to be, to different degrees, illusory (see, for instance, Shufeldt and Gale 2007). As recognition, voice takes on a more explicitly political orientation, drawing attention to participants’ political motivations for documentary participation.3 Recognition aligns with participation in its focus on decision-making, but at the same time focuses outward to link the documentary text to the participant’s political ambition and the extent to which this is realised. While recognition has not been an explicit focus of our research to date, we have become aware of its centrality both as a motivation for documentary participation and as central to the relationship between the documentary maker and participant. Recognition also strikes us as relevant to a more fulsome exploration of documentary ethics. During our research we became aware of the importance of recognition for trust and respect (Nash 2010) and of communication in the documentary relationship (Sanders 2012b). Listening to the voices of documentary participants is not only a precursor to participation, but it is also fundamental to what we see as documentary makers’ ethical attitude towards those they film. An openness and responsiveness to the voice of the participant is, we suggest, a touchstone for ethical documentary-making. Bringing the perspectives discussed together, we suggest that the braided documentary voice is characterised by a move towards more maximal participation evident across identities, institutions, technologies and notions of quality. Further, we suggest that it is characterised by a focus on realising the political ambitions of documentary participants beyond the documentary text.

In Search of Braided Voices: Re-Viewing Studies of Documentary Production The original research we draw on in this section was conducted as part of our PhD research into the ethics of documentary-making (Nash 2009, 2010; Sanders 2012a, b). Coming from different theoretical perspectives we shared a conviction that production studies offered an important way to recast the

3 The Fogo Island Process, developed by Colin Low/the National Film Board Canada, is an example. See www.nfb.ca/playlist/fogo-island (last accessed 31 July 2018). THE (BRAIDED) DOCUMENTARY VOICE: THEORISING THE COMPLEXITIES… 235 ethical debate in light of the experiences of documentary participants. Although our initial research was not explicitly driven by the theoretical framework explored, here we hope that the value of looking anew at our research data will become apparent.

Self-Representation and (Professional) Identity The following is based on an interview study of four Dutch documentary participants, of which two are included here.4 Ben and Debby (pseudonyms) collaborated in different projects with different filmmakers. However, both expressed explicit ideas about their representation vis-à-vis each film’s subject matter and the ways in which they wanted to contribute to decision-making processes. Both showed an awareness of their participation as contributing to the documentary narrative, and thereby its voice. Both also, at some point, struggled with the filmmaker to secure their interests with respect to their representation, specifically in relation to identity and quality, thereby co-creating their ‘threads’. Ben was invited to participate after he had appeared in other media, speaking about the same topic: his interest in a specific political party. He was one of a number of participants in the film. At the time of the interviews, he was working as a night nurse. Although at the beginning of the filming process Ben decided to ‘let it happen’ rather than discuss every question or topic in advance, three examples illustrate Ben’s efforts to control his representation. Thinking particularly of his children, he decided not to go into specific details about their lives, school and community:

Look, I have been a member of the parent council, and then you just know more but then I won’t, I also don’t think that is respectful to then throw out that information in front of the camera. ... So there ... I stood, stammering ...

Here, Ben positions himself as a community member whose obligation to his community outweighs the interests of the film and filmmaker. Filming at his house, Ben recounted on one occasion that ‘Things can just get too close, if they really touch you personally. You have things ... you don’t want to tell and I came very close to that ... Like “hey, I really rather not have all this”.’ He decided to stop his collaboration and a lengthy discussion with the filmmaker took place that afternoon. He was also careful to exclude certain experiences in his past, arguing that ‘that is over and I am older now ... it’s 10 years on now ... I learned from it and yeah, that’s not necessary ...’. Here, Ben considers the boundaries of his participation from a private perspective. Ben recounted that in the beginning of the filming process he was very aware of not only what to say but also how to say it and to ‘not say it the wrong

4 Due to limited space, we cannot go into methodological details but refer to our PhD theses (Nash 2009; Sanders 2012b) for further information. 236 W. SANDERS AND K. NASH way’. In particular, he discussed with the filmmaker which aspects of the political party he wanted to be associated with and those he did not. With regard to one of latter, he said ‘that is not a problem for me ... so, I don’t need to go into that too much’, distancing himself from a specific issue. In short, these three examples illustrate that Ben demonstrated an awareness of the link between his participation and self-representation, and consciously delineated his participation around how he wanted to be depicted as a community member, a private person and an affiliate to a political party. At the same time, Ben also contributed to his self-representation by requesting the inclusion of several elements. To portray him as a professional, Ben and the filmmaker had agreed to film him at work. Ben described picking out a patient he deemed suitable to be filmed based on how he wanted to depict his profession. In addition, Ben requested the inclusion of images of him with his son. For personal reasons this was important to Ben and his wife who, he recalled, was keen not to be included in the film (‘if maybe they might take me out as long as [son] is included ...’). The filmmaker obliged and a scene of Ben with his son was included. This supports his self-presentation as a family man who, in this case, displays a certain relationship with his son. So, in addition to delineating and limiting his representation, Ben contributed to further construct his representation as a professional and as a family man (an identity he underscored elsewhere in the interview by referring to his life as ‘suburban bliss’), by expanding his participation. Thereby he co- constructed his representation, contributing to the construction of ultimate voice of the documentary through his ‘thread’. The second participant to be discussed here is Debby. Having recently finished her PhD research on an art collector, which resulted in a biography, Debby participated in a documentary about the art collector, initially as a consultant. She became the main participant in the documentary after suggesting the approach for the film:

[H]e asked me like, ‘would you know a perspective’ and I pretty boldly said ... ‘the search of the biographer’ ... I did not intend to push myself forward but I just recognized exactly what he was trying to do.

Debby was ultimately ‘followed’ as she sought to uncover the character of the art collector, with the story told through her eyes. Two issues characterise her participation: the way she co-shaped the story based on her expert input and her professional identity as an academic. Because Debby was initially asked to contribute as a consultant she had the opportunity to co-construct the story and engage in a more maximal form of participation with relation to the documentary. Debby recounted she did not agree with a number of central themes and the weight the filmmaker attached to others. She was able to steer the film in a direction that she felt was more appropriate by including relevant topics and information on the basis of her THE (BRAIDED) DOCUMENTARY VOICE: THEORISING THE COMPLEXITIES… 237 expertise. She also described evaluating beforehand the information about the themes and topics to be addressed during the next day of recording to see if anything was missing that she thought needed to be included so ‘that I should, if we are recording, then make sure that that topic is discussed as well’. As an ‘expert’, Debby was able to use her power in the production ‘team’ to include information she deemed important or relevant. Like Ben, Debby was very conscious of the way in which she would be represented, and she worked to shape how she was portrayed vis-à-vis the art collector. The filmmaker wanted Debby to identify with the collector (even to the extent of mimicking the collector’s pose in a painting). Debby recalled:

[A]s an academic, if there is anything drummed into you ... it is that you should keep a distance and that you should look at your subject as objectively as possible and ... That [mimicking idea] quite quickly was dropped from the story.

Debby refused to be displayed in a mirror image with the subject of the film because this did not align with her idea of what it means to be academic. This also draws attention to the visual qualities of participation and voice: it is not just what participants say, but also what they do and the context of the act that constitutes their contribution and, through it, the voice of the resulting film. Debby’s self-presentation also surfaced during the filming of a scene in which she had to convey some factual information. While she needed some time to convey a sentence that would properly capture the information, the filmmaker pushed her with his suggestion. She refused and interrupted the filming process, asking for a ‘time out’. She then conceived of a suitable sentence and filming was resumed. In this instance, Debby again safeguarded her self-presentation as an academic by approaching, in her explanation, documentary as research:

I also personally think it doesn’t suit the idea of a documentary. I think a documentary is an investigation ... and I also understand you don’t have the luxury to nuance everything in notes and, well ... Look, making a mistake is one thing but if someone tells you ‘this is incorrect’ I really think you cannot pursue ...

By referring to an investigation and the use of notes, she self-presents herself as a researcher.5 This also calls attention to the issue of (perceived) quality. For Debby, the quality of the documentary is highly related to its academic accountability (rather than to questions of veracity or aesthetics). Discussing her contract, she mentioned this explicitly: ‘the image that especially arises from me as researcher and that should tally with uhm how I am and with my integrity and with my way of doing research ...’. Here, Debby is confronted with the institutional ‘thread’ which also seeks to assert power over her contribution: she requested a veto but did not get it.

5 With reference to the film but, in this instance, also to the interviewer. 238 W. SANDERS AND K. NASH

Like Ben, Debby consciously considered how she wants to come across and delineated her representation in both sound and image accordingly, exerting power over the production process where needed and possible, to safeguard and construct her ‘thread’ as academic.

Voice, Participation and Trust in Documentary-Making The second case study through which we will engage with the notion of the braided voice is Nash’s (2010) study of Tom Zubrycki’s Molly & Mobarak, which focuses particularly on the relationship between Tom Zubrycki and Lyn Rule, a central participant. The documentary explores the experience of asylum seekers in Australia through the story of Mobarak Tahiri and his relationship with Molly Rule, with their complex friendship serving as a metaphor for the relationship between asylum seekers and Australian society. Previous publications (Nash 2009, 2010) explore Molly & Mobarak from the perspective of power, highlighting the complex contest between documentary maker and participant. In revisiting this material, we aim to highlight the implications of this contest for thinking about documentary voice. While focusing on the very significant ways in which documentary content is shaped, often informally, by the participant, we also wish to draw attention to the different levels (identity, organisational, technological) at which the participants’ agency is constrained. Lyn Rule was invited to participate in the documentary because of her political activity, but unlike Debby in the example already considered, she was not positioned as an ‘expert’ in relation to the project. From the perspective of identity, she occupied the position of documentary ‘subject’ and Zubrycki that of ‘documentary maker’. This non-expert positioning underpinned Lyn’s experience of filming as characterised by both control and loss of control. On the one hand she sought to play a key role in shaping the documentary by controlling what could, and could not, be recorded. However, her subject position as a participant (rather than a collaborator) meant that this control was informal. So on the one hand Lyn felt in control of the filming, saying, for instance, ‘I can control that [the filming], that’s nothing. If it’s going to do some good’ (Nash 2009, p. 164). But that control often took the form of ‘little ways of stopping him [Zubrycki]’, preventing Zubrycki from filming informally by swearing or playing music (both of which would make the recorded footage unusable). She also withheld information from Zubrycki where she didn’t want filming to take place (with mixed success). At the same time Lyn actively shaped the documentary by making suggestions about filming and encouraging Zubrycki to stay in her house while he was filming. It was this intimate access to the family that actually made the documentary’s ‘romantic’ narrative frame possible. While Lyn’s subject position was important so too were technology, quality and organisational structures. The documentary was shot on digital video for television broadcast. In describing the experience of participating in the filming, Lyn referred a number of times to Zubrycki’s camera, which she described THE (BRAIDED) DOCUMENTARY VOICE: THEORISING THE COMPLEXITIES… 239 as ‘hidden in some sneaky little spot where he could pick it up and start filming’ (Nash 2009, p. 165). The flexibility of digital video, which allowed for single- person operation and higher shooting ratios, gave Zubrycki the means to capture various intimate moments in the day-to-day lives of the documentary participants. At the time that Molly & Mobarak was made, single-person filming on digital video was an established practice, although there was limited familiarity with ProAm video equipment. Further, the need to ensure quality sufficient for television broadcast precluded a more participatory approach to recording. As an independent documentary maker, Zubrycki worked at arm’s length from the broadcaster that commissioned Molly & Mobarak. However, it was also the case that the project was shaped in key ways by organisational, and legal, processes. The formal process of securing the participants ‘consent’ for example, served to highlight for Lyn the fragility of her power over her own image in the documentary. She felt that signing the release form equated to ‘giving away all your rights really’, relinquishing control over her image to Zubrycki and the broadcaster. For Lyn, the offer of a right of veto represented the point at which she was most explicitly positioned as a participant in the project. She spoke about requesting the removal of a couple of specific shots and saw this agency as central to her giving her informed consent. Approaching voice from the perspective of recognition highlights the importance of Lyn’s political ambitions as a motive for documentary participation. Identifying the moment of seeing Zubrycki’s earlier documentaries as fundamental to her decision to participate, she says: ‘I realised that there was a chance that this was going to become a film and it wasn’t just some guy who didn’t know what he was doing; it was clear that Tom knew what he was doing and there was a chance, a high probability that there was going to be a film made and that if it was going to be of any value to migrants’ (Nash 2009, p. 186). Zubrycki’s earlier documentaries provide a foundation for Lyn’s participation because they demonstrate both his political viewpoint and his knowledge and skill as a documentary maker. In reflecting on her participation, Lyn highlighted the fact that Molly & Mobarak was screened in the national parliament, thus pointing to the significance of recognition and political voice as relevant to a consideration of documentary production.

Conclusion In this chapter we have sought to develop the concept of documentary voice as ‘braided’, such that it might provide a framework for production research across a range of documentary practices. We have done so by bringing documentary-focused accounts of voice (both as unitary and as braided) into dialogue with both research into media participation and a more explicitly political notion of voice as recognition. Reviewing our own empirical research, we have sought to demonstrate, however tentatively, the utility of this framework for illuminating the different dimensions of contest that characterise 240 W. SANDERS AND K. NASH documentary production. We have sought to move beyond voice as a metaphor for authorship to consider how it is that documentary participants and other actors (filmmakers, institutions, technologies, policies and so on) shape documentary content and the documentary’s voice. We have found that documentary participants have a clear sense of their motivation for participation and that they are conscious of their participation as a way of contributing, with varying goals, politically. Participants have an interest in the documentary text, seek to exercise control, to different degrees, over the text or at least their part in it, and are enabled or constrained at various levels, from the interpersonal to the institutional and beyond. However, their co-construction of their threads for the documentary braid is evident. A key aim of this chapter has been to draw attention to the complexity of documentary voice. Documentary-making is characterised by collaboration that can be all but impossible to detect at the level of the text. We have only begun here to consider the ways in which moments of key decision-making are structured by the complex to and fro of power at the level of interpersonal relationships, interactions between individuals, the various organisational structures of media production and so on. While we wish to draw attention to the agency of documentary participants, it is our contention that this agency must be understood with reference to a broader analysis of power relationships that draws attention to the different levels at which the participant’s agency is countered. We believe that the framework for the analysis of power presented here allows for such an analysis and that it facilitates an analytic flow between textual, productional and political notions of voice.

References Aaltonen, J. (2016). Weeping Men and Singing Women: Voices in Finnish Documentaries. Studies in Documentary Film, 10(2), 169–182. Caldwell, J. T. (2009). Cultures of Production. Studying Industry’s Deep Texts, Reflexive Rituals, and Managed Self-Disclosures. In J. Holt & L. Perren (Eds.), Media Industries History, Theory, and Method (pp. 199–212). Malden: Wiley-Blackwell. Carpentier, N. (2011). Media and Participation: A Site of Ideological-Democratic Struggle. Bristol: Intellect. Couldry, N. (2009). Rethinking the Politics of Voice: Commentary. Continuum, 23(4), 579–582. Couldry, N. (2010). Why Voice Matters: Culture and Politics After Neoliberalism. Los Angeles: SAGE. Dreher, T. (2012). A Partial Promise of Voice: Digital Storytelling and the Limits of Listening. Media International Australia, 142(1), 157–166. FitzSimmons, T. (2009). Braided Channels: A Genealogy of the Voice of Documentary. Studies in Documentary Film, 3(2), 131–146. Jenkins, H., & Carpentier, N. (2013). Theorizing Participatory Intensities: A Conversation About Participation and Politics. Convergence: The International Journal of Research into New Media Technologies, 19(3), 265–286. THE (BRAIDED) DOCUMENTARY VOICE: THEORISING THE COMPLEXITIES… 241

Leahy, G., & Gibson, S. (2002). Repression and Expression: The Film-Maker’s Voice in Australian Documentary. Metro Magazine, 135, 90–95. Minh-ha, T. T. (1993). The Totalizing Quest of Meaning. In M. Renov (Ed.), Theorizing Documentary (pp. 90–107). London: Routledge. Nash, K. (2009). Beyond the Frame: A Study in Observational Documentary Ethics. Doctoral Thesis, University of New England, Armidale. Nash, K. (2010). Exploring Power and Trust in Documentary: A Study of Tom Zubrycki’s Molly and Mobarak. Studies in Documentary Film, 4(1), 21–33. Nichols, B. (1983). The Voice of Documentary. Film Quarterly, 36(3), 17–30. Nichols, B. (1991). Representing Reality: Issues and Concepts in Documentary. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Nichols, B. (1993). ‘Getting to Know You ...’: Knowledge, Power, and the Body. In M. Renov (Ed.), Theorizing Documentary (pp. 174–191). London: Routledge. Ouellette, L. (2016). True Life: The Voice of Television Documentary. In D. Marcus & S. Kara (Eds.), Contemporary Documentary (pp. 107–123). London/New York: Routledge. Ruby, J. (1992). Speaking for, Speaking About, Speaking with, or Speaking Alongside: An Anthropological and Documentary Dilemma. Journal of Film and Video, 44(1/2), 42–66. Sanders, W. (2012a). The Aggie Will Come First Indeed. A Survey on Documentary Filmmakers Dealing with Participants. New Review of Film and Television Studies, 10(3), 387–408. Sanders, W. (2012b). Participatory Spaces. Negotiating Cooperation and Conflict in Documentary Projects. Doctoral Thesis, Utrecht University, Utrecht. Shufeldt, M., & Gale, K. (2007). Under the (Glue) Gun: Containing and Constructing Reality in Home Makeover TV. Popular Communication, 5(4), 263–282. Sørensen, I. E. (2012). Crowdsourcing and Outsourcing: The Impact of Online Funding and Distribution on the Documentary Film Industry in the UK. Media, Culture & Society, 34(6), 726–743. Winston, B. (1988). The Tradition of the Victim in Griersonian Documentary. In A. Rosenthal (Ed.), New Challenges for Documentary (pp. 269–287). Berkeley: University of California Press. Winston, B. (2000). Lies, Damn Lies and Documentaries. London: The British Film Institute. Zoellner, A. (2009). Professional Ideology and Program Conventions: Documentary Development in Independent British Television Production. Mass Communication and Society, 12(4), 503–536. Editing the Observed: Evaluation and Value Creation Processes in the Editing of a Feature Documentary Film

Alastair Cole

Introduction Documentary films undertake extensive journeys from the birth of an idea to their release. Journeys that inevitably offer up an array of detours, and periods where the final film is completely reshaped from the idea, story or version that existed in a previous stage of development. This is, of course, one of the joys of working with filmic realities, and the challenge that documentary filmmakers embrace the world over in taking these realities and forming them into final films. The editing stage of a documentary film provides one of the most intense examples of a period of change within this journey—one where the final film is often found, extracted, shaped and refined. The processes that make up the editing of my own feature documentary film, and practice-based research project,Colours of the Alphabet (2016) will be the focus of this chapter. I will use the editing processes of the film as the basis of a proposal for a two-phase perspective as a means to examine the specificities of the practice of editing within creative documentary filmmaking, with particular reference to an observational filmmaking approach. I will suggest that the framing of the wider editing of the film is best understood as being made up of, first, anevaluation phase, which focuses on the revision, reduction and selection of content, and, second, a value creation phase, where the film is brought to its final form, calling attention to the negotiation of syntax, form and narrative. This two-phase framework aims to not only assist in the understanding of my own practice, or what Robin Nelson aptly describes as

A. Cole (*) Newcastle University, Newcastle, UK e-mail: [email protected]

interrogating my own ‘doing-thinking’ (2013: 11), but also to provide an example and potential framework for documentary filmmaking students to consider their own editing processes and establish an evaluation structure to help navigate the editing stages of their projects. The 80-minute feature documentary film at the centre of this discussion, Colours of the Alphabet, focuses on the global challenge of the lack of mother- tongue education. It tells the story of three Zambian primary school students and their families over their first year at school, as they enter an education system in which they must learn in a language that is not their own. Since its release in 2016, the film has screened extensively at film festivals internationally, in cinemas across the UK and Zambia, and has been released in 30 languages across Africa.1 Further research outputs from the wider project illustrate its impact pathway and practice-based PhD approach (Cole and Higgins 2018), the research methodology used (Cole 2016) and an extensive discussion of both the practice and linguistic anthropological enquiry at the heart of the project (Cole 2015). The film was shot over 12 months in rural Zambia, and had around 100 hours of rushes (resulting in a final shooting ratio of 75: 1), largely made up of observational content from the primary one classroom at the centre of the film, the community of Lwimba where it was situated, as well as extensive conversational interviews with the head teacher, the head and students’ families. The film was edited in Scotland; the editing was split between two main periods of work with various people involved. Firstly, a period of editing rushes into an assembly and a first rough was undertaken by myself as the director, with support from the film’s producer Nick Higgins. The second period of editing, where the film was refined from a first rough cut to the final cut was undertaken by myself and Nick, working with experienced film editors Colin Monie and Nick Gibbon. The following discussion aims to separate out these two periods to exemplify the suggested two-phase documentary film editing approach, and to bring into focus a selection of the decisions and processes undertaken during the editing of this film.

Evaluation and Value Creation Processes in Documentary Film Editing Editing a documentary film is a specific practice, one that may share its technical elements with fiction film editing but has at its centre a very fundamental constructive and moulding role. As film editor Walter Murch notes, this contrast between the two is illustrated through a documentary film editor’s ability to ‘impose on a film a vision that wasn’t there to begin with’ (Ondaatje and Murch 2002: 29). Importantly, often embedded within this constitutive role of editing in documentary film, the role of the editor is to forge the film’snarrative

1 For more information on Colours of the Alphabet see http://www.coloursofthealphabet.com/ or the Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/ColoursOfTheAlphabetFilm/. EDITING THE OBSERVED: EVALUATION AND VALUE CREATION PROCESSES… 245 and, in the case of observational film especially, lead in decisions surrounding the narrativisation of material—a process which Hayden White notes aims to ‘feign to make the world speak itself and speak itself as a story’ (1980: 7). The editing of Colours of the Alphabet was no exception to this, and the editing decisions occurred through two distinct phases: an evaluative phase followed by a value creation phase. The first phase of evaluation centres on the elements within the raw audio-visual material of the project and requires the distillation of a massive amount of material into a manageable assembly form. The value creation phase surrounds the myriad of editing processes, including the organisation and narrativisation of the material, sequence structuring and syntactic- level decisions, which, I suggest, can be understood to function as value creation mechanisms which mould the assembly, through a process of rough and fine cuts, into a final film. Establishing these as processes should not be regarded as removing the creative and authorial decisions that any filmmaker or editor are required to make; as noted by Kerrigan and McIntyre (2010), the creative process of documentary filmmaking is one that is best understood as removed from any romantic conceptions of creativity. Rather, a systematic understanding of creativity, which embraces the research and production processes that underpin a project as well as the intuitive filmmaking experience and environments wherein projects are embedded, is important. By offering the suggested two-phase framework I am hoping to make sense of what can be an often mysticised period within the creation of a documentary film, and to provide a structure within which the implicit perspectives of an author can be positioned and understood. The use of value aims to embrace an academic understanding of the term, as well as the processes of evaluation to help comprehend the value we may attribute to one piece of filmed material over another, as well as the new value that the editing process itself creates in the final film. This draws on an understanding of value more broadly within anthropology and language, and uses the work of David Graeber (2001) and Valentin Voloshinov (1973) as theoretical tools. Graeber’s work aims to comprehend how we value something as being neither solely derived through an economic and exchange driven concept, nor simply through a Saussurean approach where only the ‘meaning’ something holds for an individual dictates its value. Rather, Graeber highlights the importance of ‘actions’ as being fundamental in how we value one object or media over another, and he proposes a ‘theory of value starting from the assumption that what is ultimately being evaluated are not things, but actions’ (2001: 49). He expands this by highlighting the idea that to understand the value attributed to anything, be it an object, action or media, ‘means that one must understand the meaning of the various acts of creation, consecration, use and appropriation, and so on, that make up its history’ (2001: 114).2 Thus, imbued

2 Graeber expands his definition outside the ‘object’ and, through ethnographic examples, such as the performance of Kayapo chiefly chanting, he describes his notions of ‘measures’ and ‘media of value’ (2001: 75). 246 A. COLE within an editor or filmmaker’s attribution of value of any raw clip or edited sequence are the actions and processes that are not only attached to the original recording (both in front and behind the camera), but also those in the edit suite. Understanding those actions is key to understanding the decisions that resulted in a piece of material remaining in a film, or why particular clips were sequenced in one way or another. Furthermore, as these are evaluative processes, I also suggest that Valentin Voloshinov’s illustration of the importance of social determinants in understanding the evaluative nature of language use is a further useful theoretical tool, particularly his conceptualisation of the ‘generation of the evaluative purview’ that exists within every social group. This is a concept which he understands as the ‘totality of all those things which have meaning and importance for the particular group’ (1973: 106). Thus, for filmmakers and editors, understanding their own evaluative purview becomes a strategy to interrogate the processes and actions that have led to the value attributed to edited material in the film, as well as to potentially help when planning any future editing decisions.

Editing Process of Colours of the Alphabet The editing of the film was, even by documentary film standards, a very slow and long process, being completed over two periods totalling around 12 months spread over three years. The initial editing process began during the 12-month production phase in Zambia, where footage was prepared and reviewed. As the film was largely filmed in two Zambian languages, Soli and Nyanja, there was also an extensive review process during the translation and draft subtitling of the raw material. These pre-edit stages were important on an organisational and preparatory level and I would estimate that 10% of the footage was immediately removed from the editing process, being deemed as unusable for technical reasons. It was not until my return to Scotland after filming that I began the more concentrated process of evaluating the material to begin working towards the first edits. It is important to highlight that the separation of the evaluative and value creation processes of editing does not mean they are completely isolated from each other. Documentary filmmaking should be understood as a very liquid process, one that is often difficult to codify through traditional film production stages. Editing often begins while you are still filming, if not in practice, often in the mind’s eye of the filmmaker, and, likewise, further filming often happens during editing. Importantly, all of these actions influence each other on many practical and conceptual levels. Thus, while I will break down the editing of the film into evaluative and value creation processes to assist with the analysis of my practice, there should be an appreciation of the interconnected nature of both these processes, as well as their intersection with other filmmaking processes. EDITING THE OBSERVED: EVALUATION AND VALUE CREATION PROCESSES… 247

Phase One: Evaluating and Selecting Content The pre-edit stage, conducted in Zambia, where technical evaluation occurred, was followed by a more detailed review and selection process conducted in Scotland that was largely dictated by my evaluation of the content of the material. The aim of this phase was to produce an assembly edit, which represents an important target during a documentary’s editing process. This phase involved the largest removal of material and the first rough sequencing of the raw footage. This phase highlights a crucial characteristic of documentary filmmaking: that ‘the documentary that you see is only one version of the film it might have been. Why? First because the other versions are lying on the cutting room floor’ (Chanan 2008: 123). This stage saw the project move from around 90 hours of raw, usable material to a three-hour assembly edit. The latter represented all the content I wanted in the film, without any significant consideration given to the structure or order of the content or the detailed cutting of scenes together. At the outset I aimed to have an assembly of around double the desired length of the final film. This process was, at times, a very slow and frustrating process, but it resulted in an assembly that was structured with rough sequences presented in an approximate chronology of filming. The judgements which led to the dramatic removal of over 95% of the material can be understood as significantly influenced by my aims for the film as a director and in relation to my own intuition and evaluative purview. Thus, the selected material can be viewed as a result of the confluence of the realities filmed and my own interpretation and subjective evaluation of them. My personal, academic and filmmaking history clearly provide the foundation for this, and any evaluations and editing decisions I made were never far removed from these influences. Filmmakers and individual documentary films that have trodden related territory, or have, through accident or design, influenced my own filmmaking style or the approach of this film, thus became imbued within the selected material. In this first evaluation stage there remained a constant and intense relationship between myself, the filmmaker, and the human subjects of the film. While it was a relationship founded in the film’s location of Lwimba, Zambia, it was significantly intensified in a small editing suite in Scotland. It is a process which has significance for the purview through which the material is seen and valued by the filmmaker:

The attentiveness of the filmmaker to the subject that begins with the making of the film inevitably shifts towards the images themselves, in a relationship that cannot be reciprocated. It produces an increasing intimacy but a one-way intimacy that is always in danger of fetishising its objects. (MacDougall 1998: 36)

This danger David MacDougall refers to is mirrored within Graeber’s analysis of the wider process of object valuation, where he notes, through attribut- ing value to a given object, there can be understood to be an inherent 248 A. COLE fetishisation of that object. Here, the use of the term fetishisation can be understood as ‘the overdetermination of the social value of the object’ (Dant 1996: 496). It is also resonant with a more general perspective of evaluation which further places in focus the fundamental role of the director and the nature of his or her decisions, in that the recognition of the objects’ value can be understood to ‘become mirrors of the beholder’s own manipulated intentions’ (Graeber 2001: 115). This highlights the importance of the collective process of editing, where ‘fresh eyes’ are often brought into view a project throughout the edit. This external viewing can work to correct overdetermination on the part of the filmmaker as well as offer feedback and alternate solutions to specific challenges. For this project, the external eyes I relied on were those of the producer, research advisors, co-editors and, towards the end of the process, test audiences, who were able to interrogate both the various cuts of the film and, inherently, the evaluation of the material I, and the editors I worked with, had chosen to include.

Project Content Evaluation Breakdown The journey described here is clearly one which many documentary film directors and editors go through; however, the differing content and ultimate form of every project will render each process unique. As a means to interrogate this first phase of the editing ofColours of the Alphabet, Fig. 1 breaks down the major criteria used to evaluate the material in the film. While a somewhat skeletal description of what is an involved process, Fig. 1, and the following details, aim to illustrate the major determinants of the value of a given clip for inclusion in the assembly of the film. After the mentioned evaluation for usability, the first, and major, criteria for the valuation of raw footage was the ‘content value’, where the value of the audio-visual material filmed is attributable to the action unfolding in front of the camera. This material was then further categorised into subject, narrative and thematic categories. These

Phase one material evaluation breakdown

Subject Second Unusable Floor Content value Narrative aesthetic evaluation Usable Thematic Rushes Usable Assembly evaluated for usability. Latent value Evaluation of potential Yes ascribable value Unusable None Floor

Fig. 1 Breakdown of the evaluative process to reach a three-hour assembly in Colours of the Alphabet EDITING THE OBSERVED: EVALUATION AND VALUE CREATION PROCESSES… 249 are very broad categorisations that were specific for this project, and obviously relate to the original intended purpose of filming and my own approach in selecting the material. It is also important to note that because of the nature of observational documentary film material, many clips or scenes hold value that is applicable to more than one category. So, while these three categories are somewhat broad, I suggest they generally highlight the major aspects of the content I was looking for at this stage of the editing. Importantly, they were broad enough to continue to let the film emerge within the editing process but, vitally, gave some boundaries to assist with the removal of the vast majority of the footage that happened at this stage. For the first category, I have used the termsubject -specific, as this was material that was judged to be aligned to the major aims of the film and research project—in this project’s case, material related to the ideologies and politics of language events in the classroom and community. Much of the selected interview material with the parents and teachers was isolated along these terms, as well as the majority of the classroom scenes, such as learning the national anthem, basic English greetings or the eventual opening lesson of the film where the teacher attempted to greet the children in multiple languages. It became increasingly important to focus on those specific classroom lessons, from the many that were filmed, which I felt held direct value for the final film. This, of course, meant giving up many hours of material from the classroom that provided fascinating insights into aspects of the school and community but did not link to the aims of the film. The second category of content value I was looking for was narrative- specific material, which included scenes and moments that revealed the development of the three main child characters and the grade one teacher’s journey over the school year, as well as temporal moments such as seasonal changes and harvesting scenes. Finally, I identifiedthematic moments, which included elements I aimed to reveal regularly, such as the regular lateness of the children, which helped to highlight the disconnect between their rural life and the structure of the school, or images and events which emphasised ideas the film aimed to touch on, such as the innocence of childhood and the conflict between modern and rural worlds. While these elements may have only been indirectly related to the focus of the project, they provided options for themes, sub- narratives and motifs that would supplement both the main focus and core narrative of the film. All of the material selected through this initial process was further analysed on audio-visual and aesthetic grounds. This was largely a more stringent process from that which was undertaken at the initial pre-edit stage of organising and ingesting the footage. It was also where scenes with similar content could be compared in terms of their usability and how well they were captured. During this process there was material that I brought forward in the editing that did not fit into the content value criteria, or three categories outlined, but rather which I ascribed as having ‘latent value’. Here again, my own aesthetic judgements were often influential in selecting material. Material that may have 250 A. COLE no immediate content value or linkage with the aims of the film but could act as supplementary and supportive to that which does made up the majority of ‘latent value’ material. It also, importantly, included material which, through the process of editing in phase two, could likely have a perceivable value ascribed to it. For this film, material from the community, including wider landscapes and contextualising images, or material in the classroom that could be used to support other content, were selected. Importantly, this also included images which were more ethnographic in nature, clips that provided a deeper insight into the everyday life of the community and especially the three children at the centre of the film, their families and the grade one teacher. These selection processes describe how the first three-hour assembly was created, and it is important to note, that from this early stage of the edit, I was aiming to work in sequences, creating rough scenes that offered an early example of the capacity of a particular scene to function in a wider film. As with any documentary film, the resulting assembly was not an easy watch, but it offered up the vital opportunity to discuss and plan the film as a single piece of work, as well a chance to look for further narrative and thematic links within the material before moving into the second phase of the edit.

Phase Two: Value Creation, Syntax and Structure Reducing the three-hour assembly into a feature-length film of about 80 minutes required a slower, more concentrated process of rearrangement, manipulation, refinement and reviewing. The editing focus of this period was to achieve a locked picture, ready to be transferred to sound designers and colour- ists for post-production, eventually leading to an export of the final film. This happened over two major periods, first, a four-month period where I led the editing to bring the film to a rough-cut stage, and then a second period of approximately three months where I worked with two professional editors to shift the film from the rough-cut stage to its final form.3 During this final period, we also received important input from acclaimed editor Niels Pagh Andersen (The Act of Killing, The Look of Silence) within a rough-cut development workshop called EDN’s (European Documentary Network’s) Twelve for the Future. This engagement with consultants and external editors was made possible through new funding from Creative Scotland. It is useful to note that professional collaboration of this nature, while typical in the industry module of documentary film production, was not feasible prior to this point due to the requirements of the PhD by practice within which the project was filmed and developed. Furthermore, such was the length and scope of the project this eventual professional collaboration was not only vital for the film but also for myself, to provide the required distance to

3 The first external editor who worked on the project was Nick Gibbon, and the second, who brought the film to its final version, was Colin Monie. EDITING THE OBSERVED: EVALUATION AND VALUE CREATION PROCESSES… 251 permit the story, and the themes I wanted to engage with, to be fully developed and clearly communicated to an audience. Importantly, the aim over this second phase of editing can be understood as a process to forge and attribute value—which would eventually be observable through a complete, meaningful and coherent final film. This stage, I suggest, notably differs from the previous evaluative phase, as while we continued to evaluate the material, rather than doing so largely on systematic ‘in or out’ terms based on perceived existing value in the material, the evaluation was influenced by the potential value that could be ascribed through the editing of given footage. Thus, the focus was on creating value with the ultimate goal of giving a complete new form to the selected content, thus realising the value in a public presentation, which can be understood to have been produced through the dedicated action of the editing process. This relationship between the value producing action of editing and the emergence and realising of value through a final, publicly available documentary film brings us again to Graeber’s main theoretical position of ‘value as the meaning of actions’, as well as his underlining that the process of the realisation of value ‘involves some form of public recognition’ (2001: 76). This public recognition, he suggests, is not a battle over prestige, but rather an engagement with those who will recognise a given form of value, as defined by the actor. However, for documentary film editing this is further complicated by the fact that most of the myriad of actions which comprise it are consciously far from the audience’s eyes. Scholars have highlighted the ‘invisibility’ of this process and, as Chanan reminds us, this invisibility can be understood as twofold. First, through the cuts in the final film, where edits are largely made to be unnoticed by the viewer, and second through the process itself, which involves weeks, months and sometimes years of moving material around a timeline which is ‘beyond the ken of the viewer’ (2008: 124).

Syntax, Narrative and Structure Structure and organisation have primary importance within the construction of any documentary film. This is true both on a broader narrative level but also, importantly, on a sequence, or, as Koppal (2008) helpfully refers to it, syntax, level. This more minutiae analysis provides a useful frame through which to understand sequence and scene-specific editing decisions, which became the focus during this second, value-creating phase of the film’s edit. As the second phase of editing progressed, the potential value created through the audio-visual syntax within a particular scene or sequence increasingly became the terms on which material would remain in the final cut of the film. This is perhaps most clearly illustrated by the common torment of documentary filmmakers that often the seemingly strongest, or most cherished, material, can become redundant, and not make the final film due to its inability to work with other material and ultimately add value to the film. This is a constitutive and gradual process, and while the decisions that are made are informed 252 A. COLE by a filmmaker’s and editor’s experience, there is often a tremendous amount of trial and error in establishing the syntax and structures that create the desired value and form for the final film. Clearly, there is not the space here to isolate and explain most of editing decisions made; however, it is important to remember that, as any documentary editor or filmmaker will testify, often the logic of what ‘works’ and what does not in an edit is unpredictable at best, and it is often only though the audio-visual experience of watching and listening that it is possible to gauge the capacity of a sequence to perform the desired function in the final film. To further briefly highlight this process, analysis of the editing of the opening of the film provides one example of the process of the creation of value through editing and the syntactic positioning of material. The opening of a film sets in motion its narrative, atmosphere, tone and pace, and its importance lies, as filmmaker Eugene Jarecki notes, not least in the fact ‘you only get one chance to introduce your story to your audience’ (in Quinn 2013: 271). The opening sequence of Colours of the Alphabet is made up of material filmed across the nine months of filming (see Fig. 2), which, for a single scene, made

Fig. 2 Six images of the introduction sequence EDITING THE OBSERVED: EVALUATION AND VALUE CREATION PROCESSES… 253 it relatively unique in the film.4 Its aim was to set forth the journey of the children at the centre of the film, establish the perspective that the story was going to be told from—that of the students—as well as provide the key political, linguistic and geographical context. It was also important to utilise the community and school settings of the film to help set the tone and pace. Within this, the sequence of moving images of the deputy head teacher raising the national flag over the empty school, intercut with an ever-present pale brown dog looking on, was intended to not only work alongside earlier images of the school bell ringing to give a clear indication of the opening of the school day, but also introduce wider themes of nation building and the ongoing post-colonial experience with which language use in Zambia continues to intersect (through the metaphor of the reoccurring ‘colonial’ dog looking on). This dual value ascribed to the same material can be understood to stem from the multivocality of visual images, which has been highlighted by Banks (2001: 140), and is emphasised by the images within this sequence that can be ascribed multiple concurrent values and meanings. Importantly, these images also fit into the wider opening sequence, with the opening of the school being cut against material of the children walking to school along a dirt path through the bush, and laughing about forgetting their pencils, before finally entering the school- yard.5 By positioning this material here, it allows us ascribe value to it—that of setting in motion the journey of the children—while also serving to orientate the audience perspective to that of the central grade one student characters. Finally, when viewed together, this material creates an introduction to the wider story of the film, combining to create an impression of the start of a school term and thus the beginning of the story of the film. Within the myriad of decisions that tacitly occurred during this value creation stage of editing, the process of narrativisation was intertwined throughout. While clearly decisions that significantly influence the final narrative construction of the film begin in the imagination of the filmmaker from the start of the development process, within this second value creation phase of editing, the direct impact of any narrative form decisions on the final on-screen narrative highlight this. The value of narrative in the documentary filmmaker’s toolkit to communicate and engage emotionally with an audience has been widely highlighted in literature (see White 1980; Knudsen 2012), and for this film it was no different. This is best illustrated by a decision to shift the narrative perspective that was made during this final editing period, where the film was consciously repositioned from a story led by the grade one teacher as a single character and her struggle with teaching and engaging with village life, with three students as sub-characters, to the final structure with the three

4 Because of the students’ development, and atmosphere changes, it was rare that material from outside of the same days of filming was able to be edited together. 5 The opening sequence introduces the linguistic and social context of the film, through some text on screen, including to explain the multicoloured subtitling, as well as the agricultural community setting of Lwimba to the audience. 254 A. COLE

students and their families leading the narrative, with the teacher being a secondary character. The prioritising of the children and their families’ stories aimed to increase the universality as well as the emotional, ethnographic and thematic engagement of the film, and it stemmed from industry and audience feedback to rough cuts. Practically, the shift in character perspective was undertaken working with the editor Colin Monie and became the basis on which many of the final changes to the content organisation, as well as the final sequence level and structural decisions, were made. Much of the content selected at assembly and rough-cut stage already engaged with the three children as sub-characters and thus remained in the film, while the overarching themes and wider school year narrative structure also largely stayed the same. However, the organisation of the material within these wider narrative structures was the focus of the change. On a syntactic level, simply the choice of visual points of entry, or first shots of a given scene, especially when re-entering the classroom (which was a fairly frequent occurrence during the film), became increasingly important. The salience of entering a new scene in the classroom initially through images of the children, or images that could be understood as being from their perspective, rather than the teacher or another adult, acted, alongside numerous other shifts, to support the audience’s understanding of the film’s child-led perspective. While the nature of this film, and the footage I had, allowed for this shift to be made, the change demonstrates the capacity of editing decisions within this second phase to create new value for the film—in this case that of fostering a student- and family-led narrative that provided a more emotionally universal conduit for the wider themes of childhood, language and education to be viewed.

Conclusion As with most documentary films, the decisions made during the editing of Colours of the Alphabet were fundamental to the story the film told, how it was told and the broader themes and issues with which audiences engaged. This collective editing process had its origins during the reviewing of hours of rushes in Zambia and continued to the final tweaks of the fine cut in Scotland. This chapter clarifies the detailed process that was experienced by me as the filmmaker, and that I have described through two distinct phases: a first phase that engaged with the process of evaluation of raw material and a second which focused on the attribution and creation of value through editing decisions. Phase one was an extensive content selection stage, reducing the 100 hours of raw material to a three-hour assembly through an evaluative process where existing, or potential, value in the material dictated content decisions on a largely ‘in or out’ basis. Phase two focused on the creation of new value through the decisions in the editing room, aiming to create and attribute value on the selected material through those editing decisions. This included moulding the final narrative, as well as sequence and syntax level decisions which brought with them new meaning and value for the final film. The goal of this second EDITING THE OBSERVED: EVALUATION AND VALUE CREATION PROCESSES… 255 phase was to functionally bring the film from an assembly, through rough and fine cuts, to a meaningful final form. Furthermore, it also importantly resulted in concluding the long journey of editing a feature documentary film, permit- ting the newly forged value created during this to be finally realised through public screenings, and starting the new journey of the film on screens beyond the edit suite.

References Banks, M. (2001). Visual Methods in Social Research. London: Sage. Chanan, M. (2008). Filming the Invisible. In T. Austin & W. De Jong (Eds.), Rethinking Documentary: New Perspectives, New Practices (pp. 121–133). Maidenhead: McGraw Hill Education. Cole, A. (2015). Good Morning, Grade One. Language Ideologies and Multilingualism Within Primary Education in Rural Zambia. Practice Based PhD Thesis, Trans- Disciplinary Documentary Film. The University of Edinburgh. Cole, A. (2016). Documentary Film as a Research Tool – Exploring Schooling for Modernity in Rural Zambia. In D. Bell & R. Stoneman (Eds.), Mind the Gap! Seachain an Bhearna! Working Papers on Practice Based Doctoral Research in the Creative Arts and Media. Dublin: Distillers Press. Cole, A., & Higgins, N. (2018). From Doctoral Project to Cinematic Release: A Dialogue on the Impact Pathway of Colours of the Alphabet, Media Practice and Education, 19(3), 243–255. Dant, T. (1996). Fetishism and the Social Value Objects. The Sociological Review, 3, 495–516. Graeber, D. (2001). Towards an Anthropological Theory of Value: The False Coin of Our Own Dreams. New York: Palgrave. Kerrigan, S., & McIntyre, P. (2010). The “Creative Treatment of Actuality”: Rationalizing and Reconceptualizing the Notion of Creativity for Documentary Practice. Journal of Media Practice, 11(2), 111–130. Knudsen, E. (2012). Narrative Strategies. The Nature of Stories and Narratives. In W. De Jong, E. Knudsen, & J. Rothwell (Eds.), Creative Documentary: Theory and Practice (pp. 88–96). Harlow: Pearson. Koppal, G. (2008). Documentary – The Evocation of a World. Journal of Media Practice, 8(3), 305–323. MacDougall, D. (1998). Transcultural Cinema. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Nelson, R. (2013). Practice as Research in the Arts: Principles, Protocols, Pedagogies, Resistances. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Ondaatje, M., & Murch, W. (2002). The Conversations: Walter Murch and the Art of Editing Film. New York: A.A. Knopf. Quinn, J. (2013). This Much Is True, 14 Directors on Documentary Filmmaking. London: Bloomsbury. Voloshinov, V. N. (1973). Marxism and the Philosophy of Language. New York: Seminar Press. White, H. (1980). The Value of Narrativity in the Representation of Reality. Critical Inquiry, 7(1), 5–27. The Beginning of a Beautiful Relationship: A Case Study of an Immersive Filmmaking Process

Shreepali Patel, Rob Toulson, and Luis Azuaje

Introduction In 2007, filmmaker (and co-author) Shreepali Patel was asked to document an art installation, Journey, curated by the human rights activist and actress Emma Thompson. The installation, based on first-person testimony, recorded the journey of a young girl trafficked through the offer of hope and a better life. Journey was designed to be an experiential and physically immersive experience which would allow the audience to ‘feel for 5 minutes’ what it would be like to be trafficked. The installation consisted of seven containers, each designed by a different artist, in which each artist created their own individual interpretation of an element of the young girl’s journey. A few years later, a digital version of the exhibition was suggested, which Patel started crafting, called The Crossing (2017). This multi-platform project was designed to play out to multiple stakeholders, including those directly vulnerable to trafficking techniques. Audience responses, detailed in section “The Crossing: Project and Exhibition”, capture how exhibition visitors became emotionally and psychologically involved in the story of The Crossing. This chapter focuses on the production and post- production processes, the cross-disciplinary teamwork and the relationship between the director’s vision—ideation, story, creative concepts—and its effective realisation through sound design, cinematography, visual effects (VFX)

S. Patel (*) • L. Azuaje Anglia Ruskin University, Cambridge, UK e-mail: [email protected] R. Toulson University of Westminster, London, UK

© The Author(s) 2019 257 C. Batty et al. (eds.), The Palgrave Handbook of Screen Production, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-21744-0_20 258 S. PATEL ET AL. and editing. This collaborative creative practice account of the making of The Crossing reveals how this multi-award-winning, immersive and impactful project on trafficking was realised.

The Crossing: Project and Exhibition The Crossing describes a young woman’s journey through the world of human trafficking—lured by the ‘lover boy’ technique (Patel 2017). She breaks out of this world metaphorically by walking through an imperceptible glass prison. The glass symbolises the breaking and fragmentation of a human being who has been through a process of mental and physical slavery. The point of breakage represents breaking free of the physical slavery, with glass shards embedded within the images of her journey reflecting this. But the mental fragmentation (between body and soul) continues to exist. Based on first-person testimonies and human trafficking reports (ILO 2014; UNODOC 2014) the script drew on universal themes articulated by survivors, such as the ‘destruction of identity’, ‘betrayal’ and a separation of ‘body from soul’ to survive. A montage of visual narrative fragments tied together by a linear narration and immersive sound design underpinned by VFX and graphics were built into the design. The exhibition played in galleries across the UK and internationally as a multi-screen, split-screen and as a physical 360° exhibition. Feedback and audience observations from the screenings showed that the iterative, complex communication process proved to be an invaluable audience experience:

A truly engaging and immersive experience. Visceral soundscape affects me on a bodily level, hits my gut, makes my toes curl.

I didn’t realise the extent of the issue and the huge financial gain made by the people behind it.

I was absolutely stunned, horrified and felt all sorts of physical effects whilst in the gallery—goosebumps, tears, lump in throat, breath catching. It will stay with me.

These testimonies describe the powerful visceral experience created by Patel as director, Rob Toulson as sound designer and Louis Azuaje working in visual effects. This team carefully designed their disciplinary elements to create an emotional swing for both the film’s central character and the audience, between a state of drifting away from the real world and re-emerging through the manipulation of images and soundscape. Milan Milicevic (2014) describes this creative conceit as a paradoxical experience, where the scenes in a film seem almost impossible but are accepted as reality by the viewer, who is fully emotionally and psychologically involved. The final story was told through a number of interconnected screens, using intense sound design and perspective THE BEGINNING OF A BEAUTIFUL RELATIONSHIP: A CASE STUDY… 259 shifting visuals focusing on the experience of a young girl, from initial trust to exploitation of hope, entrapment and betrayal: a cycle of physical and mental abuse finally ending in release. However, the mental impact is long-lasting and the cycle of abuse continues. The artist/filmmaker Steve McQueen calls attention to the reciprocal role between the director and audience which is essential to trigger ‘bigger thoughts’. The director can orchestrate unanticipated connections to be discovered as an image creates a relationship among diverse elements of form and experience:

You as the viewer have to project your own relationship to what you see ... art is just a mechanism ... to impose upon the viewer for them to have bigger thoughts than the actual piece. (McQueen 2009)

The production team (who produce sound, VFX, cinematography and drone filming) were encouraged to consider ways of creatively conveying information about human trafficking that could evoke (new) understandings of the more hidden issues involved. The process for The Crossing required collaboration within an interdisciplinary environment via the construction of a common language and workflow process, and, as such, a shared ownership in the development and realisation of the project was advocated and innovative co-working and communication approaches were encouraged. Often this required descriptive language or use of musical tone to convey the ‘feeling’ of what needed to be achieved, or a return to the narrative to emphasise the emotional shifts at key points in the story.

The Crossing: Principal Photography Principal photography took the form of three specific formats: projection, live action drone and slow motion studio (providing the foundation for the VFX of the glass-breaking scene). Projections representing different elements of our protagonist’s story were projected onto the actor’s body. These included ticker tape data used by stock exchanges and locations ranging where she came from to those she travelled through. These were filmed in a small studio over the course of two days. The drone footage was captured in London from dawn to dusk, predominantly in landmark environments (the financial quarter near St Paul’s Cathedral and King’s Cross Station). The filming team were able to ‘play’ with the environment and capture analogous autumnal footage (leaves blown by the blades on the drone) and the atmosphere of the fog-laden South Bank lit by the necklace of lights along the river and on London Bridge. It took over four months to secure filming in this airspace in terms of airspace, in line with Civil Aviation Authority regulations for flying within urban environments. The slow-motion footage of our protagonist walking towards the audience was one of the most complex to set up. Studio space with the exact length to film the walk towards camera to time with the pre-timed breakage was difficult to 260 S. PATEL ET AL. secure initially, but this was eventually filmed in one day, providing the footage needed for the visual effects team.

The Crossing: VFX Using VFX on The Crossing allowed Patel to consider adding extra textural layers to enrich the story. The analogous glass-breaking scene could not be achieved using conventional filmmaking techniques, and construction through computer-generated imagery (CGI) was the most feasible and creative approach. Following a prototype testing phase, the VFX team were tasked with developing a fully computer-generated (CG) glass pane. Venkatasawmy (2012) asserts VFX is used in one of four ways in filmmaking:visually , its main purpose is to create an effect that is original in concept and delivery, and the brief for the visual on The Crossing clearly fall into this category; it is also used to enhance, add an extra level of intensity and augmentation to the plot in general; substitute, replace the real with the virtual as a cost-saving technique; and finally conceal the technological devices used in the previous three categories. The versatility and convenience of 3D computer graphics makes it a powerful tool to speed up processes on a tight deadline and update obsolete production pipelines. This creates a wider room to pool and convey new approaches and ideas by emerging and current innovative creative practitioners operating within film and media. These developments have complemented and expanded the most important elements in film production—story and character. Though critics such as Sam Wijaya (2017) argue the use of highly sophisticated VFX in film is not necessarily a winning formula for good audience acceptance or financial success ‘There is no amount of spectacle that will compensate completely for the lack of good story or compelling characters’ (Humans Invent 2013). Ross and Squires (2013) note that its implementation can add to a character’s development by providing a visual richness and detailed complexity to production, which might have been impossible to accomplish with more traditional techniques. In some circumstances we can admit that the use of VFX enhances storytelling in a production, as Lasseter suggests ‘The art challenges the technology, and the technology inspires the art’ (Catmull 2014, 204). The slow-motion live action on set was shot at 240 frames per second (FPS). The VFX team had to gather as much data as possible to match the physical camera with its CG digital version. Variables such as depth of field, distance from subject, camera position location, frame rate, aspect ratio, lens distortion and location of physical lights would prove critical to match and time the digital glass with the actress’s performance. As such, recording the physical light positions, set dimensions and a series of sequences of real glass shards on set were invaluable as references to adjust the correct depth of field of the CG shards during the compositing and reduce valuable rendering time in the later stages of post-production. A virtual camera was constructed from the data variables, which was set and matched to the correct specifications required using the tools available on the 3D content creation software, in this case, Autodesk THE BEGINNING OF A BEAUTIFUL RELATIONSHIP: A CASE STUDY… 261

Fig. 1 Shard numbering system from digital simulation to final delivery

Maya. A virtual actress was created through modelling, representing a simpli- fied version of the real-life actress. This 3D model was rigged and keyframed animated to match the movement of our original actress as closely as possible. The virtual actress was our collision object, designed to trigger the animation of the shards inside the simulation process. To keyframe animate this model, the footage was converted to play at a standard rate of 24 FPS. This new animated sequence was used to art-direct the exact moment the glass broke. The glass fragments were particularly problematic to discuss across the team because of discipline-specific language, the director’s limited knowledge of software capability and application impacting upon the workflow. In order to overcome this and create a common visual language, the team developed a numbering system for specific glass shards (see Fig. 1), called ‘hero’ shards, within a simulation of the movement of the glass shards created with a digital frame. An iterative workflow was designed around a series of screenshots and videos with an embedded timecode operating to frames which were shared with the whole team. The glass-shards sequence was imported into the main simulation and rendering platform, SideFX Houdini (chosen because of its flexibility and robust performance in rigid body dynamics, RBD). One key element behind the realism of the glass shards was the creation of a flexible tool that allowed the director to change and iterate different pattern combinations. This tool facilitated the creative process by interactively controlling the number of shards, the position and point of impact, and the level of texture detail on each shard. The shards were animated using Houdini’s RBD, with initial tests running over 500 individual shards through the simulation pipeline. This process shed light onto the project’s future complexity and challenges, including the timing and speed of the simulation. Running a simulation at 240 FPS was not feasible or stable, so a retime mechanism was set in place to run the simulation at 24 FPS and retime later on at 240 FPS. The RBD of the glass shards was crucial to convey the realism and impact intended by the sequence. Within this simulation, the director selected some of the shards to display key moments from the story. In total, six different simulation layers were run: the main shards simulation; the hero simulation; the initial burst of small shards; a glass dust trail of the main shards; a thin smoke trail of particles produced by the break; and the glass dust rolling within the smoke particles, as shown in Fig. 2. The lighting stage proved to be very unconventional. In a normative scenario, a series of virtual lights that resembled the original real-world space 262 S. PATEL ET AL.

Fig. 2 Colour-coded simulation, including fragmentation and dust would be placed strategically within the environment in order to light the CG scene. For The Crossing, however, this was not the case as the main character emerged from the darkness without any additional lighting. Therefore, the scene lacked any reflections or refractions, which one would normally get from lit glass. In order to construct the reflections, a 3D representation of the soft box lighting used during the filming was strategically placed within the digital frame to simulate the reflection of the live action plates. The rendering was processed using Houdini’s proprietary renderer Mantra, a built-in renderer. Due to the frame rate of the film (240 FPS), there were ten times more frames to render in order to produce a single second of animation; to overcome this demand, a small in-house render farm was set up to handle the work. At the end of the project, over 600,000 images were rendered over a period of two weeks. The communication between the VFX artist and the compositor proved key to develop a seamless workflow of data exchange and produce the final colour, movement and images of the glass shards.

The Crossing: Sound Design The sound design was constructed almost simultaneously to the VFX movement of the glass shards. The sound design for The Crossing involved multiple cross-disciplinary collaborations that required unconventional approaches and a synthesis of working practice, including the use of non-linear and parallel sound and picture editing, with the persons fulfilling each role informing the other. In many conventional, linear, sound design productions, the sound designer is given an edited film that is visually complete, with sound design then being choreographed to the locked picture, as described, for example, by Yewdall (2007) and Rose (2009). The latter stated: THE BEGINNING OF A BEAUTIFUL RELATIONSHIP: A CASE STUDY… 263

It doesn’t make sense to start serious editing of the track until the picture is finished ... If you’re making a TV show or sales video, postproduction happens on a schedule: picture gets locked, sound gets completed, job gets done. (Rose 2009, p. 103)

Rose does, however, concede that

Movies don’t work that way. Directors want to keep fine tuning their story, almost until it gets shown on the screen, and that can mean [the sound editor] building a finished track even though the picture will still change. (Rose 2009, p. 103).

For The Crossing a more contemporary and non-linear approach was adopted, which implemented and extended the methods proposed by Dykhoff (2016, p.53), who argues: ‘Because sound and image influence each other so much, it would make sense for communications to flow both ways. In a linear workflow, this is impossible.’ This workflow method is empowered by the ability to regularly share digital work in progress on a daily basis between the editor and sound designer, through exchanges of portable hard drives and online storage and sharing facilities. As The Crossing is a narrated story of a female victim’s entrapment and subsequent escape from sex slavery, spoken word drives the entire feature. The development of the script, voice recording and post-sound editing were therefore integral in initiating the post-production filmmaking process. After the voiceover recording had been edited and a timeline for the whole feature had been mapped, the picture and sound design teams were then able to proceed in parallel. At this point the director’s role became critical as she oversaw the daily progress of these two disciplinary teams.

The Crossing: Directorial Vision The Crossing was designed as a multi-screen project, utilising multiple layered images displayed across 13 digital screens.1 Creating this multi-screened work required a precise yet unconventional workflow among three teams, because, unlike a linear film, the editing, sound design and VFX teams were not working to a single visual linear representation. The pace, timing and rhythm of the visuals and sound for each digital screen were created using a non-linear sound and picture workflow that was iterative. This meant there were three teams working in parallel: the editing, sound design and VFX teams had to create, share and adjust their sections daily. The director’s workflow began with the film editor, who made and shared daily picture-in-picture renders of the feature, displaying the most significant scenes. This allowed the director to work

1 The original gallery exhibition used 13 screens; this was later arranged within a single split screen for a more traditional cinema display. 264 S. PATEL ET AL. with the sound designer on the multilayer visual scenes, and to use the sound design to cue edits and cuts between scenes. So on consecutive days the driving component of the editing would flip from sound to picture, and then back to sound. An example of this was when the director and sound designer evaluated the pacing of the story, as told through sound, and identified the natural sonic envelopes for phrases and effects. This occurred when adjusting the sonic duration of a diegetic train fading to silence: the sound designer and director agreed to the precise length and the next day the visual editor had to adjust the visual scene of a train to synchronise with the sound. The director had to keep track of this unconventional workflow to maintain her vision, and the co-ordination of these cross-disciplinary decisions was carefully managed so all components would be perfectly synchronised to achieve the multi-screen immersive experience. The VFX team who created the animated effects for the glass-breaking sequence were also sharing their work and receiving updated scenes from the sound designer and the editor. During days when the video edit was being manipulated, the sound design team could progress with the development of sound and effects to accompany the animated glass-breaking scene. This collaborative parallel workflow was necessary because of the significant amount of time required for designing, programming and rendering the glass-breaking scene and embedding images on each shard. The director wanted each glass shard exiting the screen to be accompanied by impactful and abstract sound art that choreographed with one of the victim’s visual traumatic memories. Synchronising the sound design with the pathway of each glass shard and their discrete VFX was complex. To streamline the process, the sound designer was provided with an early outline of the glass-breaking scene, minus the images of the victim’s traumatic memories. Each shard was then numbered so that its exiting pathway could be traced and sound could be synchronised as shown in Fig. 1. This workflow helped to streamline what had become an iterative post- production process and, more importantly, it allowed for the three teams— editing, VFX and sound design—to work in parallel on the creation of this immersive multi-screen project. The sonic palette for The Crossing was identified after considering a number of options that were trialled by the director and sound designer during the creative process. It was agreed that the sonic concept would revolve around an abstract approach that utilised diegetic sounds in a musical way, developing rhythm, volume dynamics and spectral features (i.e. bass, mid- and high- frequency components) that could be used as phrases and loops, whilst incorporating musical modulation effects such as reverb, delay, filtering, phasing and stereo panning. The film uses two reoccurring sound beds throughout the feature: breathing and leaves rustling. The breathing provides a continuous rhythm component to the sound design and emphasises both the human experience of the story and the journey of emotions as the narrative progresses. Starting as THE BEGINNING OF A BEAUTIFUL RELATIONSHIP: A CASE STUDY… 265

hopeful and relaxed, the breathing evolves to express fear and panic and, ultimately, relief at the point of the victim’s rescue. The film completes with a huge exhale: a sigh of acceptance from a traumatised girl who is forced to live forev- ermore with memories of slavery and abuse. At both the start and end of the film, leaves rustle as diegetic sounds along with the rolling shot of leaves, both times emphasising the victim’s relationship with nature and freedom, whilst also providing a random, yet sustained, high-frequency sound intended to compliment the rhythmic nature and low-frequency timbre of the breathing. A number of diegetic and Foley sounds are used in the film, which often evolve into hyper-real abstractions in order to expose the more sinister elements of the narrative. During the initial storytelling, sound design used hopeful representations of travel to a new destination of opportunity, utilising sounds of the sea, birds and a boat engine—the latter becomes the train engine as the story’s main character arrives in London. The train engine timbre was designed to evolve into the sound of an increasingly frantic heartbeat as the victim’s scenario turns from hopeful to fearful, leading up to her first experience of abuse at the hands of her traffickers. The sound design here takes on a darker format, utilising a synthesised low-frequency helicopter sound, a background city hum and the distant police sirens of London night-time, representing the criminal underground. At this point the sound design synchronises with images projected on the victim’s body—such as, stock market tickertape representing the black-market economy of human trafficking—while the sound of a passport stamp represents ownership and the control which the traffickers have over the victim. The sound used to represent the latter was utilised from sound library audio of a punch bag hit, which sonically ties the abusive nature of the passport stamp with the physical abuse experienced. The hyper-reality of diegetic sound becomes more abstract at the point of the victim’s rescue, culminating visibly with the breaking-glass sequence and shards flying out towards the viewer. The sequence is displayed in slow motion and the initial breaking sound was taken from a sound library file of ice cracking, along with both high- and low-frequency transient impacts. The moving shards each represent a shifting memory of the victim and relate back to the hopeful and fearful emotions of the ordeal, whilst bringing an impactful surge to shock and disrupt the viewer. The sound of each shard purposefully evolves from a low-pass filtered version of the diegetic memory, sweeping sonically as the shard moves forwards towards the viewer. Each sound is modified dynamically with a resonant low-pass frequency expanding higher to deliver a harsh, sharp sound, whilst volume, reverb and feedback delay also increase. The resultant sound is impactful to the viewer as each shard approaches and exits the visual frame, leaving an abstract and overhanging decay profile that is soon overpowered by the proceeding shards. In particular, for this sequence, the sound designers heavily utilised automated settings of Waves RVerb, Waves SuperTap, Soundtoys FilterFreak, Soundtoys PhaseMistress and Soundtoys Crystalize music production plugins to achieve the desired hyper-real effect (Fig. 3). 266 S. PATEL ET AL.

Fig. 3 Logic Pro arrangement of the breaking-glass sequence, with the Soundtoys FilterFreak processing tool highlighted

A collaboration among the director, sound designer and voice actor, the spoken dialogue was recorded at a professional studio with particular attention given to recording clean (noise-free) and close intimate dialogue. The voice actor was not given prior access to the script, in order to capture a first-read recording that maintained a sense of realism and an enforced slow pace of delivery. The second voiceover piece in The Crossing is the newsreel dialogue explaining statistics of human trafficking towards the end of the film. A number of voice actors were trialled for the newsreel dialogue, but were unable to deliver the speech in a manner representative of a trained newsreader. As a result, a local newsreader—Jeremy Sallis of BBC Cambridgeshire—was approached to provide the newsreel dialogue, which was recorded to script in the BBC Cambridgeshire news studio. To connect the film sonically with the criminal exploitation of humans in economically vulnerable communities, the newsreel dialogue was processed to be of perceivable low quality, mimicking that of a cheap transistor radio, by processing the recorded dialogue with high- and low-pass filtering and subtle harmonic distortion. The newsreel dialogue was also designed to surround and encapsulate the listener, by sweeping the audio gently from left to right in the stereo field with use of the Waves MondoMod audio plugin. The intricate sound design was developed to provide an intimate and enclosed experience for the viewer, which was at odds with the objective to host the film in a multiscreen digital exhibition with freedom of movement for the audience. Loudspeaker playback experiments failed to deliver the desired sense of intimacy for the viewer, and, as a result, Bluetooth headphones were chosen to deliver the audio, which also allows the advantage of portability in THE BEGINNING OF A BEAUTIFUL RELATIONSHIP: A CASE STUDY… 267 that the exhibition can be showcased in any multiscreen venue irrespective of the sound system installed. A number of digital Bluetooth transmitters and headsets were trialled, each with different performance levels; however, Bluetooth encoding was noticeable as noise during quiet or speech-only passages of the film. The best transmitter device was chosen and utilised for the showcase exhibition, but it is anticipated that further advancement in Bluetooth audio transmission will offer future improvements to sound quality for multi- screen exhibitions such as The Crossing. The use of Bluetooth headphones allowed the audience to have a consistent, personal and intimate experience, whilst being able to freely move around the exhibition space. Equally, the headphone set-up ensured that participants did not interact with each other during the screening. Audience members were therefore forced to internalise the film and the sound design experience, trapped in the film as the victim is trapped in a situation of abuse. This solitary experience had impact, such that the viewer almost becomes the victim in the film, with the voiceover narrative potentially perceived as personal thoughts heightening the emotive power of the rescue sequence in the film. These concepts were validated by audience feedback with respect to the sound design and headphone experience, as follows:

[The headphone experience] made the story feel extremely intimate and also mind-disorientating later when the intense sound design kicked in. I found the breathing distracting and upsetting ... like I want to do something to make this stop. [A] synchronized experience, and brought me closer to the narrator, especially with the breathing at the end. [I] couldn’t escape.

The sound designer observed it was quite remarkable to watch people com- munally experiencing in pure silence ‘some sort of deep reflective process of what they were watching and experiencing’ (Toulson 2017).

Conclusion The Crossing has garnered a number of awards both in industry and academia, including from the Arts and Humanities Research Council, who described it as ‘An ambitious and deftly executed film ... that pushes the boundaries of film and communication’ (AHRC Research in Film Awards Panel 2016). The audience testimonials provide personal accounts of the power of the immersive experience created by The Crossing, and the complex and unconventional post- production workflow described how this sensitive subject matter was visually and aurally created for an immersive exhibition space. Through the construction of this project, the director investigated new approaches to immersive documentary filmmaking, the VFX team explored technical approaches empowered by contemporary digital tools, and the sound designer 268 S. PATEL ET AL.

experimented with a hybrid musical-diegetic approach that created an intimate story through sound. Overall, the project allowed novel exploration of individual and collaborative craft skills to produce a powerful emotional response to an impactful film of real-world value.

References Arts, Humanities and Research Council. (2016). Research in Film Awards. Catmull, E. (2014). Creativity, Inc. Great Britain: Transworld Publishers. Dykhoff, K. (2016). Why Use Linear Workflows with Non-Linear Tools?The New Soundtrack, 6(1), 51–61. Retrieved from https://www.euppublishing.com/doi/ full/10.3366/sound.2016.0082 Humans Invent. (2013). The Evolution of Visual Effects in Films . Retrieved from http://www.gizmodo.co.uk/2013/07/the-evolution-of-visual-effects-in-film/ International Labour Office. (2014).Profits and Poverty: The Economics of Forced Labour. Retrieved from http://www.ilo.org/wcmsp5/groups/public/%2D%2D- ed_norm/%2D%2D-declaration/documents/publication/wcms_243391.pdf McQueen, S. (2009). Venice Biennale 2009: Interview with Steve McQueen. Retrieved from https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eJwbjG0HbnE Milicevic, M. (2014). Film Sound Beyond Reality: Subjective Sound in Narrative Cinema. Retrieved from http://filmsound.org/articles/beyond.htm#sest6 Patel, S. (2017). The Crossing. Retrieved from https://vimeo.com/229111705 Patel, S. (2017). What Happened When We Showed a Film About ‘Lover Boy’ Sex Trafficking to a Group of Teenagers. Retrieved from https://theconversation.com/ what-happened-when-we-showed-a-film-about-lover-boy-sex-trafficking-to-a- group-of-teenagers-83478 Rose, J. (2009). Audio Post Production for Film and Video (2nd ed.). Oxford: Focal Press. Ross, S., & Esquire, S. (2013). The State of the VFX Industry and Where Do We Go from Here. Retrieved from https://vimeo.com/66487005 Toulson, R. (2017). The Making of The Crossing: Sound Design. Retrieved from https:// vimeo.com/229115461 United National Office on Drugs and Crime. (2014).Global Report on Trafficking in Persons Profits and Poverty: The Economics of Forced Labour, International Labour Office. Geneva. Retrieved from https://www.unodc.org/res/cld/bibliography/ global-report-on-trafficking-in-persons_html/GLOTIP_2014_full_report.pdf Venkatasawmy, R. (2012). The Evolution of VFX-Intensive Filmmaking in 20th Century Hollywood Cinema: An Historical Overview. Retrieved from http://www.academia. edu/3361280/The_Evolution_of_VFX-Intensive_Filmmaking_in_20th_ Century_Hollywood_Cinema_An_Historical_Overview Wijaya, S. T. (2017). Why Filmmakers Should Focus on Storytelling and Not on Special Effects. Retrieved from http://www.thejakartapost.com/life/2017/01/17/why- filmmakers-should-focus-more-on-storytelling-not-special-effects.html Yewdall, D. L. (2007). Practical Art of Motion Picture Sound. New York: Elsevier. “Make it in Post”: Digital Visual Effects and the Temporality of Creative Value in Post-Production

Tara Lomax

Introduction On account of its temporal categorisation, post-production is constituted by a sense of “after-ness” that implies a deferment, marginalisation, and decentralisation of creative value in the screen production process. As Allain Daigle identifies, “The categorical language of ‘post’ remains an operating lineage of creative control that operationalizes post-production productivity as a protocol of efficiency rather than creative design” (2015, 173). This is a production ideology of efficiency over creativity reflected in the proverbial production protocol “fix it in post.” This attitude is most associated with the development of digital editing technologies that facilitate the ostensibly more efficient and eco- nomical correction of mishaps made during principal production; this infers post-production is a stage of deferred labour that is more technical than creative in value. In this regard, “fix it in post” expresses creative value in temporal terms, in which “after-ness” in the screen production process connotes technical activity of less creative value. The concept of creative value applied in this chapter is concerned with industrial ideologies and terminological protocols that tacitly maintain distinctions between creative and technical skillsets and labour output across the production stages—that is, principal and post- production respectively. I focus on the production protocol concerning effects (FX)-focused terminology, in which special effects (SFX) refers to illusions filmed on camera during principal production and visual effects (VFX) desig-

T. Lomax (*) University of Melbourne, Melbourne, VIC, Australia e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s) 2019 269 C. Batty et al. (eds.), The Palgrave Handbook of Screen Production, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-21744-0_21 270 T. LOMAX nates images made on computer during post-production (Fink and Morie 2010, 1–2). As this chapter will explore, this terminological distinction between SFX and VFX is more than convention, but also relates to how creativity is practised and valued across the stages of production. In employing the concept of creative value, I am drawing from a definition of creativity as “the ability to come up with ideas or artefacts that are new, surprising and valuable” (Boden 2004, 1). Following this definition, I consider the value of creativity in post-production by approaching creativity not as something that can be defined or measured but something that is—following Vlad Petre Glăveanu’s typology of “creativity as a label”— something that is “made to be by society” (2016, 7, original emphasis); in this case specifically, creativity as is made to be by production culture. In this sense, I contend that production culture and trade protocols shape the way creativity is valued in temporal terms in screen production. This approach also springboards from John Thornton Caldwell’s approach to the spatial dimensions of trade rituals and turf marking in production culture, which considers “the material and physical ways that space is organized and managed on a film/video shoot (on location or on a soundstage)” and “how trade talk and trade iconography cultivate notions of space in conceptual and cultural terms” (2008, 69). Taking this as a critical stimulus and point of departure, I consider the temporal dimension of such trade rituals and industrial ideologies in relation to the “after-ness” of “post” and how this relates to the valuing of creative activity in production culture. To this aim, this chapter draws upon Caldwell’s “integrated cultural- industrial mode of analysis” (2008, 4); this is a production studies critical framework that examines how “the off-screen production of media is itself a cultural production, mythologized and branded much like the onscreen textual culture that media industries produce” (Mayer et al. 2009, 2). While this approach looks beyond film and screen texts to examine cultural dynamics and industrial ideologies in the screen industry, Caldwell states that it “still very much fits within a critical film and media studies tradition” (2008, 5). To this tradition, this chapter contributes a culturally aware and ideologically reflective understanding of how the temporal “after-ness” of post-production, and specifically digital VFX, impacts on how creativity is valued in screen content. In this regard, I argue that to reappraise post-production as a site of creative “making” means to realise that creative value is temporally defined in the screen production process. While this chapter focuses on VFX, I acknowledge that post-production is constituted by various audio-visual specialisations that contribute to screen production: editing; animation, VFX, and computer-generated imagery (CGI); soundtrack recording; sound design, sound FX, Automated Dialogue Replacement (or Additional Dialogue Recorded) (ADR), and Foley; colour grading; digital intermediate (DI) and video conversion; and release printing. Despite being categorised as “post”-production, many of these specialisations can and do occur during principal production and are also each privy to innovations in digital “MAKE IT IN POST”: DIGITAL VISUAL EFFECTS AND THE TEMPORALITY… 271 technology and computer software development. In reference to digital technologies in post-production, Dominic Case explains that “What was once a single pathway now presents a wide range of alternative methods at every stage” (2001, 10). However, with the exception of a small number of digital workstations that integrate image and sound editing, namely Avid, image and audio technologies operate as separate workflow systems and thus “the post production ‘chain’ comprises a string of standalone systems” (Wyatt and Amyes 2005, 15). This division between image and sound is not only an operating protocol of production technology but also extends into film analysis and criticism, which often ignores sound and audio in its focus on the moving image. With this in mind, I am aware that in focusing on VFX in this chapter I risk further centralising the visual image and marginalising sound; however, I focus on VFX to delineate a constructive scope for this chapter while also acknowledging the industrial structures and ideologies that specifically concern VFX. Daigle employs VFX with similar reflective aims while also acknowledging that “visual effects are generally considered a secondary production process despite their increased use” (2015, 161). This subor- dination of VFX in production culture also productively reflects on the complex dynamics impacting the value of creativity in post-production more broadly.

Special or Visual? Defining Effects Across the Production Process In The VES Handbook of Visual Effects: Industry Standard VFX Practices and Procedures, Michael Fink and Jacquelyn Ford Morie provide clear definitions of VFX and SFX that demonstrate the terminological and operational differences between these techniques:

VFX: “Visual effects is the term used to describe any imagery created, altered, or enhanced for a film or other moving media that cannot be accom- plished during live-action shooting. In other words, much of the art of visual effects takes place in post-production, after primary image capture is complete”. (Fink and Morie 2010, 2) SFX: “Special effects are generally described as effects that can be done while the scene is being captured and are commonly called practical effects.” (Fink and Morie 2010, 2)

These definitions and the distinctions between these techniques are standard in the organisation of screen production and have been reinforced in multiple VFX guides and reference texts, published at different points in the historical development of digital technology (McAlister 1993; Goulekas 2001; Finance and Zwerman 2010; Dinur 2017). The only exception to these definitions is that early in its development VFX was known as “special visual effects” and defined in contrast to “practical effects” (McAlister 1993, 134). Stephen Prince reinforces that 272 T. LOMAX

the distinction between the terms is nontrivial; they designate different historical periods. In one period, VFX were “special” because they were regarded as tricks supplementing live-action cinematography set extensions … In today’s era, digital effects are not solely a post-production endeavor, and visual effects can blend seamlessly with live action so that clear boundaries between the domains often do not exist. (2012, 3)

Despite this shift, the continuing terminological distinction between SFX and VFX encapsulates many of the primary protocols informing this chapter: the temporal role of “after-ness” connoted by post-production, in which SFX are “performed during photography on set in real time” (Finance and Zwerman 2010, 376); the mechanical-technological factor of distinguishing between being staged for a camera or created using a computer; and the procedural distinction between principal and post-production. This terminological distinction also implicates matters of accolades and crediting as the history of FX in Hollywood reflects an ongoing struggle (or resistance) to identify and acknowledge the creative value of such work. In this regard we can see the persistent relevance of “technical” and “creative” typologies, since during early classical Hollywood those who undertook FX work were occasionally credited as “chief technician” or it was called “special photographic effects”; as FX-driven work later grew, the category of “technicians” increasingly filled the end credits (Kaufman 2018). Many of the accreditation concerns affecting VFX work has been discussed in a piece by Debra Kaufman for the online trade magazine VFX Voice, in which she reveals that

VFX doesn’t have a voice nor does it get sufficient respect for the artistry of its contribution, which touches nearly every film and, in some, provides a majority of the on-screen imagery. Many others in the VFX industry simply want to know why their credits come so late in the end crawl, long after the last of the other creative credits. (2018)

It is also curious to note the association here between the perception of creative devaluing and locating VFX credits after the “creative credits.” Similarly, Kaufman also notes how other independent artists have fought for screen credits because “Credit on the screen kept them in the public eye and increased their value. Among visual effects, however, credits for special effects photography continued to be unreliable” (2018). Furthermore, this insuffi- ciency of VFX credits and the lack of standardised terminology has developed in tandem with the historical indeterminacy of FX accolades, particularly represented by the continually changing Academy Award categories related to FX (Hayes 1986). R. M. Hayes outlines this history and reveals how FX categories have shifted in typology from engineering, to scientific, to technical, but never creative; moreover, in most years awards were simply given on the basis of notable achievement and separated from the competitive artist categories (Hayes 1986). As Christopher Cram recognises, “The shifting Academy Award “MAKE IT IN POST”: DIGITAL VISUAL EFFECTS AND THE TEMPORALITY… 273 categories reflect the gradual and somewhat confusing change in FX terminology over the history of film production” (2012, 169). However, more than ingenuously reflecting this change in FX and screen production, matters of crediting and accolades maintain and shape how creative value is attributed to VFX. Perhaps unsurprisingly then, film and screen analysis scholarship has also struggled to make distinctions between these terms and often conflates VFX techniques with SFX, depending on the focus of a specific study; this is often because, aside from a lack of attention to its nuances, there is an opaque blurring between these techniques at the aesthetic level. This means that when analysing the completed screen content it is not always clear whether an effect was captured during principal production and in front of a camera or created in post-production using a computer; indeed, due to digital technology there is often a confluence of these techniques used in the one completed shot because, as Fink and Morie explain, “Special effects go hand in hand with visual effects in current methodology, such that it is often difficult to determine what was a special effect and what was a visual effect” (2010, 2). However, while this may seem like a positive merging of stages and FX techniques, it also obscures the complex industrial structures maintained across the production process. This terminological distinction is important to understanding how these terms reflect upon the broader industrial relations of post-production and its increasingly close, even integrated, relationship with principal production.

Fixing or Making? Creative Value in Post-Production The distinction between the protocol of “fix it in post” and the alternative “make it in post” draws attention to ways that the creative activity of production work is valued differently between principal and post-production. In this regard, “to fix later” implies a deferral—or “after-ness”—that connotes a temporal othering; as such, the protocol “fix it in post” is often viewed pejoratively because it locates labour outside the centralised “creative” stage of principal production. Accordingly, this temporal categorisation of the screen production process—and its implied hierarchy of creativity—thus privileges principal production as the stage of utmost creative value. This chapter is not concerned with debates about the origin or authorship of ideation of creativity in post- production or its systematic measurement: the question here is not whether or not VFX and post-production can or should be measured as creative, but how its creative potential is perceived and culturally valued (or not valued) as such. Various approaches to researching creativity have incorporated questions of cultural value, and often these discussions have been orientated around an understanding of the role of value in defining what constitutes creativity (Mason 2003; Negus and Pickering 2004; McIntyre 2012; Glăveanu 2016; Gaut and Kieran 2018). In one such work, Keith Negus and Michael Pickering note the broader cultural implications of understanding creativity in an industrial context: “The 274 T. LOMAX qualifying term ‘creative’ operates as more than a descriptive category when applied to industries. The use of the label creativity provides a means of according value, and establishing a cultural hierarchy” (2004, 48). For Daigle, this cultural hierarchy and the designation of VFX as non-creative is directly connected with the industrial structures of studio control: “visual effects work is not inherently non-creative in its visual arrangement, but the categorical infrastructure of the industry operationalize visual effects to function as non-creative in order to sustain centralized models of profit and control” (2015, 172). Therefore, the notion of “fixing it later” is more than a pejorative proverb of production practice, but an expression of creative centralisation and hierarchy. The connotations of “fixing” and “making” also emphasise the distinction between “technical” and “creative” labour divisions in industrial budgetary organisation. This division is more than temporally related to production stages, but these value categories constitute the budgetary division of labour between above the line (creative/artistic: director, producers, writers, actors, cinematographer) and below the line (craft/technical: grips, camera operators, editors, sound design, VFX). Below-the-line labour occurs at all stages of the screen production process, but post-production and VFX is most predominantly associated with below the line; this establishes a further level of value distinction between technical work and creative work, in which Daigle describes post-production and VFX as “typically characterized as technical work that extends out from a central creative power such as that of the writer or director” (Daigle 2015, 162). Similarly, Matt Stahl reflects on this industrial typology of labour in terms that realise the ingrained and ideological implications of this hierarchal value structure:

Like those between “author” and “non-author,” distinctions between “creative” and “technical” workers, and the different privileges that attach to those designa- tions, appear durable and natural even though they too are the result of historical struggle. They are sedimented in the institutions, organizational forms, and worker self-understandings. (2009, 58)

Therefore, while perceptions of creative value are shaped and maintained by trade protocols and the temporal distinctions in the production process, hierarchal value divisions are already implicated in the industrially normalised division of “technical” and “creative” labour value. The distinction between “technical” and “creative” production labour is also bound up with the implications of digital production, and thus the creative value hierarchy between computational machines and human-created content. Indeed, as Margaret A. Boden explains, there is a social and cultural scepticism directed towards computation because creativity is valued as a fundamentally human activity and expression (2004, 1). Moreover, Boden notes that what is valued as creative with regards to computation is the human programmer’s activity, not the computer technology itself (2004, 7); however, there is a paradox here with regard to digital VFX and post-production because industrial “MAKE IT IN POST”: DIGITAL VISUAL EFFECTS AND THE TEMPORALITY… 275 ideologies often ignore the human element of VFX work. As VFX artist Todd Vaziri reveals, it is not widely understood or appreciated (whether consciously or not) that “Visual effects are created by people, not computers” (2018). For this reason, the alternative protocol “make it in post” acknowledges the potential for creative activity in digital production in order to critically reflect on the value judgements directed at the artistic capacities of computational production, specifically digital VFX.

Principal or Post: When Does Creativity End? The sequential nature of process incidentally lends itself to the conditions and hierarchal implications of temporality: in screen production this has traditionally led to a procedural logic of principal then post-production. As already established in this chapter, implicated in this procedural process is the centralising of principal production as the most creative stage of screen production, as a result of centralising structures, organisational budget typologies, and technological scepticism. In addition to terminological distinction, these trade protocols have influenced the production culture and ideologies that shape how creativity is valued differently across production; in practice there has been a decentralisation of creative potential across the production process. This is exemplified by Fink and Morie who posit the rhetorical question “Where does creativity end?” and follow with the explication: “All of the improvements and progress in visual effects during the past 100+ years … have had one major impact: They have opened creative options well into the post-production process, virtually until the last possible moment” (Fink and Morie 2010, 13). Based on this statement, the rhetorical question might be more productively amended to when does creativity end? As such, the point made by Fink and Morie is effectively directed at the temporality of creative potential, more than its spatiality. Cinematographer Newton Thomas Sigel reinforces this temporal dimension when he says “[In post-production] you’re continuing the process of cinematography … and you can have an impact almost as great as when you did your original photography … [and] you can really reshoot your film in post” (Kaufman 2003). Therefore, Sigel here articulates the temporal significance of “making it in post.” While so far in this chapter “fix it in post” has been considered to be a marginalising protocol that maintains VFX as passive work, Daigle suggests that that can also be re-mobilised to positively facilitate communication across the movie-making processes: “while digital visual effects present an ideal deferment of creative direction after the moment of production, the protocol of ‘fix it in post’ requires effective communication between the communities of production and post-production” (2015, 163). Therefore, while “fix it in post” can imply devaluing and temporal othering of post-production, the protocol can be reclaimed as an “ideal deferment” that activates dialogic relations among screen production stages. This is a perspective that is evidenced in the changing creative influence of the cinematographer, whose role in principal production has transformed with developments in 276 T. LOMAX digital production technologies. Cathy Greenhalgh identifies how, with digital post-production and a blurring of the traditional workflow process, the cinematographer’s creative control has diminished and their creative presence is now obscured (Greenhalgh 2017, 151). What is particularly notable about Greenhalgh’s observation here is the overlapping of time, digital data, and creative process:

While a film used to be made in a fairly standard pre-production, production, post-production and distribution pattern, films now require large amounts of data to be passed through several locations at different and overlapping times to enable manifestation (possibly across several time zones as well). (2017, 151)

Comparably, these transformations in the creative control of the cinematographer work in productive dialogue with the evolving creative influence of the VFX supervisor. As a VFX executive himself—currently Senior Vice President of Visual Effects at Universal Pictures—Cram identifies the role of VFX in the production process as operating in a “feedback loop” that blurs the creative workflow between the production stages: “The role of visual effects has expanded as a result of evolving technology. The rapidly increasing capabilities of digital tools create what might be called a ‘feedback loop’ with production, influencing decisions on what—and how—to shoot” (Cram 2012, 170). Therefore, while in cultural and ideological terms the perception of creative value is limited by trade protocols and industrial structures, in practical terms there is an identifiable shift in when, where, and how the potential for creativity occurs during the production process. As already noted, one of the implicit objectives of this chapter is to counter a critical shortcoming of film analysis as it relates to the creative value of VFX and specialisations of post-production. It is thus worth acknowledging examples where other film studies scholars have also tried to address this issue. Prince suggests that much of the limitation comes from the fact that film analysis traditionally confines its object of study and critical value to the photographic elements that are captured during principal production—that is, mise-en-scène analysis: “Cinema, according to a predominant model, is a photographic medium oriented toward live action in which filmmakers arrange performers and events before the camera during production” (2012, 2). This acknowl- edgement also draws attention to the theoretical valuing of creative expression in close association with indexicality and photo-chemical recording of live action in front of a camera during principal production. Notable media studies scholar William Uricchio makes an explicit critique of this theoretical obsession: “In an era when the digital threatens to destabilize long cherished assumptions regarding the indexicality of the photographic image, our field has fixated upon a particular constellation of protocols like a drowning man seizes flot- sam” (2014, 267). It is compelling, therefore, just how close an association there is between these critical shortcomings and how film analysis is perhaps unwittingly over-oriented towards the creative value of principal production. “MAKE IT IN POST”: DIGITAL VISUAL EFFECTS AND THE TEMPORALITY… 277

Make it in Post: Temporality and Digital Production Considering the adjusted protocol “make it in post” accounts for the intersection of temporality and creative value in post-production. This challenges the procedural delineation of creative value as something that occurs within a set duration and recognises post-production as working in dialogic relationship with principal production. Cinematographer Dante Spinotti considers “make it in post” to be a more practical and productive attitude to the relationship between principal and post-production because it expresses a discursive blurring of creativity across these stages of production; it also acknowledges the impact of digital production technologies in the changing screen production process:

With the digital camera, you know what you’re going to get into when you get into post. You don’t say, “We’ll fix it in post.” You say, “We make it in post and fix it in the camera.” You know the potentials you have in post, so you work with your camera so you can reach those potentials when you go into post-production. (Kaufman 2009)

John Belton reinforces this shift in attitude towards the creative activities of post-production—that is, the potential to “make” not simply “fix” creative content in post-production—as he reflects on the creative capacities of the DI process: “In the old days, filmmakers used to say they would ‘fix it in post- production,’ [but] now with DI they tend to say they’ll ‘make it in post’” (2012, 59). Similarly, Caldwell notes that because of DI, “What used to be a purely postproduction process now has seeped not only into production but into preproduction as well” (2008, 180). Therefore, in digital production, post-production must be reappraised as a site of ongoing “making.” It is for this reason that matters of technology are also significant to this topic: while digital technology strives to expand the possibilities of production and creative practice, it also incidentally disrupts the linear temporality of the traditional production workflow and works against tacit industrial ideologies and protocols. This is particularly relevant to digital VFX because, as Cram states, “The scope and power of digital tools are making discussions about visual effects fundamental to the filmmaking process” (2012, 170). In a similar regard, Daigle explains, “what matters in the digital effects argument is who, and under what conditions, enacts creative value through protocol” (2015, 163). VFX is thus a productive case study for examining how industrial ideologies and protocols resist the developments of digital technology to shape how creativity is valued temporally between principal and post-production. This contention responds to Daigle’s appeal for analysis that recognises the active role of VFX in production cultures and industrial relations:

If we refrain from conceptualizing post-production as passive relations within a text and instead recognize visual effects as genealogical expressions of industrial practice, we can consider how visual effects are not naturally passive work despite 278 T. LOMAX

their predominant consideration as such in film analysis and industrial organization. (2015, 162)

In focusing on the production culture concerning post-production and creative value, this chapter has taken heed of the shortfalls of film analysis and criticism as it concerns VFX and post-production specialisations. Daigle also makes note of this shortfall, stating that the operative impact of production protocols and industrial ideologies is not only maintained by the cultures and systems of the production industry, but even film and screen scholarship “rarely account[s] for the creative control processes sustaining the invisible infrastructure of post-production” (2015, 162). It is for this reason that this chapter has been concerned with film criticism and analysis as much as production protocols and ideologies; it has thus built on the work of Daigle to contribute a critical perspective on the creative value of VFX and post-production that can inform film analysis as well as cultural studies of the screen production industry.

Conclusion The connotations associated with the phrase “fix it in post” reflect a history of production protocols and ideologies that marginalise and devalue the contribution of post-production in the creative appraisal of screen output; ultimately, such attitudes towards post-production work to conventionalise its specialisations, like digital VFX, as technical work of correction and repair, in contrast to the processes of creation and artistry that are perceived to occur during principal production. These industrial ideologies cling to production protocols and terminologies—like the distinction between SFX and VFX terminology as related to principal and post-production respectively—and maintain a temporal dimension to creative valuing across the screen production process. In this chapter, I have specifically considered how the temporal relationship between principal and post-production—that is, the “after-ness” of “post”—connotes an othering or deferment of production labour that shapes how creativity is valued across the production process. In this regard, this chapter has considered how this devaluing of creative activity in post-production is an ideological imperative driven by industrial protocols and works against the changes in workflow process caused by digital technology. VFX and post-production specialisations continue to be relegated to the category of non-creative “technical” work by a sense of “after-ness” and temporal othering that is pejoratively maintained by the protocol “fix it in post”; such notions persist even though, as VFX supervisor Dennis Berardi states, “The days of just dealing with visual effects in post-production are long gone” (quoted in Cram 2012, 186). Therefore, the temporal delineation of screen production, and specifically post-production, is no longer defined by linear process but, just as Eduardo Navas conceptualises, screen production is now “a perpetual state of postproduction” where the ability to edit—or “fix”—is temporally integrated with the capacity to “make” content (2018, 2). VFX work “MAKE IT IN POST”: DIGITAL VISUAL EFFECTS AND THE TEMPORALITY… 279 makes significant creative contributions both during principal production and beyond this point. Therefore, in this changing digital production process, screen content is not just “fixed in post” but can also be “made in post.”

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McIntyre, P. (2012). Creativity and Cultural Production: Issues for Media Practice. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Navas, E. (2018). Art, Media Design, and Postproduction: Open Guidelines on Appropriation and Remix. New York: Routledge. Negus, N., & Pickering, M. (2004). Creativity, Communication and Cultural Value. London: Sage Publications. Prince, S. (2012). Digital Visual Effects in Cinema: The Seduction of Reality. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press. Stahl, M. (2009). Privilege and Distinction in Production Worlds: Copyright, Collective Bargaining, and Working Conditions in Media Making. In V. Mayer, M. J. Banks, & J. T. Caldwell (Eds.), Production Studies: Cultural Studies of the Media Industries (pp. 54–67). New York: Routledge. Uricchio, W. (2014). Film, Cinema, Television … Media? New Review of Film and Television Studies, 12(3), 266–279. Vaziri, T. [tvaziri]. (2018, July 3). Visual Effects Are Created by People, Not Computers [Tweet]. Retrieved from https://twitter.com/tvaziri/status/1013818417600581633 Wyatt, H., & Amyes, T. (2005). Audio Post Production for Television and Film: An Introduction to Technology and Techniques. Oxford: Focal Press. Trapped: A Case Study of International Co-Production

Rosamund Davies

Introduction This chapter describes the trajectory of an international co-production, television crime drama Trapped (Ófærð) (2015), through four years of development and production. Set in Iceland and conceived by Icelandic production company RVK Studios, the project brought together key creative team members from Iceland, Germany, France and the UK. Based on interviews with some of those involved, this case study provides an account of the development and production process. In particular, it highlights factors that had a significant impact on the process: personal relationships, particular collaborative practices, and shared and contrasting cultural understandings.

Original Concept and Development Trapped (Season 1) is a ten-part police thriller series, set in a remote port town in Iceland, in which a murder investigation reveals a web of political and corporate corruption and personal tragedy dating back to 2008 and the financial crash. The series evolved from an initial collaboration between writer/director Baltasar Kormákur, an Icelandic director with Hollywood success, and Icelandic screenwriter, Sigurjón Kjartansson. Kormákur is director and chairman of production company RVK Studios, for which Kjartansson is Head of Development. They developed the original idea for Trapped together with Magnús Viðar Sigurðsson, Executive Producer at RVK. The aim of the project was to make a TV series that would have international appeal and raise the profile of both the

R. Davies (*) University of Greenwich, London, UK e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s) 2019 281 C. Batty et al. (eds.), The Palgrave Handbook of Screen Production, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-21744-0_22 282 R. DAVIES company and the country, but which would at the same time be specifically Icelandic in inspiration and feel. These two aims were in fact closely related, since RVK’s strategy for international appeal was based on the premise that internationally successful TV series offer audiences familiar ingredients in different settings, a kind of armchair travel experience (Kjartansson, personal communication, September 2016). RVK set out to create a series that adhered to the universal conventions of the crime genre and, more particularly, the Scandinavian crime tradition (which had already seen international success with series such as The Killing, The Bridge etc.), but which featured the unique landscape and characteristic weather of Iceland. They set the story in a small town surrounded by mountains and characterised by ‘harsh circumstances’ (Kjartansson, personal communication, September 2016). Furthermore, Kormákur had the idea of making the town snowed in, meaning everyone in the town was trapped, including the killer. Kjartansson comments that, although there is great beauty in this landscape and weather conditions, the aim, in keeping with the crime genre, was always to depict the grim side of Iceland’s landscape and climate, to make the audience think ‘this is not a place I want to spend a weekend’ (Kjartansson, personal communication, September 2016). Since ‘crime is the best way to speak about society, that something’s wrong’ (Kjartansson, personal communication, September 2016), another important aim of the project was to use the crime genre to say something about Iceland. Kjartansson began developing the story with a team of Icelandic writers and found that ‘as the writing progressed, it got deeper’. The political plot looks at how the ‘Icelandic nation thinks’ and how it has been ‘shortsighted’ and ‘greedy’ in the years leading up to the financial crash that hit Iceland in 2008 as part of the worldwide economic recession. (Kjartansson, personal communication, September 2016). When RVK Studios first began to pitch the project outside Iceland to bring on co-funders/broadcasters for the project, they initially had little success. The production company was not known on the international TV scene and so ‘we were not players. Nobody was keen on listening to these guys from Iceland’ (Kjartansson, personal communication, September 2016). Then, in 2013, Kormákur approached a contact he had made in Hollywood, Daniel March, whose company, Dynamic Television, had been set up to develop, produce and distribute television to international markets. The project was taken up by March’s managing partner in Dynamic Television, German producer, Klaus Zimmermann, who had a track record of producing European co-productions (Borgia, Death in Paradise). Zimmermann decided the project was a good fit for Dynamic TV’s particular business model, which he considers to be an innovative model of co-production. He describes their remit as being to find local partners with national profile and experience and work with them to develop ideas for international audiences that are original and distinctive. They then TRAPPED: A CASE STUDY OF INTERNATIONAL CO-PRODUCTION 283 bring the projects to broadcasters who can provide international finance (Zimmermann, personal communication, May 2016). He thought that the project would benefit from a writing team that had experience on international television series (Zimmermann, personal communication, May 2016) and, at the beginning of 2014, he brought on board UK scriptwriter Clive Bradley (who had worked on police shows and thrillers with an international reach), initially as a consultant to the project. Bradley was later employed as screenwriter on the series. He, Kjartansson, Zimmerman and French script editor Sonia Moyersoen, whom Zimmerman also brought onto the project, eventually became what Bradley calls ‘the creative hub’ of the script-writing process (Bradley, personal communication, March 2016). First, however, the necessary international finance needed to be secured. Zimmermann’s track record and established relationship with German broadcaster ZDF changed the playing field in this respect. As Bradley points out, ZDF’s involvement in the project was crucial: ‘All those shows, The Killing, The Bridge etc. they are all principally funded by ZDF in Germany … all of those shows are co-productions … It’s for a particular slot on Sunday night in Germany. In order to be in that bracket, that’s what you need (or needed at that time). You need ZDF to fund it’ (Bradley, personal communication, March 2016). As well as these Scandinavian productions, Zimmermann cites the highly successful UK police series Broadchurch, a British twist on ‘Nordic Noir’, as a crucial touchstone for him in articulating what the project could be, both for himself and to potential financers. He points to the shared characteristics of Trapped and Broadchurch as being ‘huit clos’ crime dramas, set in a small communities in a rural location. At the same time, he was also able to use Broadchurch to define the ways in which the project would offer something different. In this regard he identified both the use of slow motion sequences and ‘a very present soundtrack’, that is, music to heighten the emotion, as being more ‘soapy’ elements he wanted to avoid (Zimmermann, personal communication, May 2016). Zimmerman and RVK Studios pitched the project to ZDF, presenting them with an international creative team and an updated series outline and pilot script and ZDF commissioned the project. ZDF coming on as principal funder then made it much easier to bring on additional finance.Trapped was also funded through pre-sales to France Television and several Scandinavian broadcasters, as well as to Icelandic TV and the BBC.

From Green Light to Post-Production In February 2014, Kjartansson, Bradley, Moyersoen and Zimmerman met in Iceland for the first of a series of bi-monthly, six-day script development meetings in various locations in Europe. They were, as Bradley points out, ‘an Icelander, a Brit, a German and a French woman. We wanted to serve it as an Icelandic story, but it was a very internationalized process.’ The team used these meetings to ‘bash out the beats’ (Bradley, personal communication, 284 R. DAVIES

March 2016). Building on the key founding elements of the drama: the setting and premise, the crime plot and the characters, they ‘started again from ground zero’ (Kjartansson, personal communication, September 2016) to map out the story across ten episodes, storylining two episodes each session and coming up with an outline for each episode. Both Bradley and Kjartansson make it clear that they did not find this to be a standard script development process. They point out that, although they called these sessions a writers’ room, they did not, in fact, function like an American-style writers’ room, which would typically be run by the series showrunner (combining head writer and producing roles) and staffed by a number of writers of varying degrees of seniority. Outlines for each episode would be developed in the writers’ room under the supervision of the showrunner. Different writers would then individually write different episodes, which would go to the showrunner for approval. The process on Trapped, however, was that after each meeting Bradley wrote a draft for each episode that had been outlined. Following notes from Kjartansson, Moyersoen and Zimmermann, he would revise the draft and it would go to Kormákur for further notes, before going to ZDF, who, as principal financers, had editorial control over the project. ZDF would also provide notes before they signed off each script. Zimmerman remained the point of contact with ZDF, receiving their notes and feeding them back to the rest of the creative team (Kjartansson, personal communication, September 2016; Bradley, personal communication, March 2016). All four members of this unusual ‘writers’ room’ experienced the process as extremely positive. Kjartansson remarks that it ‘felt more like a vacation’ than work, even though they worked 14 hours a day (Kjartansson, personal communication, September 2016). Bradley comments that ‘it was very enjoyable’ (Bradley, personal communication, March 2016). Kjartansson puts the success of this intensely collaborative process down to the personalities of all four people involved in the development team, who all understood how to work collaboratively. He comments that ‘I wouldn’t usually allow the producer in the writers’ room, but Klaus is such a generous and beautiful soul’ (Kjartansson, personal communication, September 2016). Zimmermann himself describes his approach as being to invest not only his professional expertise and connections, but also emotional labour, saying that successful co-production needs to be ‘something that you live, it’s not about brokering’ (Zimmermann, personal communication, May 2016). In addition to contributing to the story development, he often acted as host to the proceedings, both in his own house in Marseilles and once in his mother’s house in Germany. He underlines the importance to the project of making sure enough time was allowed for collaboration during the script development. Moyersoen, says Bradley, was also crucial to the project, ‘she has this amazing ability to keep the whole thing in her head. So she would say ‘no you can’t do that because this happened in the first episode … I think the pressure to keep things credible, she played an enormous role in that’ (Bradley, personal TRAPPED: A CASE STUDY OF INTERNATIONAL CO-PRODUCTION 285 communication, March 2016). Kjartansson comments in particular on Moyersoen’s focus on developing convincing characters: ‘Sonia, she wouldn’t let us go until we had filled out every character. We had to be sure of who he or she is’ (Kjartansson, personal communication, September 2016). In producing the first drafts, Bradley reiterated Zimmermann’s reference to Broadchurch as a key touchstone, with regard to working with and reworking ‘Nordic Noir’ conventions. However, with regard to the specifics of Icelandic culture and setting, ‘when we were developing it and I was writing it, you have to trust to the fact that Icelanders are making this and they all get the Icelandic detail. In terms of the story and the characters … you just write it’ (Bradley, personal communication, March 2016). Meanwhile, Kjartansson found that ‘to work with these international people really helped me to focus on what was essentially Icelandic’ (Kjartansson, personal communication, September 2016). In addition to shaping the outlining process, this meant that it was sometimes necessary to change scenes in the script. An instance that both Kjartansson and Bradley cite is a scene in which the original script draft had the main character go home and pour a glass of whisky after a challenging day. However, Kjartansson pointed out that in Iceland this would signify that he was an alco- holic, explaining that Icelandic people only drink at the weekend. So this was changed to the character drinking a glass of milk (Kjartansson, personal communication, September 2016; Bradley, personal communication, March 2016). The scripts were all originally written in English. Once signed off by ZDF, Kjartansson then translated all the scripts into Icelandic, since the series was actually shot in the Icelandic language. After a year of script development, the final episode, Episode 10, was delivered in January 2015. Meanwhile, Kormákur and Kjartansson did all the casting and crew recruitment in Iceland. Kormákur signed on to direct Episodes 1 and 10 and they hired a further three directors to direct the other episodes. The two-month prep period included extensive rehearsal with actors before the shoot. One of the directors was Börkur Sigþorssón, who was already working with RVK Studios, where he had a feature film in development. Sigþorssón describes how, during prep, the directors discussed the scripts with Kjartansson, with the actors and with each other (Sigþorssón, personal communication, May 2018). At this point, Kjartansson had taken on the role of showrunner, overseeing the work of the directors over all the episodes. Sigþorssón discusses how, with the involvement of the directors and the actors, the script continued to develop. He cites the example of a blackout that occurs in Episode 6 of the series, one of the two episodes that Sigþorssón directed. In the script the electricity came back on halfway through the episode but, during this pre-production period, he and Kjartansson agreed it would be even more dramatically effective to convey the sombre emotional mood of the episode if the blackout lasted throughout the whole episode (Sigþorssón, personal communication, May 2018). Another factor they had to prepare for was the fact that not only were the directors shooting interwoven episodes (Kormákur shot Episodes 1 and 10, Sigþorssón Episodes 6 and 9, while Óskar Thór Axelsson and Baldvin 286 R. DAVIES

Zophoníasson each shot three of the remaining six episodes), but the shoot was scheduled in such a way as to film all the episodes simultaneously and out of sequence. This meant that all the directors were contracted for the entire six-month duration of the shoot so, on any one day, one or more directors might be shooting several different scenes from several different episodes and in a different order to the final story order. One director might, for example, be shooting the police investigation of a crime scene, while the crime itself was scheduled to be shot by another director later in the shooting schedule. In order to maintain/establish continuity, he therefore needed to have a good idea of how the other director planned to shoot the scene. This particular approach to the schedule was primarily a result of two exi- gencies. The first was the need for production to shoot in the small town of Siglufjörður in the north of Iceland during February, March and April. The decision to shoot in this kind of winter weather and landscape was actually an unusual approach even for Iceland. In general, Icelandic TV series tend to shoot in the summer, when the weather is more accommodating, providing ‘more warmth and light, no snow’ (Kjartansson, personal communication, September 2016). However, as discussed, this approach was essential in order to realise the aesthetic aims of the series. The second was the availability of the actors, whose time could not be blocked out for long periods. ‘More or less in Iceland, you know, the good actors they’re all contracted to the theatres and that basically means we can’t block them out for the production period … They have their restrictions, so you can’t add restrictions on the directors or the schedule will never work’ (Sigþorssón, personal communication, May 2018). This approach to the schedule made particular demands on both the directors and the actors and was one of the reasons for the extensive rehearsal period. According to Sigþorssón, it meant that it was even more crucial than usual for the director to give the actors a through line for the scene on set:

The actors are lost in the dialogue, they’re lost in trying to keep up with where was I, where am I going? I was with a different director five minutes ago, in a scene from episode 8 and we’re doing number 6 here … you have to have a therapeutic value to the actor … Giving them access to what the scenes are about on some kind of fundamental level is, in many ways I think, one of the duties of an episodic director. (Sigþorssón, personal communication, May 2018)

The shoot was challenging in other respects. In addition to the logistics of scheduling, transporting and accommodating the cast and a large crew, there was also the weather to factor in. The story required very specific weather conditions—heavy snow and snowstorms for the first few episodes, which trap the characters in the town, and then, for the later episodes, better conditions, which allow transport routes in and out of the town to be opened up again. Thus the production was alternately both chasing snow and also waiting for it to disperse. Inevitably, the actual weather conditions did not always match the scenes that were scheduled to be shot. ‘It was a major pressure on the production TRAPPED: A CASE STUDY OF INTERNATIONAL CO-PRODUCTION 287 and the scheduling just to make everything work out, because it was kind of ever changing’ (Sigþorssón, personal communication, May 2018). Consequently, although most of the interiors were shot in Reykjavik, prior to the production’s move north, there were also quite a few scheduled in Siglufjörður, to provide weather cover, so that the weather could never completely shut the production down. The production schedule did, however, also bring some advantages, says Sigþorssón. ‘It gave us much more time … We had more days per episode … the ability to maintain a certain kind of production values.’ The three months spent away from home also brought a particular focus: ‘being up North it’s like being out at sea. You’re in a rented accommodation [all the directors were living in the same house] … you’re more focused when you’re living on the location, so nothing really interferes … I think that’s one of the great things about a production like that, when it’s all bundled together, you actually get a chance to work together with other directors. You don’t usually get that. As a director you’re always working in seclusion’ (Sigþorssón, personal communication, May 2018). Although he defines the role of a director in television as ‘servicing some- body else’s vision’, Sigþorssón feels that the director’s job is nevertheless to bring something new to the table ‘they want you to push it … there needs to be friction, you know, healthy friction … I found it incredibly rewarding the whole collaborative aspect of it … there is a certain freedom in it, because you aren’t responsible for everything … it also just teaches you a lot because you feel freer to do things that you wouldn’t necessarily do on your own project … because it accommodates this project … It’s just a different beast’ (Sigþorssón, personal communication, May 2018). However, Sigþorssón underlines the fact that this pleasure in collaboration is not part of every production and that he sees it as a particularly rewarding aspect of working on Trapped. During the shoot, there had been little involvement from the project’s international partners. However, in post-production, ZDF became involved editorially again, giving notes and signing off on all edits. ‘I learnt a lot from that experience—how to behave in international co- production and it’s complicated’ (Kjartansson, personal communication, September 2016). Kjartansson had not necessarily anticipated ‘working by committee’, but learnt how important it was to keep ZDF in the loop. He says that it took time to figure out what the series was finally about in the edit, so that the post-production was very much a final story development process, involving some reshoots. For Kjartansson, the four-year process was very intense. ‘My little daughter is 6 years old. She doesn’t know anything else but Daddy is working on Trapped.’ However he reiterates the fact that it has been a wonderful experience—‘like I graduated from university’. He feels he learnt a lot from working with Kormákur and Zimmermann. ‘It’s huge … a humbling experience … I’m a grateful guy. It has put my mind at ease. Before I was a frustrated young man. 288 R. DAVIES

Now I am a fulfilled old man’ (Kjartansson, personal communication, September 2016).

Key Themes

Networks of Trust One of the crucial enablers of this production was personal connections between key actors in the project. Key financial and recruitment decisions made on the project depended heavily on these existing relationships. Kormákur was introduced to Zimmermann through a mutual connection, Zimmermann’s connection with ZDF was crucial in bringing RVK through the gate that had previously been closed to them. Zimmermann, Kormákur and Kjartansson all drew on existing connections when recruiting key members to the creative team. This reliance on personal connections to finance and crew productions within the film and television industry has been well documented (e.g. Blair 2009; Hesmondhalgh and Baker 2011). It can be put down to a variety of factors, including the short-term nature of project-based work, the reduced time frame within which many productions are crewed and the high-risk nature of the industry—involving large amounts of money and uncertain outcomes. Creative teams rely on existing networks to pull things together fast and depend on trust, mutual respect and existing relationships between team members to withstand pressures and uncertainties and reduce risk. In their study of ‘good work’ and ‘bad work’ within the cultural industries, Hesmondhalgh and Baker draw on their interviews with creative workers in television entertainment to show how the need ‘to remain on good terms with their colleagues’ on a production, in order not to lose their reputation in the industry, can result in stressful emotional labour for creative workers (Hesmondhalgh and Baker 2011, p. 180). While this perspective is undoubtedly important to consider, this case study provides instead an example of a more positive experience reported by creative workers in regard to the role of personal networks and relationships of trust within television production. It gives an example of how networks of trust can also empower people to take risks and try something new, because of the mutual confidence they provide (John-Steiner 2000). Another angle from which the role of social networks has been studied is through the concept of social capital (Bourdieu 1990) and specifically the way that lack of the right kind of social capital, that is, personal social networks, can work to exclude people from the screen industries on the basis of gender, ‘race’ and other non-dominant identities (Grugulis and Stoyanova 2012). This case study provides a further insight into how the lack of personal contacts and social networks may also work at an international level to exclude non-dominant small nation players from the global screen industries, as well as demonstrating how they ultimately also worked to overcome this exclusion in this particular case. TRAPPED: A CASE STUDY OF INTERNATIONAL CO-PRODUCTION 289

From Cooperation to Collaboration While this production featured clusters of people who had already worked together, it also brought together people who were strangers to one another. In particular, we can consider the four people who formed the unusual writers’ room for the project and who made up the core of the screen idea work group: ‘a flexible and semi-formal work unit that congregates around the screen idea and whose members contribute to its development’ (Macdonald 2010, p. 48). The project borrowed from certain practices that are standard within an American-style screen idea work group, that is, the writers’ room, but staffed it with a set of people whose job titles were more typical of non-writers’ room- based UK and European television script development. There also appears to have been a conscious attempt to depart from the conventional hierarchy of roles within the screen idea work group (Macdonald 2010, 2013) towards a flatter structure. There were potential pitfalls here, as none of the individuals involved had worked in quite this way before. Blurred boundaries between roles that might normally have been clearer risked perceived encroachments of territory between the different people on the team. It was a process that demanded openness, risk taking, tact and generosity from all those involved. A helpful perspective on the nature of this shared work is provided by John- Steiner, in the distinction she makes between cooperation and collaboration. She contrasts cooperation, or ‘complementary collaboration’—which involves the division of labour on a shared task between people contributing complementary skills—with ‘integrative collaboration, which transforms both the field and participants’ (John-Steiner 2000, Kindle Edition). We can identify elements of complementary collaboration in the development of Trapped—Moyersoen focused on the overview, the overall shape and consistency of the series. Bradley provided the detailed working-up of each script. Kjartansson provided the culturally specific inflection of the story. Zimmermann provided the perspective of the international market. Kjartansson, the directors and actors took the story from page to screen. However, the experience of collaboration reported by each member of the screen idea work group that we interviewed was of something deeper than a functional pooling of skills. There was a sense, both in the ‘writers’ room’ and on set, of ‘integrative collaboration’: of having made and come through something together and of having learnt from each other (John-Steiner 2000, Kindle Edition). It is also worth pointing out here that the satisfaction expressed by interviewees in the process of collaboration is likely also to derive in part from their sense that the collaboration produced a high-quality result that was a critical and commercial success. Making a cultural product of high quality is also an important element in a creative worker’s sense of ‘good work’ (Hesmondhalgh and Baker 2011). The structure of the collaboration is another aspect to consider. The intensive six-day residencies for story development, every two months over a year, provided intensity, immersion and duration, giving the script development team time to get to know and trust each other. This 290 R. DAVIES approach was also taken in the prep, with two months allowed for directors and cast to work together prior to the shoot. The particular conditions of the shoot also facilitated unusually intense collaboration between people who had not worked together before. The importance of putting in place particular structures to enable collaboration has been discussed by Novrup Redvall in her investigation of Danish television drama (2013) and by Catmull with regard to animation (2014). Both of these case studies focus on the way that creative managers, in the interest of achieving distinctive, high-quality products, deliberately instigated structures and processes aimed at producing better and more extensive collaboration between creative team members. A similar endeavour is in evidence on Trapped, although on the shoot this seems in part to have been a side effect of logistics as much as it was a specifically planned structure of collaboration.Trapped thus provides an interesting example of potential approaches and structures that can help to facilitate collaboration and trust between strangers and to maintain an open dialogue among the changing members of the screen idea work group throughout the life of the production.

Cultural Considerations The coming together of different nationalities and differing cultural norms was a potential challenge. Different nations have different development and production practices (Taylor and Batty 2016), risking potential clashes when individuals from these traditions work together. This was perhaps somewhat averted in the development stage by the adoption of a script development process that was tailored to the project, rather than modelled on any one standard national procedure. Meanwhile, the shoot itself was largely nationally homogenous, executed by the Icelandic partners. The post-production stage was perhaps the most challenging in this regard. While located in Iceland under the supervision of RVK Studios, as an international co-production it needed to accommodate the influence and involvement of many more stakeholders than the team was used to. On the other hand, the project benefited from the internationally shared cultural domain of ‘Nordic Noir’ (Bondebjerg and Novrup Redvall 2015), which enabled non-Icelandic partners in the project to contribute effectively to the development of the screen idea, despite lacking specific knowledge of Icelandic culture. Furthermore, the input of the non-Icelandic partners enabled Kjartansson to articulate more clearly what was specifically Icelandic about the story. John-Steiner’s perspective on collaboration is again useful to consider here:

Collaboration thrives on diversity of perspectives and on constructive dialogues between individuals negotiating their differences while creating their shared voice and vision. (2000, Kindle Edition) TRAPPED: A CASE STUDY OF INTERNATIONAL CO-PRODUCTION 291

Conclusion This case study provides a clear example of the way that aesthetic aims and decisions impact on the logistical requirements of a production and vice versa. In particular, it highlights the centrality of trust, collaboration and cultural exchange, and provides some specific examples of how these might best be enabled. The examination of these factors permits an understanding of their role within the production of a screen work in general. More particularly, it provides valuable insights into their significance within the particular context of international co-production.

References Blair, H. (2009). Active Networking: Action, Social Structure and the Process of Networking. In A. McKinlay & C. Smith (Eds.), Creative Labour: Working in the Creative Industries. Critical Perspectives on Work and Employment (pp. 116–134). Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Bondebjerg, I., & Novrup Redvall, E. (2015). Breaking Borders: The International Success of Danish Television Drama. In I. Bondebjerg, E. Novrup Redvall, & A. Higson (Eds.), European Cinema and Television: Cultural Policy and Everyday Life (pp. 2014–2238). Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Bourdieu, P. (1990). The Logic of Practice. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Catmull, E. (2014). Creativity Inc. London: Transworld Publishers. Grugulis, I., & Stoyanova, D. (2012). Social Capital and Networks in Film and TV: Jobs for the Boys? Organization Studies, 33(10), 1311–1331. Hesmondhalgh, D., & Baker, S. (2011). Creative Labour. Media Work in Three Cultural Industries. Abingdon: Routledge. John-Steiner, V. (2000). Creative Collaboration. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kindle Edition. Macdonald, I. W. (2010). ‘… So It’s Not Surprising I’m Neurotic’ the Screenwriter and the Screen Idea Work Group. Journal of Screenwriting, 1(1), 45–58. Macdonald, I. W. (2013). Screenwriting Poetics and the Screen Idea. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Redvall, E. N. (2013). Writing and Producing Television Drama in Denmark. From ‘The Kingdom’ to ‘The Killing. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Taylor, S., & Batty, C. (2016). Script Development and the Hidden Practices of Screenwriting: Perspectives from Industry Professionals. New Writing, 13(2), 204–217. Trapped (Ófærð). (2015). Bradley, C, Moyersoen, S, Egilsson, Ó, Grimsson, J (Writers); Kjartansson, S, Zimmermann, K (Writers and Exec. Producers); Kormákur, B (Series creator, Exec. Producer, Director); Thór Axelsson, Ó, Sigþorssón, B, Zophoníasson, B (Directors). Season 1. 10 episodes. Production Practices in the Filming of German Scripted Reality Shows

Daniel Klug and Axel Schmidt

Introduction This chapter discusses the production practices of German scripted reality shows, using the example of Mieten, kaufen, wohnen (Rent, Buy, Live), a show about people meeting with realtors in different cities looking for homes to rent or buy. We explore the production workflow before, during, and after filming and primarily focus on practices of initiating and staging interactions in the observed filming of an episode. Scripted reality television is a unique entertainment genre, taking its name from the numerous varieties of traditional reality TV formats. However, the stories are based on fictional scripts that are acted out by amateur actors. The shows only use the aesthetics, imagery, and narrative styles of documentary reality TV. This oscillation between fictional and factual elements results in so-called faction (Kerr 1997). Since about 2008, scripted reality rose to be the dominant entertainment genre in German-speaking commercial television. In early 2018, 18 different scripted reality shows aired daily between 1 pm and 8 pm, in addition, other European countries, like Poland or France, successfully adapted German formats (Szostak 2016). Scripted reality shows commonly address two main subjects. First, everyday life and relationships, such as people living together and dealing with struggles in work and with family issues. Popular examples are Berlin: Tag & Nacht (Berlin: Day & Night, RTL2, 2011–) and Köln 50667 (Cologne 50667, RTL2, 2013–), which are both characterized by a serial docu- soap-like structure and a recurring cast. Second, shows such as Auf Streife (On

D. Klug (*) Carnegie Mellon University, Pittsburgh, USA e-mail: [email protected] A. Schmidt University of Mannheim, Mannheim, Germany

Parole, 2013–), Familien im Brennpunkt (Families in Trouble, RTL, 2009– 2014), or Verdachtsfälle (Cases of Doubt, RTL2, 2009–) deal with investigating fictional everyday crime issues like fraud or theft or with false suspicions within families. These shows consist of single episodes and are usually more action- centered. Lately, German scripted reality shows have focused especially on crime-solving and medical emergencies, which illustrate a thematic, however fictionalized, return to subjects from the time of reality TV’s documentary origin. In any case, all scripted reality shows follow a similar narrative structure: conflicts are built up quickly, followed by excessive arguing, then comes a sudden happy ending.

Methodologic Approach and Research Outline As part of our research on the mediatization of authenticity in reality TV, we follow a combined analysis of the product and the production of scripted reality formats (Klug and Schmidt 2014). In product analysis, the analytical methods of film and television studies provide insights into the aesthetic, narrative, and dramaturgic characteristics of a fixed televised media artifact. But in reality TV research, and especially concerning the faction of scripted reality, the analysis of the production contexts are crucial for the understanding of mediated televisual realities (Caldwell 2008; Mayer et al. 2009; Banks et al. 2016). Observing the production contexts before, during, and after the filming of scripted reality shows enables specific paradigms and production practices for authenticating and factualizing fiction to be identified and discussed. Then, comparing the narrative structure and staging strategies of the broadcast episode (the product) to observed production practices provides valuable insights into the ratio of factual and fictional elements in scripted reality. While the product, that is, the televised episode, can be recorded or watched online, getting access to the production of scripted reality or production material is rather difficult. Ideally, an analysis of scripted reality production includes examining drafted scripts, observing and documenting the filming, conducting expert interviews with production staff, or analyzing production artifacts, such as scripts, schedules, casting data, or production notes (Klug 2016, pp. 126). However, the unclear state between fact and fiction, and, because of that, the public discussion about the quality and the fake appeal of scripted reality, seem to cause restrictive attitudes and suspicion within the industry toward academic research. Despite these issues, we managed to interview the production staff of numerous scripted reality shows. Through a friend, we also got in contact with the production company of Mieten, kaufen, wohnen (VOX, 2009–), one of the longest-running German scripted reality shows. We were able to observe the filming of one episode and to talk to the protagonists, the cameraman, and the producer on set. PRODUCTION PRACTICES IN THE FILMING OF GERMAN SCRIPTED REALITY… 295

Documentary Reality Versus Scripted Reality Historically, reality TV started out as documentary genre. Early shows, such as Cops, The People’s Court, or Judge Judy, to some extent documented real people in their real lives. Documentary-style reality shows largely follow a self- imposed “claim to ‘the real’” (Holmes and Jermyn 2004, p. 5) through paratextual references to a persisting everyday reality that cannot be staged. For example, they portray “ordinary people” (Turner 2010) who provide real names and biographies that exist autonomously from their media appearance(s). But documentary reality TV may also stage or reenact everyday situations only for the camera, due, for example, because the actual event could not originally be filmed. Since the 2000s, reality TV shifted, as formats likeThe Real World, Survivor, or Big Brother and talent shows, such as American Idol, America’s Next Top Model, or Top Chef, foregrounded competition and game aspects in favor of documented authenticity. While the reality TV genre generally oscillates between its documentary claim and the staged nature of presented events, in particular recent MTV formats, such as Jersey Shore (2009–2012), Teen Mom (2009–2012, 2015–), or Ex on the Beach (2014–) (see Kavka 2012, pp. 145), and British reality shows like Made in Chelsea (2011–) or The Only Way is Essex (2010–), largely follow pre- defined scripts to evoke authentic situations for entertainment purposes. This generates rather unclear forms of “constructed reality” (Chalaby 2015, pp. 15) and brings reality closer to “mock-documentary” (Roscoe and Hight 2001) and “made-for-TV-factuals” (Hill 2007, p. 49) because shows dramatize the actual event to stage a media reality that is distinctive to television. Because of the increasing hybridization of fact and fiction, documentary formats are more and more, yet barely noticeably, being replaced by fictional(ized) reality shows. Scripted reality, however, makes use of textual elements, like documentary aesthetic, visibly bad amateur acting, or filming at real locations to claim factuality. Furthermore, evoking and staging the extreme emotional reactions of participants (Kavka 2015, pp. 101) and focusing on their modes of self- presentation (Hill 2015, pp. 52) is used as a questionable claim to authenticity. Thorough casting processes and “prescripted” interactions (Feuer 2015, pp. 190) create an irresolvable mixture of documentary and scripted elements in narration and presentation. This strategy of staging authenticity disguises shows’ actual production processes and only pretends to be unplanned. It extends to paratextual information, for example, German scripted reality shows all vary the disclaimer “Alle handelnden Personen sind frei erfunden” (“All characters are fictitious”) hidden in the end titles. Scripted reality productions aim to factualize the underlying fictional narrative by using specific production practices. For example, the use of a single camera calls for multiple non-chronological takes of the same scene. Similar to fiction formats, scripted reality depicts fictional characters with made-up names, biographies, jobs, and so on. However, scripted reality productions (try to) trick their way into documentary reality by casting amateur actors and assigning 296 D. KLUG AND A. SCHMIDT characters based on habitus, physical appearance, and biographical aspects. This aims at creating everyday reality and authenticity by having the amateur actors “play themselves” and by instructing them to adapt the scripted dialogues in their own words. This technique is seen as generating authentic behavior and emotions which are key elements to claim factuality within the fiction of scripted reality. The producers are required to monitor and guide the amateur actors through the loosely written script while also attempting to create a meaningful story.

Characteristics of the German Scripted Reality Show Mieten, kaufen, wohnen Mieten, kaufen, wohnen is a somewhat unusual scripted reality show because its stories, characters, and presentations are less extreme than typical. All episodes follow a standard concept: realtors in different German cities meet with clients who are seeking to rent or buy a home. Each client contributes a background story, such as a hobby, a secret, or some eccentricity, that is woven into the story, as it might affect the search for a home or the relationship with the realtor. All realtors are professionals who work as realtors in real life. The clients are always amateur actors who, in reality, are not looking for property, or are at least not looking for the ones presented in the episode. The homes are mostly not actually for rent or sale but rented out for filming by their owners. Each hour-long episode of Mieten, kaufen, wohnen includes three realtors, each of them showing two properties to one client. For an episode, the three stories are each split into four to five parts and presented in an alternating chronologic narrative. Every story’s dramaturgy roughly consists of five segments:

1. introducing the realtor and the client, outlining the client’s expectations, first meeting between realtor and client; 2. showing of the first property, starting of a conflict or introducing the background story; 3. ongoing showing of the first property and emphasizing the conflict or background story; 4. showing of the second property, trying to solve the conflict or continuing the background story; 5. ongoing showing of the second property, making an agreement or settling on further search for properties.

To claim authenticity within this narrative structure, Mieten, kaufen, wohnen relies on three dramaturgical aspects:

1. creating conflicts between realtor and client due to different valuations of properties; PRODUCTION PRACTICES IN THE FILMING OF GERMAN SCRIPTED REALITY… 297

2. the professional knowledge, skills, and expertise of the realtors; 3. eccentricity and personal, emotional, and intimate insights into the clients’ lives, desires, and ideas of living given by their statements.

Moreover, additional information given by an off-commentator connects these three aspects and creates an overall narrative for the split stories. We observed the filming of the second of three stories which are part of the Mieten, kaufen, wohnen episode that first aired on September 16, 2014 on the German TV channel VOX. In this story, set in the German city of Frankfurt, a client who owns a quad bike company is looking for an apartment for his family. As a factualization strategy, all five sequences address the subject of quad biking. In the first and second sequence, while showing the first apartment, the realtor gets to know the client and immediately expresses his interest in quad biking. It results in a quad race for half of the commission in the third sequence, which the realtor loses. In sequence four and five, the realtor shows a second apartment to the client but holds back the crucial information about the rent extending the client’s limit. He justifies his move because the client held back information about riding the quad bike which led to his defeat and the loss of the commission. The story ends with postponing the house hunting to the fictional future (of the show).

The Production Processes of German Scripted Reality Shows Scripted reality has proved to be a popular, easy-to-produce, and therefore highly grossing genre. Most scripted reality shows are daily formats and produced in blocks to air the following week. Filming takes three days; however, more than one episode is filmed per day. Production staff are usually freelancers who are paid per episode or script and do not exclusively work on a show. A lot of scripted reality productions use “quick-and-dirty” methods because there is always pressure for the filming and editing to meet production deadlines. As a result, especially in episodic formats, the mixture of little time, untrained amateur actors, and only basic script outlines often result in rather poor-quality TV. Some serial formats with a higher budget and a less tight schedule can value production quality, but tend to resemble fictional docu-soaps. Scripted reality productions are divided into numerous individual tasks before, during, and after filming an episode. These production practices can be monitored and analyzed in different ways regarding the faction of scripted reality.

Reconstruction: Production Context Before Filming The steps before filming on location include script writing, location scouting, and casting. We analyzed these organizational production processes by recon- structing them through expert interviews with production staff. 298 D. KLUG AND A. SCHMIDT

For any scripted reality show, scriptwriters first develop storyboards for each episode by drawing inspiration from everyday news in print and television media as a basis for factualizing the fiction. InMieten, kaufen, wohnen the storyboards all follow a similar narrative structure based on a fictional profile of a client, including personal details and financial possibilities. Next, based on the script, amateur actors playing the clients as well as locations that match the sought fictional properties need to be found. Amateur actors are recruited using casting agency databases. The professional realtors are chosen depending on city and availability. In general, scripted reality productions cast experts of a profession, such as police officers, lawyers, or doctors, to give correct, reasonable, and understandable information and everyday expertise through the characters and therefore to create authenticity and factuality within the fiction. In contrast to other scripted reality shows, locations in Mieten, kaufen, wohnen are not chosen from a location database. Production assistants contact homeowners through real estate advertisements in newspapers or online, asking to use their apartment or house for an allowance of about 150 euros (approx. $180). Furthermore, the production company office needs to delegate organizational tasks to staff members. For example, besides booking and briefing the actors, a director (who in scripted reality production is called a “realisator”), a camera operator, and a sound engineer need to be assigned to each shoot. All production staff are professional filmmakers who get a regular salary while the amateur actors are paid a variable fixed rate.

Observation: Production Context While Filming For every scripted reality production, a producer is in charge of organizing all tasks of filming an episode. However, on set, the production crew of realisator, camera operator, and sound engineer is responsible for adapting the script to the given location and skills of the actors who they then usually meet for the first time. While filming, the script functions as a loose guide for the progression of the overall story. Changes can be made by the realisator on his or her own responsibility as long as they fit the fundamentals of the story and characters. Based on the scripted dialogues, the realisator instructs the amateur actors to use their own words and habitual expressions to act out the dialogues in an emotional way. This practice is understood as the vital element of evoking authentic representation and therefore as producing factuality within the fiction of scripted reality. Our observation of the filming ofMieten, kaufen, wohnen exemplifies the spontaneity and freedom involved in producing scripted reality shows. On the first occasion, the designated empty and renovated apartment of our friend turned out to be incongruous to the commenced storyline. However, our friend agreed to let the production crew use her new and furnished apartment instead and film the episode a week later. This time, a different realisator was assigned who did not receive any script from the production office. Because the PRODUCTION PRACTICES IN THE FILMING OF GERMAN SCRIPTED REALITY… 299 first part of the story was already filmed and the protagonists memorized the progress of the story, this filming was done without an actual script. The Mieten, kaufen, wohnen concept proved to be beneficial: on the one hand, the realtor reenacts his regular real-life job habitus, on the other hand, the simple stories do not call for detailed character work by the amateur actors. Before filming starts, the realisator usually performs some warm-up conversation routines with the amateur actors and briefs them about the story and their character to help them get into their fictional characters. Curiously enough, in the observed filming, the protagonists briefed the realisator, who had long experience in “directing” Mieten, kaufen, wohnen anyway. The filming of Mieten, kaufen, wohnen episodes follows a strict routine and order of five steps:

• Step 1—location shots: surroundings, street, façade, entrance and staircase of the building to give an idea of the area; specific features, such as a nice backyard, or rather precarious aspects, such as missing parking spots, which could be relevant for deciding to buy or rent the property according to the fictional story. • Step 2—meet and greet: the client arrives at the property and looks around; the realtor awaits the client. In a short conversation, the client repeats his demands; the realtor outlines the characteristics of the property; client and realtor are filmed in close-ups and as well in medium and long shots. • Step 3—showing the property and negotiation: room by room showing of the apartment or house; the realtor explains the features, the client comments based on his demands; filming the interaction from different angles; producing useful scenes for montaging, such as “looking into a room” or “walking through a door.” • Step 4—recaps and statements: after the showing, filming client and realtor statements who either comment on their prospective expectations of a room (e.g., “what did I think the kitchen will look like”) or retrospec- tively give their first impression (e.g., “how did I perceive the kitchen”); statements are filmed in the same room; however, not according to the chronology of the narrative but in one block after the client has seen all rooms; the realisator, behind the camera, asks questions to which the client recaps his or her impressions according to his or her fictional demand; directly talking into the camera creates a form of parasocial interaction. • Step 5—“beauty shots” of the property: at the end, everybody leaves the property, and the camera operator films the empty rooms from numerous angles; these so-called beauty shots are later used for off-camera descriptions and to montage the scenes according to the script.

In these five steps, camera actions and representations, in particular what the camera records, are crucial for staging parasocial interactions. In televisual media artifacts, while filming, camera movements are usually reflexive and guided by actors’ movements—either people or phenomena—however, this 300 D. KLUG AND A. SCHMIDT also applies vice versa. Regarding the claim to authenticity in scripted reality, analyzing camera actions and the organization of camera work provides valuable insights into the staging of apparently authentic interactions as the scripts do not include camera instructions. Because of its faction status, scripted reality productions established specific patterns of camera actions to minimize random or unforeseeable events within the progression of the predicted fictional narrative. Mieten, kaufen, wohnen, as with scripted reality productions in general, only uses a single camera to film all five steps in the given chronological order. This fixed order later helps the editor to identify different scenes within the raw material. Regarding the camera work and the organization of filming an episode, the main production practices in Mieten, kaufen, wohnen are recaps and multiple takes. Recaps are filmed after the completed showing of the property. For the protagonists, this postponed filming causes the problem of recalling the previous situations as well as the need to block out acquired knowledge. Because recaps are not in the script, the realisator initiates a dialogue with the protagonist from behind the camera with his part being cut in the final edit. This practice motivates and intensifies the acting of the protagonists and helps to overcome the task of speaking directly into the camera. For example, it guarantees a consistent narrative progression when the realisator, relying on the corresponding scenes, reminds the protagonist to use the past or future tense in his or her statement. Multiple takes are needed to depict the interaction between realtor and client from different angles, for example, when negotiating certain features of a room, such as the kitchen facilities. Mieten, kaufen, wohnen stories are dialogue-based and do not involve a lot of action or further physical or spatial movement by the protagonists. Therefore, in contrast to the more common scripted reality practice of panning between interacting parties, Mieten, kaufen, wohnen scenes are filmed in multiple takes from different angles. As a result, the quite informative and tidied-up aesthetic creates a rather serious look that matches the show’s attitude. The protagonists typically repeat the same dialogue scene four times:

1. long shot of both protagonists; 2. medium shot of both protagonists; 3. close-up of protagonist 1 (client); 4. close-up of protagonist 2 (realtor).

Multiple angle shots enable dynamic and multi-perspective storytelling in editing without revealing the single camera setup. In scripted reality production, the practice of multiple takes, on the one hand, makes use of interaction as an essential strategy of representation but, on the other hand, also shapes interaction as follows:

• invisibilizing the conditions of the interaction situation (fictionalization): each of the repetitive multiple takes is based on preconditions, that is, PRODUCTION PRACTICES IN THE FILMING OF GERMAN SCRIPTED REALITY… 301

either the script, instructions by the realisator, or the narrative of previously filmed scenes; these preconditions are not part the actual visible interaction, the goal of each take is to give the impression of a negotiation; • improvisation, authenticity, indetermination (factualization): protagonists have to repeat their part in multiple takes, therefore, they need to improvise; this creates authentic appeal and helps to factualize the fictional setup, but this practice also calls for a relative indetermination regarding the emergence of and the expectation toward the dialogue text; • multiplication, fragmentation, re-synthesization of events (fictionalization): multiple takes repeatedly evoke similar events; in the process of editing, the recordings are fragmented and re-synthesized; different fragments of similar actions are compiled into an apparently chronologic series of events.

Comparison: The Production Context After Filming (and the Televised Product) After a day of filming is completed (sometimes even after half a day), the raw material is sent (or transferred) to the editor, who right away starts choosing and montaging scenes based on the script. Due to the production contexts, the filming in most scripted reality productions does not generate a lot of material for the editors to choose from. Editing scripted reality is mainly adding up-to- date (pop) music to fit the emotional message of the narrative and filling beauty shots in between the scenes. As Mieten, kaufen, wohnen rarely includes music, the focus in editing is to create a coherent narrative from segments of the different takes, recaps, and beauty shots in which the realtor–client interactions are presented from various angles. Now, by comparing the chronology of the televised product, that is, the episode, and the chronology of the observed filming of its parts, we can analyze the production of faction. We use the example of sequence four, the first part of the showing of the second apartment (see Fig. 1). As we can see, the episode’s dynamic is built on alternating among dialogue (negotiation), original soundtrack, and beauty shots. The chronology of the filmed events is dissolved in favor of an “explanatory” narrative logic and transferred into a dramaturgic chronology of events. This creates a rhythmic alternation between the realtor client dialogues (1.4, 1.7–2.10) and their statements (1.5, 1.6.) as well as between the presentation of the house (1.3) and the empty rooms, including off-camera commentary (4.1 to 4.8). 302 D. KLUG AND A. SCHMIDT

CHRONOLOGY OF FILMING CHRONOLOGY OF EPISODE 1 filming outside 1 outside 1.1 realtor waits at property 1.1 Realtor waits at property 1.2 client arrives at property 1.2 client arrives at property 1.3 filming street and façade of 1.4 realtor and client meet and greet house in front of property 1.4 realtor and client meet and 1.3 street view greet in front of property 1.6 client statement 1.5 realtor statement 1.7 realtor and client enter house 1.6 client statement 1.3 façade of house 1.7 realtor and client enter house 1.5 realtor statement 2 filming inside 1.3 façade of house 2.1 realtor and client enter 4.1 stairs, kitchen apartment 1.5 realtor statement 2.2 kitchen 2 inside 2.3 walking around 1.3 façade of house incl. text inserts 2.4 kids room 4.2 kitchen incl. text inserts 2.5. bedroom 1.3 façade of house 2.6 dining room, stairs, guest 2.1 realtor and client enter toilet apartment 2.7 upper floor and office 4.3 hallway 2.8 upper kids room and 2.2 kitchen bathroom 4.4 kitchen 2.9 bathroom 2.6 dining room, stairs 2.10 living room 4.5 balcony 3 recaps 4.6 kitchen, balcony 2.2 kitchen 4 beauty shots 2.3 walking around 2.5 bedroom, camera 4.7 bedroom 2.5 bedroom 2.6 guest toilet, camera 4.8 guest toilet 2.6 guest toilet, camera ‘looking into the room’

Fig. 1 Chronology of the filmed events versus episode chronology

Conclusion Regarding “faction,” scripted reality is a further development of the traditional reality TV genre. Scripted reality builds on reality TV features, such as everyday settings and everyday people, documentary-style aesthetics, and corresponding PRODUCTION PRACTICES IN THE FILMING OF GERMAN SCRIPTED REALITY… 303 ways of narrating. However, unlike reality TV, the most significant textual reference in scripted reality is fictional, for example, inMieten, kaufen, wohnen any narrative regarding the house-hunting. Simultaneously, the made-up stories of Mieten, kaufen, wohnen are interspersed with facts, such as the names of the realtor and client or specifics about the property. The result is a staged piece in which a real (or factual) realtor negotiates with a made-up (or fictional) customer who nonetheless “plays himself” within an invented story. From a production side, mixing factual and fictional elements allows more control to be gained over the narration without losing the documentary appeal. Our chapter shows in which ways specific factualization strategies, such as real homes/properties, professional realtors, or the biographical aspects of amateur actors, are used to diffuse the fictional paratextual frames of the product with references to counteracting textual frames. Besides interspersing authentic information, a main strategy is using interaction to generate authentic-looking relations. Because the negotiations between realtor and client are not scripted in detail, they exploit the participants’ everyday professional skills of how to conduct an interaction. This staging of interactions is crucial to create authenticity of representation in Mieten, kaufen, wohnen:

–– interactions are initiated to present interactions, such as the negotiations, as part of the fictional setup of the show, and not due to the communicative purpose of informing about or looking for homes; this type of modulation is characteristic for staging (Goffman 1974); –– spontaneous actions and interactions are caused because of the vague script and instructing the amateur actors to “use their own words”; the protagonists are “authors” of their speech (Goffman 1981) for which they need to develop basic interactional principles within the actual situation; this creates the impression of spontaneous interactions; –– techniques of evoking interactions are used in filming the recaps; the realisator behind the camera “acts” as dialogue partner for the protagonist to ensure correct comments on the previous events while the protagonist is producing a monologue for the camera (“bisected interaction”).

Concerning the “textual components,” Mieten, kaufen, wohnen is a fictional representation (communicated through paratexts) of fictitious events (there is no real house-hunting) acted out by fictionalized protagonists (their biographies are partially made-up). Concerning authenticity of representation, production techniques such as no dialogue scripts, advanced improvisation skills through multiple takes, or blocked filming of recaps are used to evoke and activate “natural” interaction skills. The analysis shows that in this case scripted reality appears to be a backlash against any increase of authentication because it replaces reality TV’s “real people” and “real events” with amateur actors and made-up stories. At the same time the relation to reality is even more complex and non-transparent because in scripted reality “facts” are reintroduced within a fictional frame. This setup 304 D. KLUG AND A. SCHMIDT can also influence viewers’ perception as people might (mis)take the events of scripted reality shows such as Mieten, kaufen, wohnen as actual reality and therefore use them as a seemingly reliable sources of information on, for example, the housing market. In this way, rather than being a form of fictionalized reality TV, scripted reality is more likely a form of infotainment conveyed through fiction. As its “faction” status is rather unclear, it is mostly up to the viewers to decide if they want to see scripted reality’s representations as reality or not.

References Banks, M., Conor, B., & Mayer, V. (Eds.). (2016). Production Studies, the Sequel! Cultural Studies of Global Media Industries. London: Routledge. Caldwell, J. T. (2008). Production Culture: Industrial Reflexivity and Critical Practice in Film and Television. London: Duke University Press. Chalaby, J. (2015). Drama without Drama: The Late Rise of Scripted TV Formats. Television & New Media, 17(1), 3–20. Feuer, J. (2015). ‘Quality’ Reality and the Bravo Media Reality Series. Camera Obscura, 30(1), 185–195. Goffman, E. (1974). Frame Analysis: An Essay on the Organization of Experience. London: Harper & Row. Goffman, E. (1981). Footing. In E. Goffman (Ed.), Forms of Talk (pp. 124–159). Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Hill, A. (2007). Restyling Factual TV: Audiences and News in Documentary and Reality Genres. London: Routledge. Hill, A. (2015). Reality TV. New York: Routledge. Holmes, S., & Jermyn, D. (2004). Introduction. In S. Holmes & D. Jermyn (Eds.), Understanding Reality Television (pp. 1–32). London: Routledge. Kavka, M. (2012). Reality TV. Edinburgh: University Press. Kavka, M. (2015). Sex on the Shore: Care and the Ethics of License in Jersey Shore. Camera Obscura, 30(1), 101–127. Kerr, P. (1997). “F for Fake?” Friction over Faction. In A. Goodwin & G. Whannel (Eds.), Understanding Television (pp. 74–87). London: Routledge. Klug, D. (2016). Die Herstellung von Scripted Reality-TV – eine Analyse von Praktiken und Realitätsauffassungen der Produzierenden. In D. Klug (Ed.), Scripted Reality: Fernsehrealität zwischen Fakt und Fiktion. Perspektiven auf Produkt, Produktion und Rezeption (pp. 125–186). Baden-Baden: Nomos. Klug, D., & Schmidt, A. (2014). Scripted Reality-Formate im deutschsprachigen Fernsehprogramm. Trinationale Programmanalyse und Konzeption einer kom- binierten Produkt- und Produktionsanalyse. Studies in Communication Science, 14(2), 108–120. Mayer, V., Banks, M., & Caldwell, J. T. (Eds.). (2009). Production Studies: Cultural Studies of Media Industries. London: Routledge. Roscoe, J., & Hight, C. (2001). Faking It: Mock-Documentary and the Subversion of Factuality. Manchester: University Press. Szostak, S. (2016). Fiction TV Formats in Poland – Why Bother to Adapt? In A. Esser, I. Smith, & M. Bernal-Merino (Eds.), Media across Borders: Localizing TV, Film and Video Games (pp. 167–182). London: Routledge. Turner, G. (2010). Ordinary People and the Media: The Demotic Turn. London: Sage. Embracing the TV Commercial: Charms and Challenges of Selling on Screen

Ben Crockett and Chrissie Feagins

Introduction According to John Hegarty,

When you write a scene, and it could be a screen play or it could be a television commercial, whatever you do, you must leave room for the audience to participate. You have to get them to engage in the process. That way you’ll get them wanting more. (Hegarty 2011, 98)

In his memoir, Hegarty on Advertising (2011), the British advertising guru John Hegarty argues that powerful screen-based advertising has storytelling at its core. In the quotation just given, he is suggesting that, overall, if the audience engages in the story, the teller (advertiser) has created something memorable. It is this perspective that underpins our chapter on screen production and advertising, in which we will focus on the process practitioners employ to create this valuable connection with their audience. It is written by two authors who have the collective experience of 60 years working in television advertising, including the roles of creative director, art director and copywriter, for clients such as Australia Pacific Touring (APT), Symbion Pharmaceuticals, Lend Lease, Heinz Baby Foods, Oil of Olay, Jamaica Tourist Board, House of Fraser and Johnson & Johnson. We use this chapter to not only outline the fundamental aspects of producing screen content for advertising, but also to reinforce our agreed perspective that screen-based advertising is probably the

B. Crockett (*) Deakin University, Melbourne, VIC, Australia e-mail: [email protected] C. Feagins Rainmaker Enterprises, Melbourne, VIC, Australia

© The Author(s) 2019 305 C. Batty et al. (eds.), The Palgrave Handbook of Screen Production, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-21744-0_24 306 B. CROCKETT AND C. FEAGINS most powerful form of communication for making an emotional connection between a brand and an audience. We do this by way of providing a background to screen advertising, followed by an in-depth analysis of practitioner process and the use of key case studies and theories that support our views. Our aim is to instil in readers a clear sense that screen-based advertising can indeed be a charming but challenging way to sell a product or service.

TV Commercials in the Twenty-First Century The traditional ‘television commercial’ (TVC) no longer appears just on the television screen: due to advancements in technology in the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries, the TVC is now able to be shown in a variety of places, from computer screens to tablets, cinema screens to billboards, even our phone can bring the TVC into the palm of our hand. This multitude of screens and formats encourages us, as authors of this chapter, to refer to TVCs as ‘screen-based advertising’. Because of this technological advancement, audience media consumption has shifted dramatically in the last 15 years, moving away from traditional media channels such as newspapers and free-to-air TV, towards the digital environment (Crawford et al. 2017, 221). This, however, does not limit the ability of screen content to drive meaningful impact amongst consumers—it simply means the way that screen content reaches them is more fragmented, more dynamic, more targeted, more measurable (and thus more manageable) than ever before. In short, while the medium might look and sound different, the message is largely the same one, which is a felt experience.

TVCs as Part of the Advertising Campaign Maxine Paetro defines an advertising campaign as ‘a series of ads for a product (or service or company) that work individually and cumulatively to communicate the advertiser’s message to the consumer’ (Paetro 2002, 7). It is interesting, however, that even with a considerable shift of consumers towards the digital environment, advertising campaigns quite often contain a screen-based component (Altstiel and Grow 2010, 133). The reason for this is screen-based advertising’s improved measurability, which marketing science research consistently indicates has the ability to drive better outcomes for other media being used in that advertising campaign. For example, when traditional TV advertising and consumer internet searches are run together for a single brand, product or service, search-engine efficiencies rise by as much as 48%, TV and radio improves radio’s impact with consumers by 30% and so on (Morgan 2017). What we are seeing, therefore, in twenty-first-century advertising is that the traditional TVC on its own may not be as strong, in terms of consumer reach and awareness, as it used to be, but when used as part of a campaign the overall strength and effectiveness of that campaign is increased. This multi or EMBRACING THE TV COMMERCIAL: CHARMS AND CHALLENGES OF SELLING… 307 transmedia approach is becoming a common and effective method of advertising in today’s communications industry (Jenkins 2008, 334).

TVCs and Emotional Connections There is a considerable amount written on TVCs (Sullivan and Boches 2016; Cury 2005; Marshall and Roberts 2008) and also on emotional connections between brands and consumers (Sorenson and Ender 2015, Rossiter and Bellman 2012; Roberts 2004). However, there has been little written about how screen-based commercials can be one of the most powerful catalysts to form an emotional bond between brands and consumers, particularly since the late 2000s. If we look at Rossiter and Bellman’s (2012) research, for example, we see a focus on specific types of emotional triggers like trust, bonding and companionship and how these affect consumers’ attachments to a particular brand. Or if we look at Roberts (2004), we see a strong focus on love and how that one emotion can be a key catalyst in forging a powerful connection between a brand and a consumer. What we don’t see is how specific elements found in screen-based advertising, like music and sound, images and motion, words and story, are affecting these human emotions in a positive way to create that ‘emotional connection’ between a brand and a consumer. This chapter aims to help close the gap. While much of this chapter will explore the advantages screen advertising enjoys in resonating with consumers on a human level through the use of emotion, even according to a purely rational and data-driven assessment (and in spite of audience migration away from traditional TV), screen advertising has been proven to have the strongest impact and efficiency over other means (Morgan 2017). With one of screen advertising’s greatest strengths being its ability to convey a story with meaning, in the remainder of this chapter we will unpack the various elements (sound, images and words) that come together to make an effective TV advertisement.

Why Do We Like Listening to a Good Story? It is only human to like a good story. A good story captures us, engages us, with the thrill of adventure, the anticipation of drama as it unfolds in our mind’s eye. Human nature thrives on, indulges in, gets enjoyment from good storytelling. From prehistoric man around a cave fire to children listening to grandma at bedtime, we are inherently attached to stories as a form of communication (Randazzo 2006, 12). ‘Storytelling is the most powerful form of communication ever invented. Through stories we learn, entertain, communicate, and socialise with each other’ (Hegarty 2014, 46). From a young age we find comfort and enjoyment in story, the telling of a good tale. Is it this childhood euphoric positivity combined with some sort of primal urge that has been baked into our DNA that creates such a powerful tool? A tool advertisers can use (see Batty and Cain 2016). Bringing story into TVCs, 308 B. CROCKETT AND C. FEAGINS therefore, plays on that nostalgic vulnerability and primal necessity. Audiences will believe—indeed, they want to believe—what they are being told ... or sold. Entering the twenty-first century, we have seen a shift away from more fact- based methods of communication to story-based. Brands are now understanding how important story is in conveying a message to a consumer and indeed having them remember it. It was stated by Jerome Bruner that a fact is 20 times more likely to be remembered if it is part of a story (Gains 2013, 97). And so because of TV advertising’s ability to more easily convey a story (through the combination of sounds, images and words) than other advertising mediums, like print and radio, brands are seeing the power in screen-based advertising to deliver their message. Also, the different mediums or media a screen-based story can be told on or through today encourages the transmedia storytelling approach. As Henry Jenkins puts it, it is ‘a narrative so large that it cannot be contained within a single medium’ (Jenkins 2008, 97).

How Many People Does It Take to Tell the Story? It has been said that it takes a village to raise a child. Similarly, the complexity and nuance of creating a great screen-based commercial requires significant talent from the team charged with creating and delivering the idea. It is essentially a collaborative venture by a team of professional advertising creatives and producers (Smith and Yang 2004, 31–58). This team is typically made up of a client account director, strategy planner, creative director, art director and copywriter, and TV directors and producers (Altstiel and Grow 2010, 2–4). The core team must have an insightful brief—a short document that outlines various elements that a campaign needs to focus on, like target audience and single-minded proposition (SMP); that is, ‘the single most important thing about the product’ (Barry 2012, 17). The brief is written by both the client and the advertising agency’s account team. They need a brave client, who recognises a great idea even when it is in its most formative stage. They need the right film production company and the best sound studio available. They need to cast the ad cleverly and consider every frame of the production to ensure it is doing the best possible job in telling the story they have envisioned. It is not easy—but when it is achieved, the advertisement will fulfil the client’s desired outcome, and remain relevant and effective well beyond its purchased air time. This purchased or ‘paid’ media has always been available to established brands; however, with the introduction of digital channels like YouTube and Facebook we are now seeing the most entertaining or compelling screen-based advertisements being shared amongst users at no extra cost to the brand. This ‘earned’ media reinforces the value of creativity and storytelling (McStay 2016, 51–54). The following case study demonstrates good storytelling in screen-based advertising. It is a commercial that has remained in people’s minds long after the campaign concluded. EMBRACING THE TV COMMERCIAL: CHARMS AND CHALLENGES OF SELLING… 309

‘The Force’: TVC for Volkswagen • Agency: Deutsch • Client: Volkswagen (Passat) • First Appearance: Super Bowl 2011

This TVC appeared prior and post the 2011 Super Bowl, probably the most recognised forum for great advertising worldwide. In fact, over 100 million Americans watch the Super Bowl every year and it costs advertisers around $5 million USD per 30-second commercial to show there (Carroll 2018). ‘The Force’ was produced to promote the new model Passat and uses some familiar items, namely:

1. The powerful Darth Vader character from Star Wars, this time as a 7-year- old in costume. 2. The unforgettable Star Wars music (‘The Imperial March’, John Williams, 1980).

The main character is trying desperately to take control of things with his Darth Vader powers, the Force, but to no avail. Finally, in the last few seconds of the advertisement, his father arrives home. And as the young Darth Vader attempts to work the Force on the family car, dad flicks the VW remote and car lights flash. The child is dumbfounded, the viewer is chuckling, and sales of Passat zoom out the door (Lewis et al. 2012, 80–91). According to Sanburn this advertisement is considered one of the most shareable Super Bowl advertisements of all time. It was launched prior to the Super Bowl on YouTube and received 17 million views before kick-off (Sanburn 2015). We can attribute this success to its story, which builds emotion and resonates with the consumer through the well-known music track, a familiar setting and shared childhood experience to elicit a memorable emotional response. What is interesting about this particular example is the removal of words, which heightens the two other story-conveying elements: image and sound. This is the product of intelligent, well-produced, relevant ideas, and confirms Hegarty’s claim: ‘The combination of story and music has been one of advertising’s most powerful tools as communication has become more emotionally based’ (Hegarty 2011, 97).

The Hills Are Alive with the Sound of Advertising One of the strongest conduits of emotion in screen-based advertising is music. Kevin Roberts describes music as ‘one of the greatest human connectors. Nothing creates mood like music does. Music accelerates us right into the “Everywhen”—the place described by Australian Aborigines where past, present and future connect. Music takes you there faster than pictures and more deeply than words’ (Roberts (as cited in Lusensky 2010, Forward)). 310 B. CROCKETT AND C. FEAGINS

Whilst screen advertising and music go hand in hand, we need to understand that it is the strong emotional connection we have with music that plays such a powerful role in developing consumers’ love for a brand, product or service (Gorn 1982). Careful consideration needs to be made when choosing music for an advertisement as the emotional response it generates needs to align with the brand values and/or product attributes. For example, if an adventure holiday was to be advertised to a target audience of 20–30 year olds the music should be upbeat and energetic. If a convertible car was to be advertised to 40–50 year olds, music with a more relaxed and casual feel would be appropriate. If the music has the right feel, the right energy, the right emotional qualities, it does not necessarily matter whether it falls into the popular culture of your target audience. Sometimes it can be even more powerful if the music is not recognisable. Even though a song was a hit in 1942 does not mean it is not going to resonate with the target audience and capture a brand’s personality. Whilst music is something we can all relate to and can strongly influence the way we feel about something, sound more generally can also be used in a similar way. Think of the shower scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s classic Psycho. Without the repetitive and brain-piecing stabbing noise in the background, it just wouldn’t have the same effect on our emotions, the same drama or the same impact. Imagine Jaws without that iconic daah-da daah-da—we’d just see a very large, very fake-looking fish. Recognisable sounds can also be used as signatures at the end of a commercial, something we call a ‘sting’ or ‘musical logo’. Both Intel or Toyota have used the same music logo for decades. These devices play strongly into the hand of mnemonics or the assistance of memory with relation to brands, products and services. After time and repetition the brand signature (sting) becomes so recognisable that the audience no longer has to even see a visual. That simple sound is enough to remind them of the brand, what it stands for and the emotional connections that have been made (Abolhasani et al. 2017, 473–490). Taking the power that music and sound can have over us and our emotions and applying it to screen advertising can be a very effective tool and, as such, strongly influence the brand, the product and/or customer loyalty. In the next case study, we outline how Australian airline Qantas was able to enhance its customer loyalty through the ‘I Still Call Australia Home’ campaign. Unlike the last case study, which had emotional qualities aligning with nostalgia, this one links strongly to patriotism.

‘I Still Call Australia Home’: TVC for Qantas • Title: I Still Call Australia Home • Agency: Singleton Ogilvy & Mather • Client: Qantas • First Appearance: 1998 Commonwealth Games EMBRACING THE TV COMMERCIAL: CHARMS AND CHALLENGES OF SELLING… 311

This idea was first developed by Public Mojo in 1997 with the track ‘I Still Call Australia Home’ (Allen 1980) featuring jazz musician and trumpeter James Morrison, jazz and rock singer Kate Ceberano and country musician and singer James Blundell. The most remembered version, however, was produced by Singleton Ogilvy and Mather in 1998. This three-minute version was played at the opening of the Commonwealth Games in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, and in 1999 at the US Super Bowl, reaching 14 million US viewers. After being picked up by media outlets, CNN and ABC World News, it is estimated it was viewed by 37.1 million people (Macleod 2006). This classic commercial, produced by Singleton Ogilvy & Mather in 1998, relaunched the national carrier globally while building intense loyalty within the local market. The use of the Australian Girls Choir and National Boys Choir singing Peter Allen’s touching composition ‘I Still Call Australia Home’ genuinely captures the spirit of Australia, which became the airline’s tagline (a tagline is a short sentence that sums up what a brand stands for, usually accompanied by its logo; see Altstiel and Grow 2010, 160). The campaign captures this truly unique spirit, and with every viewing takes the viewer somewhere they’d love to go (The Economist 2007). The three-minute version broadcast in the USA prior to the 1999 Super Bowl shows idyllic Australian locations edited between heart-stopping images of the world’s great travel destinations. The epic orchestral arrangement picks up the viewer and takes them on a thrilling journey that’s as relevant today as it was ground-breaking back then. The campaign did its job and has since been voted by the Advertising Federation of Australia and AWARD as the best Australian TVC of all time (Adnews 2006). What is so amazing about the advertising is its emotional patriotic power, which made every Australian proud of their airline and proud to be Australian. That’s a significant legacy for a client.

Getting Down to Business

Starting the Process The following part of this chapter on screen-based advertising is an analysis on practitioner process with regard to producing communication that creates an emotional connection between a brand and a consumer. When starting out to devise a campaign for this media, the first task of a communications professional is to clarify what outcome the client wants. Broadly this falls into the following categories: Is the proposed campaign needed to sell products? (Retail) To change behaviour? (New product launch) To build a brand? (Sustain brand loyalty) To challenge thinking? (Political advertising). Occasionally there are duel requests. Be very careful when agreeing to a brief that asks you to solve two problems: they rarely work. The result is often confusing and at the end of the day, a compromise between two outcomes results in a weak idea. As recognised Australian advertising man Jim Aitchison, 312 B. CROCKETT AND C. FEAGINS says: ‘Creative people can leave behind landmarks in their industry, or spend a lifetime in bland obscurity. No ifs and buts’ (Aitchison 2001, 13). This is the time to negotiate with the account service team on which particular client problem is the most important and focus on that to deliver the SMP, to consumers. This is also the stage at which the potential budget should be taken into account. A modest budget should not lead to a boring ad. In fact, a modest budget can often lead clever creatives to focus on a simple strong idea that gets noticed. Innovative solutions spring from limiting scenarios—and budget is the ultimate limit to the scope and scale of the story you wish to tell. However, for some categories, if the budget is tight, it may be better to forego screen-based ads and consider different ‘disruptive’ ideas to shake up perceived consumer attitudes and reach the client’s goals (Dru 1996).

The Creative Strategy Before the Creative Work The thinking that goes into a creative brief occurs at the earliest stage, and can be as demanding as devising the creative work (Wells et al. 2008, 203). It must convey everything the creative team need to know to produce an effective ad. Account management and sometimes a strategy planner usually handle this task (Altstiel and Grow 2010, 43). It is acknowledged by every successful creative person that a great brief with clever consumer insights is the beginning of a great idea. A dull, uninspiring, lazy brief can lead to advertising that delivers the same—that is, dull, uninspiring and lazy advertising (Aitchison 2001, 76–77). Once the brief has been delivered, getting to an idea worthy of showing the client can be a seriously demanding task. The team (or teams) need to be completely conversant with the client and the brief, and then find some inspiration or truth that will give them a glimmer of an idea that will communicate the required message to the target audience in a creative way. Then that idea needs to be worked on and massaged and refined and sharpened, until every word and every frame works to tell the story. In the next case study, we show how clever strategic insight can change the target audience and the course of the well-known brand, Old Spice.

‘Smell like a man, man’ • Title: Smell like a man, man • Agency: Wieden+Kennedy Portland • Client: Old Spice • First Appearance: 2010

Whilst the ‘Smell like a man, man’ Old Spice campaign is a good example of strategic insight it also showcases the successful shift of screen-based advertising into the digital arena. It has become a world-famous advertisement for an old brand and in the process made the product range hugely successful worldwide, reaching 65 million views (dandad.org 2011). The insight from the strategy EMBRACING THE TV COMMERCIAL: CHARMS AND CHALLENGES OF SELLING… 313 and planning team was that a significant share of the market was women, because over 50% bought their husband/partner’s body wash (dandad.org 2011). At the time of producing this ad, ‘Old Spice was 70 years old, and questions were raised as to whether the name and brand could be relevant to young men moving forward. Cleverly, while this pedigree might be seen as a disadvantage to the youth market, the Agency, Wieden and Kennedy Portland, decided to turn this weakness into a strength. With its 70 year-old heritage Old Spice was “experienced” and well positioned to be an expert on masculinity and being—a man’ (Monsey and Taylor 2011). ‘The challenge was how to get couples to have a conversation about body wash—a low involvement category—and persuade women to stop buying their men women’s products.’ As Wieden+Kennedy planner Britton Taylor said, ‘the answer was a humorous monologue’ (dandad.org 2011) during which the Old Spice Guy (actor Isaiah Mustafa) explains: ‘Anything is possible when your man smells like Old Spice and not a lady’ (dandad.org 2011). ‘It quickly became a cultural phenomenon. Wieden and Kennedy successfully found an execution that appealed to the core target (guys) but one that also allowed the brand to appeal for the first time to a female audience’ (Taylor 2011)—who were doing the buying. This screen-based commercial launched a brilliant online campaign with the Old Spice Guy posting personal video responses to fans online. There were 186 personal video messages on Facebook, Twitter and other social media sites (dandad.org 2011). It is likely this idea did not start life as we see it now. The initial idea would have captured the strategic insight; however, the involvement of the entire advertising agency team would have shaped, honed and strengthened the idea before it was presented to the client, which leads us to discuss a critical stage of the creative process in building emotional screen-based advertising.

Time to Present to the Toughest Audience The time comes when the creative director, account director and the advertising agency team need to approve the idea. This first in-house presentation is nerve-wracking. There is a lot of anticipation in the room, and a number of people who will have an opinion. First, they will want to really like the idea. Beyond that they want to be confident that it meets the creative brief and will deliver what the client wants, in particular the SMP. Being prepared for this meeting is important, because if you don’t get over this hurdle, the idea is dead. From this first meeting will arise comments and ideas that need to be incorporated; it is a frustrating time for a creative team and many an argument has become heated at this phase, which is normal in the life of an emerging TV campaign. It is demanding and can be infuriating—but this idea is carrying serious investment from both client and advertising agency. At the core of every conversation about the work, at this stage, is the question— ‘does that comment or suggestion make the proposition stronger’. If the idea passes this gruelling test, it will move to the next important phase. 314 B. CROCKETT AND C. FEAGINS

The Client Presentation This is the time that attention is focused on how to present the idea or ideas that have been approved internally in the advertising agency to the client. The idea can be presented in various ways—as scripts with a key visual frames, a storyboard, or maybe as an in-house-devised animation—to sell it to the client (Burtenshaw et al. 2011, 102). As much creative thought should go into the presentation as in the actual advertising work. This will always pay off. Adding some extra thoughts to a pre-determined media plan to demonstrate how the campaign idea might be seen as an installation/posters/flash mob/social media splash will also help to show how the creative idea could work across other media channels and in turn prove to the client the idea is indeed ‘transmedia’ (Tenderich 2013). Often it is these additional elements of the presentation that give the client an understanding of how the TV campaign can leverage extra power, and how much extra coverage can be achieved by spreading the message across other media. If nothing else it will demonstrate that the campaign has been considered from many strategic angles and give confidence to the client that they are working with a team that has thought thoroughly about how best to sell the brand. The presentation or ‘pitch’ to client is a critical moment (Hegarty 2011, 85–94). Typically, the pitch is a meeting where the advertising agency shows the initial creative idea or ideas to the client and explains how that idea answers the brief, resonates with the target audience and will therefore sell the product or service, Of course, the idea should be on strategy and within budget and made within an agreed time, but it is also important to clearly demonstrate the depth and breadth of an idea in advertising terms for a client to feel truly comfortable it will do the job they want. Part of the sell to the client involves them understanding the emotional qualities of the proposed TVC. As the screen is a medium that has, most of the time, the luxury of a combination of sound, words and images, it therefore has the ability to portray emotion more powerfully than other advertising mediums. The difficulty, at pitch stage, is that the commercial has not been made and so separate components to a storyboard or script need to be presented and discussed. This could be a music track or a mood or image board—that is, a basic animatic that combines still images and music—something that captures the emotional values that are intended to be portrayed in the final commercial.

Producing Your Advertisement

The Team Whilst we have discussed the fact that making screen-based advertisements is a collaborative exercise between the client and the advertising agency, it is worth outlining that the entire journey from briefing to final edit is likely to include over 15 different professionals working together to produce the commercial. The list could include those listed in Fig. 1. EMBRACING THE TV COMMERCIAL: CHARMS AND CHALLENGES OF SELLING… 315

Fig. 1 Screen-based advertisement team structure

Every single person on the crew will be bringing his or her talent and thoughts to the production, and it is up to the key creative team to evaluate all advice, take it on board if it adds to the idea or (politely) disregard it with an explanation if it doesn’t. This takes an open mind, the ability to identify good advice and patience. But it’s worth doing. This team are going to make or break the idea—the creative director (from the advertising agency) requires these talented people to perform at their best and so people management skills are key during this phase.

Preparing for the Shoot The most important appointment for bringing the idea to life is finding the right director. Creatives must to keep up to date with filmmakers’ work and, together with the agency producer, need to examine many reels—a portfolio of a director’s work—to select the right person for the job. It is important to listen to the shortlisted director’s thoughts on how they might bring the creative idea to life. This is often achieved by the production of a director’s treatment, which is a few pages of written material outlining their vision, along 316 B. CROCKETT AND C. FEAGINS with a mood board of images that summarises their thoughts around a visual treatment. This will ensure they have the right balance of passion, ideas and technical skills to tell the story. The chemistry between the two key creative professionals in the production process, the agency creative director and the director, is also important as the two will be working closely together to ensure the emotive qualities and key messages are delivered most effectively. Once a decision on the director has been made, it is time to prepare the pre- production meetings to present the ‘shoot’ ideas to the client. The more inclusion the client has in this process, the better the outcome. There are many, many details to have approved, it is essential to avoid a client seeing something in their commercial they weren’t expecting. Keep a good relationship with the account team and an even better one with the client. Sharing everything at the pre-production meetings and capturing all discussion points is vital. It is a memo of understanding (MoU) that everyone needs to agree to. Mistakes at this stage can be extremely expensive.

Turning Ideas into Reality The day arrives to commit the creative idea to camera. So long as the pre- production plans have been thorough, there should be no fundamental issues. It is inevitable that on some occasions the weather might not be great—but it is surprising what a good crew can do on a rainy day with really good lighting and post-production. A good director and his producer will have an eye on weather reports and aim to shoot on the best possible day. Of course, a commercial shoot produced in a studio avoids these issues, as the studio is a controlled environment. On the day/s of the shoot is important for the creative team to stay close to the director without impeding his or her ability to get the best performance from the cast and location. On-set questions or comments for the director should be filtered through the creative team first and handled diplomatically. The pressures on everyone, particularly the director, are immense, and so he/ she needs to be unimpeded by trivialities. At the end of the shoot, the creative team should intuitively know ‘we’ve got it’. No matter how many takes, no matter how many extra shots, it should feel as though enough of the right material has been captured to create the right commercial during the editing or post-production phase.

Post-Production The director will have scheduled in a number of days to produce his/her ‘Director’s Cut’. This is their considered opinion on the best takes in the best possible edit. The creative team may or may not agree and will, of course, have more insight into the client’s expectations and how their original idea or story should be told. Once again, it is important to be respectful and listen to the director’s point of view. Maybe the Director’s Cut is unexpected, but it might EMBRACING THE TV COMMERCIAL: CHARMS AND CHALLENGES OF SELLING… 317 just make the advertisement better. In which case, it needs to be presented to the agency and to the client. Of course, if the client isn’t on board negotiations will need to take place. It must be remembered, however, that the agency can do everything possible to sell their version of the newly created commercial. It is the client who has to buy into the first cut of the commercial. From the Director’s Cut to finished commercial is a flurry. Sound recordings, hours in edit suites and thoughtful graphics are required. Voice-overs and music require as much attention as casting the leading characters. They provide the detail that adds to the whole and will make or break a good idea.

Conclusion While traditional TVCs continue to be effective today there has been a transformation of these type of advertisements due to the digital revolution and the recognition by brands that screen-based advertising is much more than just one screen that lives in the consumers lounge: it is now a multi-channel medium that provides an effective way to tell their story. This transformation has created its challenges for practitioners as audiences are now more dispersed and clients are seeking to connect with them on a deeper level. Through transmedia storytelling and using the unique combination of sounds, images and words, we have shown that screen-based advertising has become a more powerful form of communication than ever before when wanting to form an emotional bond between a brand and a consumer. And whilst it may be a challenging process, screen-based advertising can be a very engaging way to sell something.

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Exhibiting the Screen Work: Places, Spaces, Ecologies

This part discusses the ecologies of exhibition and how the places, spaces and people that are involved in bringing the screen work to an audience have an impact on the way screen content is conceptualised and made. Focusing on the constellation of factors that define the particularities of exhibition outlets, the part investigates how choices around who will see, as well as where, when and how a work will be seen, influences creative decision-making across the process of screen production. It covers traditional and emerging areas of screen exhibition, from film festivals and art galleries, to live cinema and the distribution of academic screen research, through to mobile devices and social media platforms that enable digital participation. Picking up on ideas from the broad field of audience and reception studies, the chapters also draw on concepts of medium specificity, digital affordances, the circumstances of installation and the experience economy, to analyse the exchanges that occur at the point when screen production goes public. The chapters examine the interrelating material, institutional and social factors at play, and specific technical and creative issues that practitioners need to consider from the outset of a project in order to shape the viewing experience. Using examples of innovative and outstanding screen production practice, authors in this part distil a range of insights and present observations about processes that have special relevance to practitioners. The part starts with an analysis of the impact film festival funding (and the associated possibility of being selected for exhibition in top-tier festivals) can have on the creative choices of filmmakers around the narrative and aesthetic representations of authenticity. Humberto Saldanha draws on the example of Gabriel Mascaro’s filmNeon Bull (Boi Neon, 2015) and explores ways that filmmakers can disrupt audience and funder expectations within such schemes, in order to destabilise the imperial logics that can drive representations of the ‘other’ in a Western film festival context. Looking at the broader ecology of film exhibition that extends beyond the screen, Sarah Atkinson and Helen Kennedy build on ideas of the experience economy in their overview and examination of the burgeoning field of live and experiential film broadcast, 322 Exhibiting the Screen Work: Places, Spaces, Ecologies exhibition and production. Sean Maher and Susan Kerrigan discuss best-practice examples of research-based screen production projects that have taken advantage of online exhibition, as they analyse and assess the opportunities that digital distribution presents for academic and independent filmmakers. Moving into the art gallery as exhibition context, Ella Barclay and Alex Munt focus on the innovative work of Australian moving image artists and apply the Bellourian concept of the dispositif to consider how the specific circumstances of installation impact the way an audience engages with moving image artwork. Bettina Frankham and Chris Caines continue this thread with their chapter, which assesses the material circumstances of screen content delivered via smartphone to uncover how the intimate nature of the mobile device opens up opportunities for works to augment and become intertwined with the everyday lives of users. The part concludes with an investigation by Patrick Kelly and Marsha Berry into the interactions between makers and audiences, facilitated by social media platforms such as Instagram, during the production process. With a focus on Kelly’s own experiences in making the short film North, the chapter takes account of how screen producers can make productive use of trollish comments as part of an iterative process that seeks to clarify author intentions and strengthen the communication of meaning. Authors contributing to this part thus examine screen exhibition from multiple perspectives, including moving image makers, event producers, curators, social media participants and critically engaged audiences. Across a range of approaches, the part addresses how the manner in which a screen work meets its audience determines the way a project is made and understood. Producing the Other in International Film Festivals: Festival Fund, Address and the Making of Authenticity in Gabriel Mascaro’s Neon Bull

Humberto Saldanha

Introduction As interest grows for world cinema that represents authentic cultures, prominent international film festivals have broadened their scope to include training programmes and financial support for filmmakers outside of hegemonic and wealthy centres of production.1 Schemes such as Cine en Construcción (a joint initiative between the San Sebastián Film Festival and the Latin American Film Festival de Toulouse), the Hubert Bals Fund, hereafter HBF (International Film Festival Rotterdam—IFFR) and the World Cinema Fund (Berlin International Film Festival), for example, have given emergent and independent filmmakers from countries considered to be in development the possibility of producing, completing and distributing their projects.2 The prestige generated by the awards can also attract further financial support, either internationally or at a local level, and, in some cases, guarantees the automatic insertion of a

1 In this chapter, the general assumptions related to international film festivals, especially those located in the West, take into consideration events with significant relevance in the film festival circuit, which are either part of the International Federation of Film Producers Associations (FIAPF) (i.e. Berlin, Cannes, Venice) or operate outside the set of rules established by the FIAPF (i.e. Rotterdam, Sundance). 2 It is also necessary to highlight that there are a series of non-Western festival funding bodies, such as the Asian Cinema Fund, which has links to the Busan International Film Festival, that play a relevant role in the development of films from the global South and in the development of regional and local cinematic industries and contexts.

H. Saldanha (*) University College Cork, Cork, Ireland

© The Author(s) 2019 323 C. Batty et al. (eds.), The Palgrave Handbook of Screen Production, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-21744-0_25 324 H. SALDANHA film in the international festival circuit, which, in its turn, is responsible for the cultural reputation of world cinema at a global and local level. Although these schemes have been celebrated for allegedly strengthening medium or small film cultures suffering from insufficient governmental investment, they have also raised criticism for promoting power relation dynamics between benefactor and beneficiary. Tamara L. Falicov (2010), for instance, asserts that many filmmakers from the so-called global South might be—directly or indirectly— encouraged to temper their creative practices to respond to the demands placed by Western funding bodies and their aim of favouring festival audiences. Unsurprisingly, festival sponsorship has been accused of fostering a kind of “non-Western arthouse filmmaking” (Ostrowska 2010, p. 145), which commonly dialogues with art cinema style and, in representational terms, places authenticity as a relevant feature “inherent to festivals’ formula for success” (De Valck 2018, p. 394). Talking specifically about authenticity—which often relates to (crystallized) ideas of cultural specificity, heritage and difference—the category is evoked by the films funded as a representational cinematic dimension that reveals a consumable kind of world cinema. In other words, many of the works supported, rather than capturing the nuances of a coherent national identity, might deliver, instead, works that engage with Western expectations and fantasies related to countries of the global South. This chapter engages with the debates that surround films supported by festivals, with the aim of understanding to what extent the expectations placed on filmmakers by festival schemes influence the former’s creative choices. The chapter, thereby, puts film production at the centre of its enquiry, reflecting upon and building knowledge about cinematic works, especially by paying attention to the cultural contexts of production and reception that surround the process of making. Such a critical approach frames the scholarship of screen and film production within the understanding that extra-filmic conditions play a relevant role in the shape of cinematic works and practices (Freeman 2018). For analytical purposes, special attention is given to a recent production set in Brazil: Gabriel Mascaro’s Neon Bull (Boi Neon 2015), which was a recipient of the HBF and object of critical acclaim during its tour of the global film festival circuit. The focus of the analysis is on how the influence exerted by HBF on the creative choices of this film related to how authenticity is represented narra- tively and aesthetically in it, taking into account the Fund’s anticipation of the audience it targets. Particularly important is the idea of mode of address: a concept that captures the manner in which cinematic works are diegetically organized to shape their (imagined) spectators, considering the constraints imposed by industrial, cultural and geopolitical forces in such processes (Willemen 2006). By analysing the making of Neon Bull, rather than offering to practitioners—specifically those from countries in development and aiming to submit a project to a festival grant—a prescriptive set of successful formalist and representational features that fit with the expectations of festival funds, this chapter explores, instead, how creative choices are mobilized by the film’s makers as a response to the implicit demands of the HBF. PRODUCING THE OTHER IN INTERNATIONAL FILM FESTIVALS: FESTIVAL FUND… 325

That said, the argument advanced in this chapter suggests that, while the notion of authenticity has a central role to play in the regimes of representation welcomed by festivals, Neon Bull’s filmmaker negotiated such claims by addressing representations of otherness as a space in which to rearticulate ideas of cultural difference. In other words, I contend that, in its making, the film places crystallized Western perceptions of developing countries and new representational signs into dialogue, disrupting, at least to an extent, the expectations placed by the HBF in relation to its search for authenticity. To unfold such issues, the chapter will centre on a close textual film analysis that takes into consideration the film’s final shape to reconstruct how creative choices were managed to respond to the HBF’s requirements. Before doing so, however, it is necessary to first highlight the dynamics that surround the scheme to understand how the Fund addresses film festival audiences by prescribing the usage of cinematic authenticity.

The HBF and the Question of Addressing Authenticity Since its establishment in 1988, the HBF has supported over a thousand projects through schemes devoted to script development, film production and distribution (International Film Festival Rotterdam 2018). As an analysis of the HBF terms and conditions will demonstrate, the scheme may be said to address the Western search for consuming and grasping authenticity on the film festival circuit; specifically, a search for films set in certain national environments of the global South. My assertion implies framing authenticity as something that is subject to commodification, especially considering that festivals are now active agents in the economic realm in a range of diversified activities, including film production, the establishment of co-production markets and the use of their prestige to add “economic value to cultural criteria” when selecting projects on account of their “market potential” and “appeal to international audiences” (De Valck 2014, p. 84). Such a perspective, in which film festivals are no longer only perceived as sites for the consecration of world cinema, can offer some clues regarding what types of (commodified) alterity are forged by the HBF and how these might influence how creative practices address imagined festival audiences—which include cinephiles, members of the media and market agents—who, together, manage a complex range of discourses that legitimate the cultural relevance of the events and the prestige of certain works (Wong 2011). Paramount to such discussion is the understanding that film festivals are spaces where cinemagoers and cinephiles are invited to immerse in an experience of encountering difference (Nichols 1994). This relates to a desire to grasp what Dean MacCannell (1973) calls “back region” knowledge, a space where true expressions of cultural authenticity are hidden from the general public and outsiders. The “front region”, on the other hand, is the only realm available to be experienced and, as such, is organized to simulate the back region through a kind of staged authenticity, which forges access to local and 326 H. SALDANHA genuine cultures, rather than offering the actual back region. While MacCannell writes about tourism, the same can be said of film festivals, especially those that sustain their cultural capital through the rhetoric of “discoveries” of world cinema (De Valck 2018). In fact, many European film festivals have relied on the idea of being showcases of the cinema of elsewhere to safeguard their status and cosmopolitan appeal within the circuit (Campos 2012). Accordingly, one can speculate that the emergence of funding initiatives and screenwriting workshops guarantee that festivals premiere the films they help to shape (Falicov 2016), thus maintaining a cycle of supply and demand, in which festivals offer to their audiences—eager to engage with cultural difference—commodified and staged authenticity in the form of back region knowledge, while keeping their prestige as relevant sites to access world cinema. Within this context, the HBF forges the production of back region knowledge and authenticity by encouraging projects that explore expressions of locality, cultural specificity and nationhood. This is especially true if one takes for granted that the scheme (as well as considering artistic quality and market feasibility) is interested in funding projects that explore authenticity and which are rooted in the country of the applicant (Hubert Bals Fund of International Film Festival Rotterdam 2017)—even though most of the films funded are co- produced with northern countries. The Fund supports works from directors who live and work in Africa, Asia, Latin America, the Middle East and parts of Eastern Europe—regions classified by HBF as being in development, or in which the freedom of the press is considered low—or works by filmmakers originally from those areas but now living as part of a diaspora in a non-eligible country (International Film Festival Rotterdam 2018). Such a requirement in particular has evoked a string of criticism in the relevant scholarship, with researchers opining that the HBF leads filmmakers to conceive works based on otherization, to reinforce Third World stereotypes related to underdevelopment, to offer “poverty porn” and to produce “cultural artefacts for their first- world benefactors” (Ross 2011, p. 267). Although in 2018 the scheme excluded from its terms and conditions the word “authenticity” (International Film Festival Rotterdam), the films supported, many of them co-produced with the Netherlands, are still guided by such stipulation, as they need to be set in one of the mentioned developing countries, thus prioritizing narratives that are locally situated. This implies that the HBF seeks to support works in which cinematic representations are based on the idea of imagined community, in the sense of exploring shared cultural signs in relation to a specific culture, as if this were a homogeneous category; or films articulated around a kind of naïve ethnographic nostalgia, in which the Western desire to consume the other—as a present subject—is based on essen- tialist assumptions built in the past (Theodossopoulos 2016). In the case of the films supported by the HBF, such signifiers of imagined community and ethnographic exoticism are related to crime, poverty and violence (Ross 2011), aspects that simulate, in the global imagery, the access to the back region as an authentic mode of experiencing cultures from elsewhere. PRODUCING THE OTHER IN INTERNATIONAL FILM FESTIVALS: FESTIVAL FUND… 327

However, even though the HBF is structured around a specific set of rules in terms of film production, leading many filmmakers from the global South to follow such to enjoy the cultural benefits attached to the festival fund brand, it is necessary to stress that a truly authentic representation is an impossible feature to achieve, especially in a context marked by transnational migration and hybridization. In this regard, authenticity assumes the connotations of a market strategy, at the same time that it becomes a space in which filmmakers can create new opportunities for cultural self-representation. In relation to the latter aspect, Daniela Berghahn’s (2017) recent rearticulation of the notion of exoticism—or authenticity, to use the “politically correct synonym for ‘exotic’” (Berghahn 2017, p. 18)—offers a relevant contribution to understanding the implication of the authentic paradigm for creative practice. For Berghahn, exoticism, understood as a particular mode of aesthetic perception and representation of alterity, works as a discursive strategy to capture the attention of Western audiences and ensure that their cultural or political agendas are effectively communicated. This implies that filmmakers can find in exotic/authentic rhetoric the possibility of being “empowered by becoming active collaborators in the construction of their own images” (Berghahn 2017, p. 21), while updating representational regimes of otherness crystallized by a Western imagination. In what follows, through a close textual film analysis ofNeon Bull, the disruptive aspect inherent to authenticity—as a discursive space in which to rearticulate ideas of otherness and nationhood—is evoked as a relevant perspective from which to frame the creative choices adopted in Neon Bull. Such a method is particularly relevant if one considers that, by addressing the expectations placed by the HBF and equally subverting them, Neon Bull’s filmmaker holds the film’s representational regimes in the authenticity rhetoric to forge new regimes of knowledge related to the culture in which the film is set.

Addressing Authenticity in Neon Bull’s Filmmaking Neon Bull is set in Brazil and directed by Brazilian filmmaker Gabriel Mascaro. It was marketed on the film festival circuit as a Brazilian film, even though it is a Brazilian, Dutch and Uruguayan co-production. Neon Bull received considerable attention during its festival tour, screening in prestigious Western venues such as Venice Film Festival and the Toronto International Film Festival, where it won, respectively, the Special Jury Prize–Horizon Award and the Honourable Mention–Platform Prize. The film was a recipient of the HBF, which supported it in 2010, through the Script and Project Development scheme, and in 2012, through the Hubert Bals Plus, a joint initiative between the Fund and Netherlands Film. Although the money provided by HBF is a small proportion of the overall budget, and the film received funding from other sources, the importance of the festival’s support in relation to other financial aid lies in the 328 H. SALDANHA gains that its prestige can produce.3 The “brand” of relevant festival schemes offer to emergent filmmakers an “endorsement of quality” (Falicov 2016, p. 209), facilitating, on some occasions, the insertion of certain productions into the film festival circuit, which can then lead to a film gaining further distribution contracts. The centrality of festival funding in a film’s career abroad does not lessen the importance of other financial sources; rather, as the case of Neon Bull demonstrates, it strengthens the filmmaker’s need to imbue the film’s mode of address with global appeal. It is not negligible thatNeon Bull also received support from Ibermedia, a programme that contemplates works able to dialogue with the Ibero-American space. Furthermore, the film was financially aided by the Brazilian government and a joint initiative between the Brazilian and Uruguayan governments. In relation to such support, it is necessary to highlight that, until 2016, many of the Brazilian cultural policies regarding cinema responded to a desire to internationalize local films, establishing a set of initiatives through co-production agreements (such as the one with Uruguay) and through financial support for international distribution.4 As mentioned in the introduction of this chapter, by carrying out a textual analysis of the creative practices adopted in Neon Bull, I intend to investigate the film’s mode of address and diegetic construction. In particular, this will be done by considering those features that the HBF privileges, with reference to how the Fund anticipates the composition of festival audiences, while also encouraging a specific kind of “authentic” representation. I will advance the idea that, although the film was shaped to respond to the Western desire to consume alterity, it also negotiates signs of otherness in an attempt to forge new regimes of knowledge related to external perceptions of developing countries from the global South and, more specifically, in relation to Brazil. In the analysis that follows, attention will be paid to how realism is mobilized creatively to address authenticity, specifically through the depiction of poverty. Both depictions of poverty and the use of a realist style are viewed in this analysis as responses, firstly, to Miriam Ross’s statement regarding the HBF and the Western expectations related to “developing-worlds modes of being”, in which “conditions of poverty are assumed and social structures built upon limited resources are anticipated” (Ross 2011, p. 264). Secondly, according to Dolores Tierney (2018), the use of realism among funded films not only recov- ers a cinematic memory related to the European art cinema tradition and a series of national new waves, but is also the most effective way to communicate and represent poverty and, therefore, to address the expectations of Western

3 I tried to verify how much the film received from each funding body with the film’s agency producer. Unfortunately, my query was not addressed. From what is available online, I could discover that Neon Bull was awarded 50,000 EUR from the HBF Plus (El brasileño 2012); 509,517.22 BRL from Funcultura (Funcultura 2012); 150,000 USD from a joint scheme between the Brazilian and the Uruguay governments (Divulgados vencedores 2011); and 14,000 USD from Ibermedia (Observatório Brasileiro do Cinema e do Audiovisual). 4 For a comprehensive overview of Brazilian film cultural policies see Dennison and Meleiro (2016). PRODUCING THE OTHER IN INTERNATIONAL FILM FESTIVALS: FESTIVAL FUND… 329 audiences. Framing the real, in this regard, rather than responding to the Bazinian assumption of the image as a revelation of reality (Bazin 2004), aligns with discursive strategies aiming to forge and reference certain situations and cultures in an attempt to place and legitimize authentic mimesis as actually existing experiences, while using this strategy to introduce and update new assumptions related to depictions of developing countries. Neon Bull is centred on an itinerant group of characters who work backstage for vaquejada, a Brazilian sport in which two cowboys on horse- back (vaqueiros) try to force a bull to the ground, in a specific area, by holding its tail. The main character is Iremar (Juliano Cazarré), a bull handler who dreams of becoming a fashion designer of women’s clothes, an issue that will be addressed in more detail later in this section. What is relevant at the moment relates to how the film is organized to evoke expressions of authenticity through the representation of otherness, an element that is materialized, first of all, through the character’s quotidian routine and the way he is placed in the narrative diegesis. The film opens by presenting Iremar in his work environment. Through a series of long takes, bulls confined within a narrow wood fence are shown; shortly after, the protagonist is seen combing the bulls’ tails, before sending them to the vaquejada arena. Following that, the long take is used one more time to accompany Iremar through a kind of landfill covered by leftover pieces of fabric, from which he collects some, and an old mannequin. Long takes—either slow moving or static—are here used to present the character, his quotidian life, his ambitions and, most importantly for the purposes of this analysis, his economic and social situation. In a context in which the presence of agribusiness and a strong textile industry attract attention to the idea of financial and infrastructural development, Iremar and the other characters are far from enjoying the benefits of economic growth. Instead, they live in an improvised manner, sleeping in the same truck in which the bulls are transported, having meals and sexual encounters out- doors, and wearing old, simple, sometimes ripped clothes. The aesthetic use of the long take, which, since Bazin, has been linked to a better, more authentic recording of reality, not only gives the festival viewer the time to appreciate such nuances, but also, due to its diegetic temporality without many interrup- tions of montage or close-ups, places the viewer as someone who can observe and witness particular (staged) fragments of reality related to the precarious living conditions aligned to a Western view of those residing in developing regions of the world. Such creative choices in terms of the style and presentation of the characters in their everyday life are, initially, used to simulate a sense of “continuum of ‘primitivism’”, in which the persistence of otherness, now presented as a commodified artefact, is taken as a mode of celebration of alterity that “perpetuates the idea that there is pleasure to be found in the acknowl- edgment and enjoyment of ... difference” (hooks 2015, p. 21). Poverty, in its turn, is conveyed in Neon Bull as a primitive visual sign attached to the characters and aligned to hegemonic discourses about developing countries, placing the poor as a part of native and authentic experiences attached to the global South as an underdeveloped space. 330 H. SALDANHA

The combination of long takes and the representation of poverty lends to Neon Bull a sense of imagined and expected authentic reality. That said, I would like to stress the relevance of its representation of landscapes through open shots to understand the dynamics that led to the film’s updating of certain regimes of representation and otherness within a rhetoric of realism. In a statement given at the Venice Film Festival, Gabriel Mascaro stated that “the film is an attempt to renovate the political and symbolic understanding of contemporary human relations in the Northeast of Brazil, where I grew up and have always lived” (Sharf 2015). In the film, however, diegetic information regarding the cultural relevance of the Brazilian north-east and its landscapes, specifically, thesertão (backlands), where the film is set, is not provided. In terms of contextualization, the sertão is a rural space characterized by its rug- gedness, precarious living conditions and a lack of governmental investment. The area has been explored at various points of Brazilian cinema history, gaining special cultural significance during the Cinema Novo Movement in the 1960s, which used the sertão as an allegoric element to explore the social and political struggles of the country. In Neon Bull, just like the back region, the sertão is not graspable in its political complexity; instead, it is staged as a space that forges access to a Brazilian cultural and geographical identity. In this regard, I would like to focus on the landscape using an ethnographic perspective. The intention is to comprehend how the regimes of representation employed by the film subvert the expectations related to a developing country and attached to a rhetoric of underdevelopment. Laura Rascaroli (2017) introduced the notion of “ethnolandscape”, a framing device embedded in Western discourses that turns a non-Western space into a spectacle shaped by certain crystallized imagina- tions. In this context, Rascaroli contends that the capture of landscapes through specific frames, shots and takes is managed by positivist tools enhanced by a set of conventions aligned with an observational documentary technique and gaze. In Neon Bull, open frames reveal the landscape through a process that involves not only the presentation of imagined otherness, but also depictions that negotiate the film’s alterity. In the first scenes, for example, the viewer is introduced to some shots related to the space, exploring its primitivism and poverty. In a series of shots, it is possible to see the truck that carries the characters and some bulls traveling in a deserted, rocky and arid space with thorny threes. Following Rascaroli’s ethnolandscape concept, it is possible to contend that the moments portrayed are “given as a natural fact as well as a frame and [are] offered to the Western eye via a regime of authenticity that was historically linked first to discourses of exploration and discovery and then to the ‘myth of the fieldwork’” (Rascaroli 2017, p. 74). What is relevant to highlight here is that, during the course of the film, such early signs of underdevelopment give way to a number of open shots in which an ongoing sense of progress and development materializes. An open shot, for instance, frames the truck at the entrance of a town, marked by a signpost with the phrase PRODUCING THE OTHER IN INTERNATIONAL FILM FESTIVALS: FESTIVAL FUND… 331

“#cidadefashion” (“#cityoffashion”); in the background, a series of buildings in construction are seen. Later, the viewer discovers that a textile centre and a shopping mall can be found in the same place. Elsewhere, we see the truck driving by a factory surrounded by trees covered in green leaves, or a massive bridge that links one road to another, with a factory in the background. These scenes are not characterized by the same roughness and dryness shown at the beginning of the film and, as the narrative moves forward, it is possible to witness a sense of the economic development that spreads through the area. Thus, the ethnographic and landscape frame and landscape established at the start of the film are subverted during the narrative in order to offer another interpretation of how the global South and its otherness are imagined, this time based on the depiction of real locations. Therefore, in Neon Bull, landscapes are presented as dynamic spaces in which symbols of otherness—and of nationhood—are evoked and reconstructed through the evidence of a set of transformations, shown in this example through the emergence of factories in remote locations. Another aspect that deserves attention when understanding how the film addresses a festival audience in offering novel signs of otherness is how the poor experience the landscape in relation to the economic development of the area. The transformation of the space does not bring any direct benefits to Iremar and the other characters that work with him. Instead, it leads to the emergence of new social dynamics, which, in turn, are again framed through the long take and also some static shots that, while emphasizing the characters’ social situations, reframe their features by giving space to their individual and idiosyncratic aspirations, emphasizing how gender performances are conceived in the diegetic space. In Neon Bull, gender performances are diluted, as the characters transit through a set of behaviours and professional occupations that are not culturally perceived as in line with their sexual gender. As pointed out, Iremar wishes to work in women’s fashion. Despite poverty and the lack of appropriate conditions and opportunities for the character to achieve his goal, even though the sertão is now surrounded by textile factories, Iremar tries to work with the material he finds in his surroundings, such as the leftover fabrics and mannequins collected in a dump, as well as the pornographic magazines of his co-workers. The film spends some time focusing on Iremar sewing and designing clothes in his moments of solitude. Besides him, other characters do not perform or behave socially according to established ideas of masculinity and femininity. Galega (Maeve Jinkings), for instance, is a female truck driver who transports the bulls and the troupe to the vaquejadas; Júnior (Vinícius de Oliveira) is a vain male bull handler who is shown carefully straightening his hair. These behaviours go beyond the myth of the “macho, pure, spiritual, and an antidote to the ills of modern industrial- ized capitalism” embodied through the “noble savage” figure and emphasized through a rhetoric of primitivism (Rony, as cited in Berghahn 2017, p. 27). In Neon Bull, the expectations of encountering a more stable other is shifted for a 332 H. SALDANHA narrative that constructs characters who transition between the primitive poor and citizens connected to a globalized world that has penetrated rural and remote areas, generating, as a consequence, new “gendered lifestyles, experiences, expectations and opportunities” (Little and Panelli 2003, p. 286). Such modes of identity negotiations lead to a reframing of the characters within what Bhabha (2012) calls in-betweenness, which provides “the terrain for elab- orating strategies of selfhood—singular or communal—that initiate new signs of identity, and innovative sites of collaboration, and contestation, in the act of defining the idea of society itself” (p. 2).

Conclusion As this chapter has shown, the HBF prescribes a set of conditions that influenced, on different levels, the shape of Neon Bull to become a national artefact to be consumed by international film festival audiences: the adoption of a specific geographical space of the developing world, as well as the dialogue with authentic signs, for example, corroborate with such assertions. However, as it was also advanced, the creative choices employed in the film rearticulate ideas of local uniqueness and cultural difference, specifically by negotiating Western crystalized fantasies about the global South with novel signs that evoke ideas of development, identity rearticulation and global connection. In this regard, the mode of address mobilized in Neon Bull guides viewers to encounter a cinematic world where the familiar and the unfamiliar are placed together in a process that leads to the updating of representational regimes of knowledge— while destabilizing the imperial logic that has commonly guided representations of the other in a Western context. The presence of realistic strategies and the depiction of poverty work as relevant starting points for the emergence of such novel discourses, iconographies and perceptions, as they help to forge the (ethnographic) experience of entering and exploring (staged) authentic spaces, where underdevelopment is expected and appreciated. To conclude, it is necessary to highlight that, although the case discussed in the chapter relates to a specific film with its own singularities and particular modes of diegetic organization, the reflections raised are able to, to a certain extent, illuminate how the dynamics related to festival funds influence the making of certain works and how the latter are mobilized creatively to respond the former.

Acknowledgements The research reported in this chapter has been funded by the Government of Ireland Postgraduate Scholarship Programme (Irish Research Council).

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Sarah Atkinson and Helen Kennedy

Introduction Since the mid-2000s there have been significant shifts in the production, broadcast and exhibition of cinema, wherein we see the emergence of live experiences and practices which simultaneously seek to fully exploit the capabilities of emergent broadcast and production technologies whilst working in opposition to those same technologies to offer experiential, non-mediatised, community-based and authentic engagements with film. We describe these forms and practices as live cinema, a potentially oxymoronic formulation due the historic specificity of definitions of cinema in relation to the mediatised and representational technologies upon which it is founded. Our conceptualisation of live cinema forms and practices span three interrelated trajectories: live cinema broadcast, live cinema exhibition and live cinema production. Each of these has distinctive formal qualities, aesthetics and economies. While a great deal of valuable scholarship has focused on the disruptions caused by digital film distribution (the pre-recordednon -live formats of on- demand, streaming services), this chapter turns instead to instances of live and experiential film broadcast, exhibition and production, and their growing prominence in the global film exhibition economy. It takes each of the forms— live cinema broadcast, live cinema exhibition, live cinema production—in turn

S. Atkinson (*) King’s College London, London, UK e-mail: [email protected] H. Kennedy University of Nottingham, Nottingham, UK

© The Author(s) 2019 335 C. Batty et al. (eds.), The Palgrave Handbook of Screen Production, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-21744-0_26 336 S. ATKINSON AND H. KENNEDY as a gateway towards new understandings of contemporary modes of film circulation and consumption. So, what do we mean by live? For the purposes of our live cinema classifications, we have depended upon the useful (and influential) definition provided by Philip Auslander through which he articulates that it refers to events in which there is: ‘physical co-presence of performers and audience [...] production and reception, experience in the moment’ (2008: 61). Within this chapter, we contend that the notion of liveness, a ‘conventional expectation’ of television (Saenz 1994), is now being mediatised, packaged and marketed to film audiences. We reveal the inherent tensions between the economic imperatives driving the marketing hyperbole that creates the allure of novelty and scarcity in the highly competitive experience economy on the one hand (Pine and Gilmore 1999), and an apparent audience-led appetite for increased participation and ‘liveness’ on the other (van Es 2016). This drive for exclusivity and simultaneity has led to the evolution of new forms of filmmaking. In one of the examples that follows we see, for the first time in mainstream narrative cinema history, the time of production being collapsed into the time of exhibition and reception. In 2016, we wrote of the ‘summer of live’ in relation to the explosion of live cinema activity in the UK where cultural programming across the period was rife with novel and not-so-novel live activities that featured some element of cinema at their core (Atkinson and Kennedy 2016). These included open-air cinemas, themed beach screenings, taste-a-longs, very many Frozen sing-a- longs, a proliferation of live scored and rescored cinema screenings, and a rise in popularity of immersive and participatory film events. This was a period where the discourses of ‘live’ offered up these experiences as an antidote to the saturation of technology, the solitary, domestic and potentially isolating consumption of in-home and personalised streamed screen media. The ‘unique’, ‘special’ and communal aspects of live cinema experiences were foregrounded and repeatedly overstated in their accompanying marketing materials. It is this exclusivity that contributes to the ephemerality which is characteristic of the live cinema paradox. It is also one of the key pleasures in participation, the sense of being one of a privileged group sharing a collective experience. For producers and creators of these experiences, the resultant ephemerality can be a challenge in relation to securing reviews and achieving exposure on top of the risks associated with some of the examples described in what follows. For researchers attempting to capture, describe and analyse these experiences, this ephemerality poses further significant barriers to reflexive analysis and audience feedback. Our examination of live cinema phenomena insists upon the recognition of these contemporary practices as having very clear antecedents in the early emergence of film and cinema. Despite many contemporary critics and academics predicting and proclaiming the death of cinema, we actually now find ourselves in a period of vigorous renewal. The cinematic form is aestheticised anew through the reintegration of the formal and experimental qualities and possibilities of liveness. THE LIVE CINEMA PARADOX: CONTINUITY AND INNOVATION IN LIVE FILM… 337

Live Cinema Broadcast Live cinema broadcasts, sometimes referred to as cinecasts, live casts or ‘alternative content’, are part of the ‘event’ cinema ecology which is made up of a number of genres: theatre, opera, sport and music.1 This sector has been evolving since 2003 when a David Bowie concert was broadcast live by satellite from London to promote his new album Reality. In 2006, the Metropolitan Opera in New York began frequent live transmission of their performances while the UK’s successful National Theatre Live (NT Live) programme of screenings launched in 2009. This sector of the cinema exhibition industry has been cultivated and supported by the Event Cinema Association (ECA), which is now a mature organisation with an annual conference, a research community and awards recognising the value, technical and aesthetic progress of their domain. The ECA play a crucial role in showcasing technological and content-based innovation whilst also advocating for the development and critical recognition of the field (Atkinson and Kennedy 2017). The domain’s expansion and diversification is seen across many artistic and cultural forms, including live screenings that span museums and exhibitions (Cruikshanks 2016) all the way to the emergent form of e-sports and competitive gaming (Rinderman 2018). Leading providers, such as NT Live, Royal Opera House Live Cinema Season, The Met: Live in HD, RSC ‘In Cinemas’, have evolved their own live cinema global ‘brands’, each of which centralise and foreground ‘liveness’ within their offer. The two most financially successful and currently unrivalled examples of the form in the UK are both NT Live productions—Hamlet (2015) and War Horse (2014)—with each generating £3.35 million in box office revenue. Arts Council England’s Live-to-Digital 2016 Report states: ‘With the growing acceptance of the genre and more content opportunities, the market for Event Cinema is forecast to achieve annual revenues of £60–80 million in the UK and $1billion US worldwide by 2019, with the UK/Ireland currently the global market leader.’ Irrefutably, this is now a significant sector within the global cinema economy, developing new audiences, supporting technological innovation and stimulating and celebrating aesthetic experimentation. The event cinema format encompasses ‘encore’ screenings, which are subsequent non-live screenings of a previous live broadcast. Our own definition of ‘live cinema broadcasts’ concern only those screenings which go out live, since there are a number of key critical distinctions. For example: they are wholly reliant on technological apparatuses that provide the live infrastructure; in addition, the live cinema versions are also scaffolded by ‘live hosting packages’ which involve presenters prefacing the screenings and providing backstage insights during the interval, including interviews with key members of the cast and crew and pre-recorded features. These ‘packages’ are critical to the

1 For a detailed discussion of this terminology, see: Sarah Atkinson and Helen W. Kennedy, “Live Cinema Conference Report,” Alphaville: Journal of Film and Screen Media 12. (January 2017). 338 S. ATKINSON AND H. KENNEDY

marketing and branding of these live cinema broadcasts as augmented and exclusive experiences in their own right. The live cinema broadcast phenomenon has started to attract academic attention from a number of different disciplinary fields, including media studies, theatre studies and opera studies (Attard 2018; Heyer 2008). Within these fields, discussions have focused upon emergent codes, conventions, aesthetics and industrial practices. Event cinema has also been examined through reception studies: the most influential work to date has been that by Martin Barker (2012). In his textual analysis of the NT’s live productions, Barker notes the different framing and cutting conventions between theatre and opera. He highlighted how high camera angles were characteristic of theatre productions and provided audiences with ‘privileged arbitrary access’ and ‘bravura moments’— which was in distinction to opera where the ‘front of stage’ camera is predominantly used (Haswell 2017). What Barker’s work underlines is the extent to which new aesthetic practices are emerging in the formal presentation of these events, alongside the emergence of new behavioural protocols for their attendees. More critical perspectives have emerged within theatre studies which have highlighted the inferior viewing mode of event cinema in comparison to what is described as the audience’s privileged access within the theatre auditorium. Cochrane and Bonner talk of the ‘denial of the theatrical aesthetic’ (2014: 5) as a result of the audience’s surrender of their ‘rights of reception’ (Cochrane and Lawrence 2012). Here, Bernadette Cochrane and Alan Lawrence refer to the theatre audience’s ability to make their own choices of what to focus their attention upon on stage being compromised since the director has chosen which camera angles to cut to, in effect making decisions on the audience’s behalf in terms of choice of perspective and pace of cutting. This is critiqued as inferior or at best a diminished experience in comparison to viewing from the privilege of the auditorium, where ‘for every viewer there is a different com- pendium of observations—a discrete visual and audiological experience’ (Cochrane and Bonner 2014: 7). Barker’s research analyses the nuances of audiences’ responses and relays a number of accounts of differentiated reactions to spontaneous moments of applause in the cinema screenings of live opera, which ranged from being welcome and acceptable in some cases, to awkward and inappropriate in others (2012: 32, 36–37, 62, 64, 65–67). More recently, Joseph Attard has undertaken an extensive study of ‘opera cinema’ and indeed frames this as an emergent but potentially distinctive art form. New camera techniques, new experiences of actors, sets and behind-the- scenes footage are made possible via the fast-paced continual evolution of the form. During these ‘live’ broadcasts, audiences in cinema auditoria experience close-up backstage detail in a way that is entirely unavailable to those in the opera house or theatre itself, elements which certainly challenge the critical dismissal of these experiences as ‘lessor’ or inferior. Moreover, these additional backstage elements invoke an aura of authenticity of the live, and are highly ephemeral in nature, only available to the live cinema audience who have paid a premium cinema ticket price. THE LIVE CINEMA PARADOX: CONTINUITY AND INNOVATION IN LIVE FILM… 339

Most recently, the technological capabilities of the event cinema infrastructure were tested via the firstlocation- based instance of a live cinema broadcast. Lost in London LIVE claimed to be ‘a first-of-its-kind film event’. Shot in one take, in real time, with one camera, entirely on location in London in the early hours of 20 January 2017, it was simultaneously broadcast live to 604 cinemas in the USA and to three screens in one cinema in London in the UK. There are, of course, televisual precursors which have deployed the live broadcast potential of the television network. Take, for example, Tosca, which was simultaneously shot in and broadcast from Rome in 1992 and described by the director as a ‘live film’. The production involved 27 cameras in four locations and 400 technicians. But Lost in London was the first time that such an endeavour was broadcast live to multiple cinema auditoria—it also unified three never-before-combined phenomena in mainstream narrative cinema (but phenomena that all have long historical trajectories and well-established, tried- and-tested technological tools and infrastructures). These three forms were live cinema broadcast, ‘one-take’ cinema conventions and live televisual drama broadcast (such as one-off live commemorative soap-opera episodes). For the first time in mainstream narrative cinema history, the time of production was collapsed into the time of exhibition and reception. Cinema audience members witnessed the moments of the film’s making, whilst simultaneously being exposed to the mechanics of its creation. The elements of unmixed audio, unpolished dialogue, dimly lit spaces and muted (unbalanced) colour both exposed and celebrated the artifice of the film’s live construction (Atkinson, 2017). It opens up new artistic and creative opportunities for film professionals to work within these new live forms. Although its claim to newness was accepted, Lost in London LIVE was pre- ceded by an earlier project by the artist group Blast Theory, who produced the interactive filmMy One Demand in 2015. The production involved seven local performers filmed in a single 90-minute continuous shot which was streamed live online and to the TIFF Bell Lightbox cinema. This had a further interactive element not present in the Lost in London example. As audiences watched the live on-screen action unfold, they were able to interact via their mobile phones and influence the film’s narration in real time. As the live cinema broadcast domain evolves, and as academic study responds, it would be useful to think of each format and genre in their own right in order to evolve specific understandings that take into account their nuances, that is, sports cinema, e-sports cinema, theatre cinema, opera cinema, dance cinema, concert cinema and, of course, these later innovative examples of ‘live-action location-based cinema’.

Live Cinema Exhibition Live cinema exhibition involves some form of simultaneous live action or addition to a cinema screening. This is not a radically new phenomenon; on the contrary, there is a long tradition that spans the entire history of cinema itself 340 S. ATKINSON AND H. KENNEDY in the form of live musical accompaniments to silent screenings. At the Battleship Potemkin Moscow premiere in January 1926 for instance, its live orchestral accompaniment comprised a medley of existing pieces by Beethoven and Tchaikovsky, amongst others. When the film was screened in Berlin later that year, Sergei Eisenstein commissioned an original score which was composed by Edmund Meisel. In a return to this practice in recent years, Pet Shop Boys rescored Battleship Potemkin in 2004 for a live screening in Trafalgar Square. Cinema history also shows the prevalence of film marketing strategies and practices involving a range of ‘live’ happenings and showmanship practices known as ‘ballyhoo’. An early example includes a promotional stunt for the film The Covered Wagon in 1927, which involved ‘a group of Indians camped in the grounds of Central Park’ and which ‘earned unusual newspaper stories’ (Franklin 1927: 250). Live cinema exhibition artistic and creative practices were advanced by the expanded cinema movement in the 1960s (see Shatnoff 1967; Marchessault and Lord 2008). Expanded cinema practitioners were the forerunners of a historical lineage of audio-visual and artist moving image performance that has continued to evolve, including live video jockey (VJ) vision mixing (Kahn 2011) by leading practitioners including The Light Surgeons, and Saskia Boddeke and Peter Greenaway with their expanded 2002 project, Tulse Luper Suitcases. The Rocky Horror Picture Show (1975) famously established cult participatory cinema-going in the late 1970s and 1980s. This film was a ‘water- shed moment for the field of live, immersive and participatory cinema [...] it is an immediately recognizable exemplar for what is meant by participatory and live cinema, which involves dressing up, singing, dancing, quoting and gestur- ing’ (Atkinson and Kennedy 2018: 3). To understand and make sense of the current status of these different trajectories of live cinema exhibition that involve live performance, marketing initiatives, creative practices and participatory experiences, we have found the following subcategories useful in capturing the associated aesthetic practices and audience behaviours: enhanced, augmented and participatory (Atkinson and Kennedy 2016: 141–143). Enhanced cinema are those screenings situated within a novel and, most commonly, an open-air environment. These screenings have most frequently been of cult or classic films from the 80s or early 90s. The Rooftop Film Club in the UK and USA is a key exhibitor in this mode, but there are a rising number of outdoor screenings (see Atkinson and Kennedy 2016). In augmented cinema an additional layer has been added to the viewing experience—this normally includes some aspect of live music or performing arts activity. Live scores and live rescoring, such as the early example of Battleship Potemkin, are key illustrations of this category and help to emphasise the early roots and continuities of these practices. Live scoring refers to a live performance of the original score to accompany a screening of the film. An orchestra or band play the unaltered original score to a much-loved film—for example, Interstellar and The Godfather, which are both included in London’s Royal THE LIVE CINEMA PARADOX: CONTINUITY AND INNOVATION IN LIVE FILM… 341

Albert Hall annual live film orchestra season. The practice of rescoring involves the live performance of a new or altered score alongside the screening of the film, usually in a concert or theatre venue. Contemporary examples of rescoring include Run Lola Run by the improvisational trio, The Bays; La Haine; The Battle of Algiers; and THX 1138 by the British band Asian Dub Foundation. An innovative, engaging and emotionally affecting example of a live rescore was the experimental composition by Portishead’s Adrian Utley and Goldfrapp’s Will Gregory, played alongside The Passion of Joan of Arc. An orchestra and choir accompanied a screening of the film in Shakespeare’s outdoor Globe Theatre in London. This unique experience, in common with many live scores, was a one-off; these rarely lead to multiple touring performances and equally rarely achieve critical visibility. Participatory cinema includes those screenings that require or encourage some element of audience engagement or interaction, the Rocky Horror Picture Show being the most potent antecedent. Sing-a-longs, quote-a-longs, taste-a- longs, dressing-up, audience participation and cos-play all belong in this category. Secret Cinema have had the greatest success in developing and capitalising on this model of participatory engagement. Secret Cinema is a UK-based immersive cinema organisation, launched in 2007 with an immersive screening of Gus Van Sant’s Paranoid Park in a disused railway tunnel. Since that date, they have delivered numerous participatory cinematic experiences that involve the re-creation of elaborate immersive cinematic worlds in secret locations, and an augmented screening of the film with simultaneous live action. These have included Back to the Future (screened in an open-air re-creation of Hill Valley (2015) in Olympic Park, London); 28 Days Later (2016) in a disused printing press where every member of the audience was provided with a makeshift hospital stretcher on which to lie back and watch the film, which was projected onto screens suspended from the ceiling; and an interactive, navigable and explorable replica of the streets of Montmartre from Baz Lurhmann’s Moulin Rouge, which was recreated in an expansive warehouse space (2017). The quality of these experiences depends upon the ability of the production team to create an ‘authentic’ feeling of immersion in the film world: enormous attention to detail is dedicated to the reproduction of key elements of the set design that become the spatialised narrative architecture within which the experience unfolds. Once occupying a position on the margins—their early experiences were marketed in a clandestine way in which participants were instructed to ‘tell no one’—Secret Cinema have subsequently shaped a new and highly profitable elaboration of the participatory mode of live cinema. For example, Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back ran for four months in 2015 in London and sold 100,000 tickets (each at £75), generating over £7 million at the box office. At the point of writing, Secret Cinema have just released tickets for their 2019 offering which is to be Casino Royale, the ‘VIP’ tickets—costing up to £140—sold out within a matter of days. Secret Cinema now design high-profile promotional, live and participatory experiences for new releases which serve as a key marketing mechanism within 342 S. ATKINSON AND H. KENNEDY the film’s overall distribution strategy.Prometheus was the first new release that Secret Cinema screened, with the film making more money as a Secret Cinema production than on its opening night in London, thus heralding the film industry’s recognition of the lucrative revenue-generation opportunities afforded by this highly profitable distribution model. At the other end of the promotional spectrum was the April 2017 UK week of preview screenings of Park Chan- Wook’s independent art-house filmHandmaiden , a reinterpretation of Sarah Waters’ novel, Fingersmith, which drew 5500 people. As a result, the film entered the UK box office charts at number six during the week of its preview release, taking £474,752, a significant achievement for a foreign independent release.2 These two brands—the re-screening of popular cult film classics and preview screenings of new releases—encapsulate the polarities of the different modes of distribution at the heart of the Secret Cinema brand. Their success has been accompanied by the work of other experiential cinema companies such as Sneaky Experience and the many film festivals that routinely host live cinema exhibitions and happenings as central aspects of their programmes.3 The popularity and significance of live cinema exhibition was highlighted by Walter Murch, who revealed that live distribution strategies were now a key point in Hollywood distribution discussions. He stated: ‘It’s just now a fairly standard thing, that you say—should we have an IMAX version of this film?—yes, should we have a 3D version?—yes, should we have a live orchestra version of this film? That’s a routine conversation now.’4 We see this clearly manifest in La La Land (2016) screenings in venues across the UK, with the score recreated live by an orchestra and choir. The experience, which opened in the United States at the Hollywood Bowl in Los Angeles, involved a 100-piece orchestra, jazz ensemble and chorus conducted by Justin Hurwitz, who composed the original film score.

Live Cinema Production Live cinema production is an interesting new area of consideration, and the one in which live cinema as a concept has been most vividly activated and its paradoxical status most explicitly explored. Live cinema productions are instances where the production of a film is made visible and accessible to the audience, where the audience simultaneously observes and witnesses the processes of the film’s making whilst viewing the output of that process on a cinema screen. This is in distinction to the live cinema broadcasts already detailed, since, although they are being produced live, their production is still taking

2 See Kennedy (2017) for a more detailed discussion of the different modes of Secret Cinema experience and their stratifications. 3 In the UK in 2018 Sheffield Doc Fest featured a Live Cinema summit and a programme of live screenings, courtesy of Live Cinema UK’s Talent Pool. 4 In an interview with authors, 27 October 2015. THE LIVE CINEMA PARADOX: CONTINUITY AND INNOVATION IN LIVE FILM… 343 place behind the scenes and out of sight of the audience. Crucially, the audience are not co-present in the moment of making. A number of organisations and projects have engaged and experimented with this form. A group of artists working in Italy, Film Live, describe their practice as ‘a movie that is filmed at the same time that it is screened’. Francis Ford Coppola has also worked in a similar mode with his project Distant Vision, which he also refers to as ‘live cinema’ where a film was shot and broadcast live to screenings rooms in 2016 after 26 days of rehearsal. Coppola positions live cinema in contradistinction to live multi-camera broadcast, associated with the televisual. He has also written a book (2017) on his specific mode of studio- based live cinema production. Stage-based forms of live cinema production include 59 Productions and Katie Mitchell’s live cinema collaborations: Forbidden Zone (2014), Shadow (Eurydice Speaks) (2016) and Miss Julie (2018). These are all theatre-based productions in which the on-stage action is simultaneously being performed, filmed, projected and observed live on a screen above the stage, underneath which audience members are able to see the inner workings of the film set in which the on-screen action is being shot. Members of the production crew, including camera operators and sound recordists, negotiate the on-stage film set in full view of the audience as they frame the action and capture the performance. In this mode all production processes are laid bare, including special effects such as those involving vehicles in motion (including a tram and a car), using motion and lighting techniques, as well as sound-effect creation (Atkinson 2018). Nufonia Must Fall Live is another instance of stage-based live cinema production. This was a simultaneous stage and screen performance described as a live silent film conceived by Eric San (better known as Kid Koala) and adapted from his comic book of the same name. In the 60-minute performance piece, the on-screen animation was performed live through puppetry which the audience could watch on the screen above the stage and below the screen. The stage consisted of 12 different model sets lit with LED, which were animated by puppets and puppeteers, all visible to the audience, along with a camera operator, sound engineer and video editor. The performance was accompanied by a string quartet and San’s own scratch DJ music. The unification which San seeks to achieve between the performance and its making appears to be highly challenging since animation production is the antithesis of live viewing in that it requires extensive and timely production work (Atkinson 2018). To a lesser degree, live cinema production techniques were deployed on stage in the NT’s production of Network (2018). Network was a film-to-theatre adaptation (the original film, written by Paddy Chayefsky and directed by Sidney Lumet, was made in 1976). It tells the story of a fictional TV network UBS and its struggle to increase its viewer ratings. It focuses on television news presenter Howard Beale (played by Bryan Cranston), whose deteriorating mental state gradually unravels live on air as he becomes the pawn in the ensu- ing ratings battle. The theatre staging and production design foregrounds the live televisual aesthetic of the news studio. The sense of liveness is further 344 S. ATKINSON AND H. KENNEDY accentuated by the visible presence of the camera operators capturing the action on stage while these images, intercut with pre-recorded video, are projected on the screen at the back of the stage. The frenetic and visually complex on-stage action is further augmented by the presence of 11 restaurant staff who prepare and serve a three-course meal to audience members, who populate part of the stage space. The theatre audience are implicated in the overall live aesthetic as they play the role of the television audience in the on-stage/on-screen narrative, which also revolves around a central trope about television’s dependency upon extremes of ‘live’ action—including madness and, in this case, death. Liveness is further invoked by the ever-present countdown clock. This felt like a perfect production for the NT Live series, but in discussion with Emma Keith, Head of Broadcast and NT Live, we discovered that although the creative will was there, the complex rights situation prevented them from taking this forward:

There were discussions around a potential live broadcast [...] We usually don’t let a technical challenge stop us from doing a broadcast but unfortunately rights continue to be challenging, particularly where films already exist.5

NT is a ‘pioneer’ and a globally recognised brand at the forefront of experimentation with the formal and aesthetic possibilities of live cinema broadcast, but in the example of Network they demonstrate their capacity to also support and influence the evolution of the form of live cinema production. Through their international, interdisciplinary collaborations and their investment in research and development, the NT maintain a significant position in these (re-) emergent forms.

Emergent Hybrids At the time of writing, there are a number of emergent projects that are set to push at the boundaries of these forms, challenge our definitional categories and extend our understanding. Within the domain of live cinema broadcast, Blast Theory’s live interactive film,Bloody Minded, streamed online and to a number of cinema auditoria in the UK during October 2018. This project crossed over live cinema broadcast and live cinema exhibition as audience members were encouraged to engage in the on-screen action, therefore adding a participatory element which points towards the potential for the evolution of hybrid experiences that traverse these categories. Within live cinema exhibition, in November 2018 the acclaimed video game, Everybody’s Gone to the Rapture, was accompanied by a live orchestral score against a cinema screening of live game-play. Yet again a crossover occurs, since the live game-play creates a unique and novel experience at the heart of the performance, thus blending in elements of live production. Within live cinema production, Katie Mitchell’s experimental play, The Malady of Death

5 In email correspondence with the authors, 26 July 2018. THE LIVE CINEMA PARADOX: CONTINUITY AND INNOVATION IN LIVE FILM… 345

(October 2018), deployed the same complex strategies of simultaneous stage and screen action, this time to examine the sex industry and online pornogra- phy. While these current examples allude to the possibility of hybridisation they also demonstrate the persistence of the formal categories of live cinema broadcast, exhibition and production, and provide a strong indication of their analytical value in the emergent live cinema economy. Furthermore, the commercial, critical and artistic success evidenced by these practices and their ongoing hybridisation marks a clear opportunity for emergent practitioners to engage and experiment. The phenomena examined here also signal the rich new opportunities for collaboration beyond disciplinary boundaries, as experts from film, theatre, games and live performance are increasingly drawn together in these processes for the insights they bring to participation, immersion and interaction.

Conclusion In all three cases of the live cinema phenomena, there is an increased flattening out of the distinction between production, broadcast and exhibition, with production increasingly featuring as a spectacle through which to showcase and marvel at the new technological possibilities. These experiences provide little space for error in their production and this precariousness lends them an aura of authenticity that is crucial to the affective engagement of live cinema audiences as well as featuring heavily in their associated marketing and promotional rhetoric. Participation in each of these forms is always carefully crafted. Even in the most participative forms of live cinema exhibition, our previous research has demonstrated how choreographed, rehearsed, planned and at times formulaic these ‘participations’ really are (Atkinson and Kennedy 2016). A distinctive quality of each of our three categories is their ephemerality, which is characteristic of the live cinema paradox. As indicated, these inherently live ‘one-of-a-kind’ moments pose significant methodological challenges to researchers and reviewers alike. However, as cinema and theatre continue to evolve, merge and converge, it is crucial that we overcome these obstacles since their examination is an important task, as we may uncover critical understandings of the emergent and seductive economy of live within contemporary cinema ecology. Practitioners across the emergent and evolving modalities of live cinema also have much to gain from these examinations, from which they can draw inspiration and upon which they can build to enrich these live cinema forms, deepening and nuancing their application of production approaches to produce unique experiences and contribute to an expanding, vibrant and interdisciplinary field of practice.

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Atkinson, S. (2018). Synchronic Simulacinematics: The Live Performance of Film Production. In L. Feiersinger, K. Friedrich, & M. Queisner (Eds.), Image Action Space: Situating the Screen in Visual Practice (pp. 191–201). Berlin: De Gruyter. Atkinson, S., & Kennedy, H. W. (2016). From Conflict to Revolution: The Secret Aesthetic and Narrative Spatialisation in Immersive Cinema Experience Design. Participations: Journal of Audience & Reception Studies, 13(1), 252–279. Atkinson, S., & Kennedy, H. W. (2017, January 12). Live Cinema Conference Report. Alphaville: Journal of Film and Screen Media. [online] http://www.alphavillejour- nal.com/Issue12/12_2Report_AtkinsonKennedy.pdf Atkinson, S., & Kennedy, H. W. (Eds.). (2018). Live Cinema: Cultures, Economies, Aesthetics. New York: Bloomsbury. Attard, J. (2018). Opera Virgins Project: Operatic Event Cinema as a New Cultural Experience. In S. Atkinson & H. W. Kennedy (Eds.), Live Cinema: Cultures, Economies, Aesthetics (pp. 139–152). New York: Bloomsbury. Auslander, P. (2008). Liveness: Performance in a Mediatized Culture. New York: Routledge. Barker, M. (2012). Live to Your Local Cinema: The Remarkable Rise of Livecasting. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Cochrane, B., & Bonner, F. (2014). Screening from the Met, the NT or the House: What Changes with the Live Relay. Adaptation, 7(2), 121–133. Cochrane, B., & Lawrence, A. (2012). Picture This: NT Live or Not. In International Federation of Theatre Research, Santiago, Chile, 22–28 July 2012. Coppola, F. F. (2017). Live Cinema and Its Techniques. London: W.W. Norton & Company Ltd. Cruikshanks, L. (2016). Pompeii Live: Performing Objects. Museum & Society, 14(3), 446–455, [online]. http://www2.le.ac.uk/departments/museumstudies/muse- umsociety/documents/volumes/cruickshanksu. Accessed 30 Oct 2017. Franklin, H. B. (1927). Motion Picture Theater Management. New York: Doran. Haswell, J. (2017, June 16). Panel Discussion: Opera Cinema, the Modern Gesamtkunstwerk? At Opera Cinema: A New Cultural Experience? Symposium, King’s College, London. Heyer, P. (2008). Live from the Met: Digital Broadcast Cinema, Medium Theory, and Opera for the Masses. Canadian Journal of Communication, 33, 591–604. Kahn, D. (2011). Prelude to Live Cinema. Journal of Visual Culture, 10(2), 255–265. Kennedy, H. W. (2017, November). “Join a Cast of 1000s, to Sing and Dance in the Revolution”: The Secret Cinema “Activist” Brand and the Commodification of Affect Within “Experience Communities”. Participations, 14(2), 682–696. Marchessault, J., & Lord, S. (2008). Fluid Screens, Expanded Cinema. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Pine, J. B., & Gilmore, J. H. (1999). The Experience Economy: Work Is Theatre and Every Business a Stage. Brighton: Harvard Business Review Press. Rinderman, R. (2018, April 18). Game On! Cinemas are Exploring the Wide World of eSports. Film Journal International. http://www.filmjournal.com/features/game- cinemas-are-exploring-wide-world-esports. Accessed 27 Sept 2018. Saenz, M. (1994). Television Viewing as a Cultural Practice. In H. Newcomb (Ed.), Television: The Critical View. New York: Oxford University Press. Shatnoff, J. (1967). Expo 67: A Multiple Vision. Film Quarterly, 21(1), 2–13. van Es, K. (2016). The Future of Live. Cambridge: Polity. Digital Disruption and Innovation in Distribution: Opportunities for Research- Based Filmmaking in the New Global Screen Ecology

Sean Maher and Susan Kerrigan

Introduction The current wave of innovation, described in terms of digital disruption, continues to impact the screen practices of academic, research-based and independent filmmakers, through to the franchise-driven films of Hollywood conglomerates. While production and exhibition are highly visible components of cinema, television and screen content, it is in the less visible sector of distribution where the impacts of digital disruption have brought about some of the most potent transformations effecting the global screen ecology (Cunningham and Silver 2013; Curtin 2014; FitzSimons 2015; Lotz 2014). Growing critical attention on distribution, or what Lobato labels a ‘distribution- centred model of screen studies’ (2012, p. 6), acknowledges this vital component of filmmaking that connects content to markets, producers to audiences and production to consumption. Amidst these upheavals are newfound opportunities for research-based filmmaking offered through self-distribution. Drawing on a range of best-practice examples from the Filmmaking Research Network (FRN) survey conducted in 2017, they will be discussed alongside three case studies tracking how the lead author’s filmmaking research has responded to the digital distribution landscape.

S. Maher (*) Queensland University of Technology, Brisbane, QLD, Australia e-mail: [email protected] S. Kerrigan University of Newcastle, Callaghan, NSW, Australia

Distribution: The Trade and in Critique Distribution often dominates trade and industry analysis of global screen industries and traditionally garners scholarly attention in business studies over screen studies (Maher et al. 2016). As digital distribution continues to challenge the hegemony of Hollywood, however, it is gaining focus across film and media scholarship. In Cunningham and Silver’s Screen Distribution and the New King Kongs of the Online World (2013), digital distribution is contextualised within historical developments that shaped distribution businesses in the United States since its earliest days. Film distribution in the United States has always been driven by technical innovations while core drivers behind the business of distribution involve monopolistic practices seeking to maximise exhibition opportunities. Two key historical events occurred, which Cunningham and Silver argue has shaped early US cinema distribution, namely the ‘patent wars’ followed by the ‘theatre wars’ (2013, p. 54). Film production is inherently high risk because no one can accurately predict which movies will ultimately work with audiences. In contrast, the business of film distribution offers a more stable, profitable undertaking because risk can be spread across a slate of pictures—some will win, some will lose and large-scale distributed networks provide market power, which is essential when negotiating with exhibitors (Cunningham and Silver 2013, p. 58). Like cinema, the distribution of television has been similarly impacted by the new dynamics of the online world where YouTube, Netflix, Amazon and Hulu now operate as global content providers. In Distribution Revolution: Conversations About the Digital Future of Film and Television (Curtin 2014), Michael Curtin records the impact of digital distribution on the American film and television industry through interviews with entertainment executives and creatives. Curtin argues that Hollywood media executives’ control of distribution is in jeopardy, as accounts describe failed legal challenges that were unable to prevent the delivery of content online by new providers, alongside the realisation that ‘they had spent tens of millions of dollars trying to develop their own online content delivery services only to see them wither by comparison to interlopers from Silicon Valley’ (Curtin 2014, p. 11). Amongst all the current players that dominate online web streaming services, including Netflix, Google/YouTube, Facebook, Apple/iTunes and Amazon, none, aside from Hulu, is controlled or owned by a major Hollywood studio. However, Disney is preparing the launch of it own subscription based streaming service (https:// www.investopedia.com/news/why-disney-not-partnering-apple-4k/). The rise of online distribution can be seen through its effect on US network television. Amanda Lotz predicts a network-free future called a ‘post networked era’ and argues that it can exist only when ‘choice is no longer limited to program schedules and the majority of viewers use the opportunities offered by new technologies and industrial practices’ (2014, pp. 31–32). As an idealistic state proposed by Lotz, it may give users an entirely free choice over content selection but it will be constrained by business practice and the cost of DIGITAL DISRUPTION AND INNOVATION IN DISTRIBUTION: OPPORTUNITIES… 349 production, which continue to push the risk of production back onto the producers of the content. The disruption occurring in the online environment continues to reshape all facets of distribution and represents one of the most significant upheavals in the screen industry. This period of disruption forces innovation, bringing with it many new players emerging out of the technology sector. The rise and fall of some of these players since the late 2000s represents a traditional business cycle where established market players, like networked television and the Hollywood majors, are faced with increased competition from new operators. The business phase that sees the arrival of new firms is traditionally followed by a shakeout period as many of the new players subsequently fail and withdraw from the market. Examples from a shakeout period in digital distribution occurred in the early to mid-2000s with the collapse of, amongst others, Quickflix in Australia, as well as Movielink and MovieBeam in the United States; both of the latter failed despite backing from established Hollywood studios. The Australian network television landscape has not been immune to digitally disrupted transformations as free-to-air television and its advertising-based business model continues to falter. Impacts include the financial crises seen at the Nine Network, which in 2012 saw it teeter on the verge of bankruptcy. Meanwhile, Channel Ten entered into receivership in 2017 as even its most successful programming was unable to recoup its purchasing costs through advertising revenue which led to its total buyout by part-owner CBS Corporation and Ten’s integration into CBS Studios International (Mason, AFR 2017). The fractures occurring in Australian television have seen revenues from advertising dramatically drop, alongside traditional audiences who previously adhered to scheduled programming (Screen Australia 2018). There are a variety of reasons for this revenue and audience drop, but it is noteworthy that piracy, which was once a major factor for Australian screen businesses, appears to be in decline (Screen Australia 2018, p. 4). There is also notable increase of video-on-demand (VOD) users who are active on social media like YouTube and Facebook, ‘but there is potential for growth across all demographics’ (Screen Australia 2018, p. 3).

Distribution Opportunities for Education and Research- Based Filmmaking Public broadcasting, educational, documentary and other factual content have a history of coming together in an effort to shore up their respective viability. Online streaming platforms which provide commercial digital depositories like Amazon now extend to public, educational depositories such as Australia’s National Digital Learning Resources Network, which currently houses 15,000 audio visual resources. 350 S. MAHER AND S. KERRIGAN

Other service providers, like Screenrights, EnhanceTV Direct, ClickView, EduTV and Kanopy, offer global distribution and exhibition of documentary and educational content. Since 1997, with the establishment of YouTube, opportunities for online distribution seemingly became available to all. In theory, it gave independent filmmakers an opportunity to distribute their own films. Perhaps more than any other group of professional filmmakers, documentary producers have been well versed in the challenges surrounding self- distribution. In her research, FitzSimons (2015) has considered how educational and public broadcasting can come together in the pursuit of ‘collective advocacy and policy development around documentary as university research’ (2015, p. 123) arguing,

in the late 80s and early 90s Australian public broadcasters were systematizing their interface with independent filmmakers and actively seeking to commission documentaries, such ‘independence’ not being incompatible with full time employment in a university. (2015, p. 125)

Since 2000, however, one-off documentary productions have become more elusive as the documentary industry shifted, ‘with a growing trend for broadcasters to want series produced by large and conglomerate production companies’ (2015, p. 133). At that time the online and multi-platform documentaries were emerging, with ‘specific funds available to practitioners in these areas from broadcasters and screen agencies’ (FitzSimons 2015, p. 133). FitzSimmons also highlights the declining opportunities for research-based films and indirectly points to the reason why self-distribution of documentaries has become such a focus point for filmmakers working inside the academy. Self- distribution through YouTube was initially embraced by independents, although it can now be seen as reducing or entirely removing traditional revenue opportunities stemming from established distribution networks and sales forums. While digital platforms offer the means to remove traditional barriers to reaching audiences, the self-distribution route for one-off documentaries continues to present a number of challenges. As an alternative to YouTube, pay-per-view and subscription strategies have seen some of the approaches employed to monetise independent online screen content, but many obstacles still remain around attracting paid views of unknown films that sit behind a paywall.

Self-Distribution and Research Films In order to build a following, any self-distributed film not endorsed by a broadcaster or circulated through an international distributor and sales agents has traditionally built its reputation through film festivals, film competitions and critical acclaim. As pathways for digital-based self-distribution have expanded since the late 1990s, however, the appeal has extended beyond independent DIGITAL DISRUPTION AND INNOVATION IN DISTRIBUTION: OPPORTUNITIES… 351 and pro-am (professional-amateur) filmmakers into research-based filmmakers and films produced within tertiary institutions. A survey conducted by the FRN in 2017 collected 152 examples of UK and Australian research films evidencing a variety of distribution deals. A portion of these films had commercial distribution (16%), while self-distributed films represented nearly double that amount (30%), leaving the majority (65%) without a distributor. A large proportion of the films (73%) were made since 2011, and most were documentaries (59%), followed by fiction films (16%) and animations, experimental and video installations. The commercial distributors of these research films included: Universal Pictures UK; television broadcasters such as Australian Broadcasting Corporation (ABC) and Canadian Broadcasting Corporation; Ronin Film; National Educational Television Association; Lionsgate; Fairfax Digital Media; Creative England and Tartan Films. Online distributors were: Kanopy (an online platform available through universities and library subscription), Peccadillo Pictures, BFI Player and Ozflix, with one being distributed as a VOD in seven territories. The most popular method of self-distribution was YouTube and Vimeo, with links embedded in production company websites, while some films were distributed on DVD with circulation and sales supported by special interest and community groups. An emerging category for research film distribution is through academic film festivals like Sightlines, which has been held twice at the Royal Melbourne Institute of Technology (RMIT), Australia. Sightlines also publishes the screened films with open peer reviews, which is unique and is offered through online journals like Screenworks. These academic opportunities offer filmmakers working inside the academy more currency than a film festival screening because they comply with critical peer- review criteria, which is accepted by universities as a verifiable research output. Reasons why some films may not have been self-distributed online could be to allow the film an opportunity to play the festival circuit, where it is hoped, particularly for independent films, that a festival award or screening might bring a more formal distribution offer. Just under half the films (40%) won prizes or awards at international film festivals. For example, an Italian-language animation, Persisting Dreams (2015), won four awards and was screened at over 40 festivals. Another one-hour documentary, Orchids: My Intersex Adventure (2011) by Phoebe Hart, received 21 documentary awards at numerous international film festivals. It was funded by ABC, Screen Australia, Screen Queensland and Queensland University of Technology, with a total budget of $170,000 (AUS). Having screened on the ABC in Australia the film is now available on Kanopy. Some of these research films have also won filmmaking awards, such as Australian Writer’s Guild winning film,Baxter and Me (2016) by Gillian Leahy, and Love in the Post: From Plato to Derrida (2015) by Joanna Callaghan, which was winner of the Best Practice Portfolio 2016 British Association of Film, Television and Screen Studies. Other research films have obtained cinematic releases likeColours of the Alphabet (2016) made by Alastair Cole (director, co-editor) and Nick Higgins 352 S. MAHER AND S. KERRIGAN

(producer), which was released in nine cinemas and at over twenty international film festivals. This film began life as Cole’s PhD film and it investigates multilingual education in Zambia. It was re-edited after the PhD was awarded, with the updated version screened as part of the official selection at Glasgow Film Festival in 2016. In 2018 it was released as a multilingual broadcast across 49 countries on AfriDocs. The date of the release, 21 February, was UNESCO’s International Mother Language Day (Cole and Higgins 2018). This best- practice example shows how research-based films can leverage film festival releases and still pursue self-distribution opportunities. Bespoke distribution strategies have stemmed from the blending of traditional and digital distribution, an approach that can be seen in the case studies section “Case Studies: Adapting the Research Film to a Digital Distribution Landscape”.

Case Studies: Adapting the Research Film to a Digital Distribution Landscape Filmmaking as practice-based research produces research films which usually target niche audiences. Current online distribution opportunities enhance the possible impact of research films which constitute non-traditional research outputs (NTROs) in the Australia research environment overseen by the Australian Research Council (ARC). The three research films detailed, created by Sean Maher, highlight how shifts in the broader commercial distribution environment point to the occurrence of digital disruption which has allowed these niche films to reach their target audiences.

Case Study 1: The Brisbane Line (2010) Writer/Director: Sean Maher Duration: 27 mins. Synopsis: A docu-noir depicting a fictional detective amidst the historical backdrop of police corruption in Brisbane, Australia. Practice-based research: The Brisbane Line was written and conceived as a hybrid docudrama satisfying requirements for a creative practice-led PhD. The design and execution of the film as applied research demonstrative of the theoretical principles investigated in the accompanying written thesis was the sole concern. Issues of production dominated all thinking and approaches to the filmmaking in an effort to ensure that as a research artefact the film could support the claims pursued in the PhD thesis. The film was produced for under $5000 in 2008, accompanied a 50,000-word written component and represented a 50% contribution to a doctoral award in 2010. How the film as research addressed audience reach was beyond the PhD requirements for the film. Distribution of the film occurred after the PhD and the film were completed. DIGITAL DISRUPTION AND INNOVATION IN DISTRIBUTION: OPPORTUNITIES… 353

Distribution and exhibition: • 2011: The Brisbane Line distributed through Amazon Prime DVD— sell through. • 2012: The Brisbane Line was subsequently selected for the 2012 Brisbane International Film Festival, resulting in a single screening, albeit to a general audience rather than a specialised, academic one. • 2013: The Brisbane Line was the first video to be uploaded into the Queensland University of Technology’s new digital repository, QUT Media Warehouse—‘a rich repository housing reusable multimedia materials which support teaching, learning and research across QUT’. • https://mediawarehouse.qut.edu.au/QMW/ • 2018: Data analytics tracking users’ access of The Brisbane Line for the purposes of online viewing were never fully operationalised and specific data retention remains beyond the scope of the repository. However, there is general data spanning July 2013–April 2018, revealing a total of 1437 users accessed the film.

Case Study 2: Queensland Parliament House: The People’s House (2012) Writer/Director: Sean Maher Duration: 19 mins. Synopsis: Queensland Member of Parliament, Wayne Wendt, presents a journey through the history of Queensland Parliament House in Brisbane, providing insider access to one of Australia’s finest examples of Renaissance Revival architecture. Practice-based research: This film was conceived and executed as a research-based documentary amidst the opportunities presented by proliferating web-based distribution platforms. The collaborative research film was designed to take advantage of emerging online distribution capabilities, and thinking around distribution was factored into its conception and pre-production planning. The major development that resulted out of the distribution plan was the successful pitch of the project to specialist documentary distributor, Antidote Films. Distribution and exhibition: 2012: Upon its completion, Queensland Parliament House: The People’s House (2012) saw Antidote Films successfully negotiate a two-year licensing agreement with Fairfax Media Online. This agreement saw the film made available across some of Australia’s highest-profile news media platforms: https://www.smh.com.au (Sydney Morning Herald Web Television), https://www.theage.com.au (Melbourne’s flagship newspaper web TV service) and https://www.brisbanetimes.com.au, Fairfax Media’s leading, online news platform for Brisbane and Southeast 354 S. MAHER AND S. KERRIGAN

Queensland. The audience reach of these combined online news services was enhanced by regular banner promotion that ensured the profile of Queensland Parliament House: The People’s House was periodically elevated to the highest levels of visibility across all three major news services platforms. The 2012 data for Fairfax Media revealed 68% of their audience accessed their content digitally via online, tablet or smartphone. The apps for accessing Fairfax-hosted material through The Age and Sydney Morning Herald on tablet devices alone registered 96,000 readers accessing material daily (Hywood 2012). Evidence for such widespread digital access contributed to The People’s House satisfying research impact metrics and ensured it was selected for an institutional submission reporting on benchmarked national research objectives.

Case Study 3: Noirscapes (2016–) Writer/Director/Co-Presenter: Sean Maher; Co-Presenter: Dr Tim Milfull Duration: Five 5-min web-based films. Synopsis: Two presenters, five films, one city—Los Angeles. A journey by car into the shadowland of Los Angeles noir. Reel city meets real city in this survey of a Los Angeles noirscape that continues to resonate from the writings of Raymond Chandler and the films of Billy Wilder to contemporary neo-noir. Practice-led research webisodes: A current work in progress, Noirscapes is a series of five short films that incorporates an accompanying hardcover book, with exhibition and distribution to be facilitated through a dedicated website linked and promoted through a major Queensland art gallery. Noirscapes forges a creative practice-based form of criticism through recent advancements in GoPro digital video camera technology in conjunction with web-based distribution platforms (Maher and Kerrigan 2016). Identifiable by the term that Henry Jenkins identified back in 2006 as ‘transmedia’, Noirscapes reflects cross-platform media content, the nature of which continues to evolve and which Falzon describes as ‘not only a collection or a relationship between various media, but a new “whole” that is greater than the sum of its parts’ (Falzon 2012, p. 926). The 2016 production of Noirscapes involved two days of filming with car- mounted Go Pros on locations around Los Angeles and its built environment that have been chronicled over many decades through film noir and neo-noir feature films. Rather than an extended documentary, the project consists of several five-minute episodes, each featuring two presenters discussing the history of Los Angeles through a selection of DIGITAL DISRUPTION AND INNOVATION IN DISTRIBUTION: OPPORTUNITIES… 355

film noirs. The films will be viewable in any order, responding to the VOD consumers’ preferences. Distribution and exhibition: A plan around distribution and exhibition will see the utilisation of a multi-platform strategy employing Noirscapes’ branded website, WordPress blog site, Facebook- and YouTube-supported video content; art gallery live events and launches.

In these examples and elsewhere, filmmaking as an NTRO is responding to the challenges and opportunities in form and content creation that online delivery presents through this journey of practice. The discussion in section “Discussion: Branding Digital and Disrupting Distribution” focuses on these aspects.

Discussion: Branding Digital and Disrupting Distribution In line with traditional research, practice-based research is increasingly required to satisfy impact metrics that attempt to measure the extent to which the research may be changing existing practices or knowledge. In subsequent creative practice-based research following Case Study 1, The Brisbane Line, distribution considerations responded to online streaming opportunities that could enhance impact criteria. When it came to designing a distribution strategy for Case Study 2, Queensland Parliament House: The People’s House (2012), distribution targeted the Fairfax Media websites for Sydney Morning Herald web television, The Age web TV service and the Brisbane Times. Each represented a content-hungry site, with Fairfax Media seeking to provide service subscribers with low- to no-cost access to film and video content. Research-based filmmaking that includes the kind of documentary filmmaking addressed in each of the case studies in section “Case Studies: Adapting the Research Film to a Digital Distribution Landscape” represents factual content that is often highly complementary to these and other global news services spanning similar platforms hosted by media companies ranging from the New York Times to Vice Media. The exponential growth in online video that supports the businesses of global brands and organisations provides expanding opportunities to the practice-based researcher, who can be afforded the means of widespread circulation to their international subscriber bases. The FRN survey shows how rare it is for research films to receive funding from distributors, therefore the changes in funding models accompanying digital distribution may have little bearing on the funding of research films. Universities do currently provide a range of avenues for the creation of research films. In a sense, universities provide ‘below-the-line’ support through the employment of academic filmmakers, easy access to high-quality film and 356 S. MAHER AND S. KERRIGAN editing equipment and small amounts of internal ‘cash’ funding. Some might therefore describe universities as a de facto funding source; however, it is important to acknowledge this support is only permitted when the film and the filmmaking can be rationalised inside a research framework like the ARC in Australia or the UK’s Research Excellent Framework (REF). When working within these research agendas, filmmaking academics have considerable free choice in terms of the types of films made, their content and length. Universities do, therefore, facilitate and enable research into screen production in order to produce films as research outputs that can take advantage of digital distribution opportunities, as these can allow (as seen in these case studies), such research films to reach niche audiences/markets. Digital distribution is primarily a response to modes of audio-visual consumption and mobile device behaviours which dictate extremely short form content. This represents a significant challenge for research-based filmmaking, often pursuing complex ideas not easily reduced to such time constraints. Nevertheless, longer form content can be adapted to a series of small episodes: vignettes that explore the kind of form and content experimentation pursued in Noirscapes. As outlined in section “Case Studies: Adapting the Research Film to a Digital Distribution Landscape”, Noirscapes seeks to augment traditional film criticism supplied by a published book, and it employs short films to promote virtual and online interactivity in conjunction with live events. By taking advantage of the high production values afforded though the low- cost camera mobility of GoPro technologies and pursuing an innovative distribution model, Noirscapes is prototyping interdisciplinary and transmedia research. The aim is to increase impact by generating scholarly debate that also invites broad-based online and offline participation. By illustrating how Maher has adapted to digital distribution and exhibition practices, from 2008 to 2018, these case studies highlight the growing importance of designing distribution into filmmaking research practice and how distribution considerations can be extended to include questions of form and content. The research film has traditionally had a niche academic audience, but low-cost access to global audiences through digital distribution means niche no longer necessarily translates into small and insignificant, which is vital for the ongoing sustainability of filmmaking research. The reach of these research films is closely monitored through the engagement and impact agenda that is underway in both Research Excellence Framework (REF) and Excellence in Research for Australia (ERA) exercises. In the short term, university support, as outlined, should enable engagement and impact opportunities to be met, but the longer-term sustainability and impact on industry is, at this stage, hard to predict. While it is unlikely these kinds of support will impinge on industry objectives, primarily because the outputs and audiences generated by research films would be considered insignificant by commercial standards, the kinds of content that academics might produce will probably be more deeply affected by the desires for university funds to address the engagement and impact DIGITAL DISRUPTION AND INNOVATION IN DISTRIBUTION: OPPORTUNITIES… 357 agendas. So, it is likely that future research films will seek distribution strategies that are disruptive simply because they offer direct engagement with niche communities. This kind of impact is demonstrable to research assessment bodies simply because online distribution is more quantifiable through data analytics. As a key means of fostering impact and engagement, digital platforms and content delivery models can ensure the reach of the research film can be multiplied exponentially. This should deliver on impact metrics that foster ongoing sustainability. Digital distribution and web streaming services offer exactitudes of measurement that can serve university impact and engagement metrics. In the same way that web-streamed programmes can be tracked on a granular level by identifying the downloading of specific content to individual accounts, research- based filmmaking can optimise opportunities arising from digital distribution by tracking, measuring and collecting consumption data that provide an empirical basis for reach and impact metrics. The extent to which this may affect the kind of content that is produced within higher education institutions remains unknown. Certainly, documentary filmmaking remains a pre-eminent form amidst research-based filmmaking, as evidenced by the FRN survey, with documentaries constituting 59% of the research films surveyed. To what extent documentary may be adapted to fit broader style factual modes in the face of demand from online providers remains to be seen.

New Distribution Ecology The distribution of documentary across the education sector by web streaming services sees it sit alongside audio-visual content that has never been so widely, nor seemingly, freely available to students and educational professionals and institutions. Screen content in this space is being distributed by a combination of for-profit and non-profit providers and just like the largest Hollywood players, organisations involved in the creation and distribution of educational content have had to adapt in the face of digital disruption or risk obsolescence. The online educational content provider Kanopy was formed in Western Australia in 2008 in response to the opportunities presented by the burgeoning educational market for screen content. Similar to Netflix’s origins, Kanopy commenced with the physical distribution of DVDs then quickly moved into providing an online streaming service. Kanopy’s service enlists pay-for-view subscriptions from universities and public libraries and soon emerged as a market leader, expanding into the North American and UK markets. As discussed, the FRN survey demonstrated how Kanopy serves as a commercial repository for research films. The significance of digital distribution and its impact on research-based filmmaking is evidenced by this single provider arriving into the digital distribution landscape. As of 2018, Kanopy had a global reach in excess of 3000 educational institutions and provided students with online access to over 30,000 titles. 358 S. MAHER AND S. KERRIGAN

The arrival of Kanopy speaks to the determining role of distribution in the global screen ecology, which is evident across the filmmaking spectrum, from the peaks of Hollywood conglomerates to the valleys of independent and research-based filmmakers. Distribution equals audiences, which is why the Hollywood majors have long been focused on the large-scale business of distribution that also mitigates the high risks associated with production slates through pipelines of content creation. Fox, Warner Bros., Columbia, Paramount and Universal are the heritage brand names that function as trademarked badges communicating a star-laden system of quality assurance that continues to adorn Hollywood film and television programming. Since the 1990s, however, the industrial reality behind the iconic Hollywood studios is that they are distribution-centred business units that reside within the labyrinthine corporate structures of global media conglomerates. As media scholars like McChesney and Balio have documented, Time Warner/AOL, Viacom, News Limited, Comcast Sony and Disney make yesteryear’s Hollywood vertical integration seem threadbare by comparison (McChesney 1997; Balio 2013). Despite the oligopoly that has long been held by the ‘Hollywood majors’, their hold on the means of distribution of global entertainment content has been seriously challenged in the face of the upheavals brought about by the online world, with technology players like Apple and Google and altered business models surrounding the consumption of entertainment delivered over the web. As well as Hollywood and theatrical distribution, some of the largest impacts of digital distribution continue to affect and disrupt broadcast television. The profitability of the US networks has been under question since 1988 when audiences were peaking at approximately 500 million. Profits from advertising revenue were controlled and more predictably managed in the highly structured network model, as Lotz describes:

Film studios and independent television producers had only three potential buy- ers of their content and were thus compelled to abide by practice established by the networks. In many cases the networks forced producers to shoulder significant risk while offering limited reward through a system in which the producers financed the complete cost of production and received license fees (payments from the networks) that were often 20 percent less than costs. (Lotz 2014, p. 23)

US television networks, much like Hollywood studios, have been forced to accept similar financial risks, not previously seen. A 2017 report compiled from multiple US television and mobile viewing studies called The Future of TV 2017: Thinking Outside the Box about How We Consume Video (BI Intelligence 2017) reveals live TV usage among adults is in decline, with a 12% reduction in 2016 when compared to 2013 figures. Traditional TV audiences are getting older and millennials are cutting the cable cord (BI Intelligence 2017, p. 4), but what was surprising was that live US sport also lost 7.4 million households in two years (BI Intelligence 2017, p. 6). Figures from 2016 also saw a DIGITAL DISRUPTION AND INNOVATION IN DISTRIBUTION: OPPORTUNITIES… 359 corresponding decline in the production of original television content, with 362 scripted US original series being made, representing a reduction in 13 series compared to the previous year’s peak. (BI Intelligence 2017, p. 12). From this perspective, Australian trends appear to echo developments in the United States, with studies confirming an increase in the preference for mobile device viewing, with a particular increase in social media video viewings (Screen Australia 2018). It is predicted that online video will be a clear winner by 2022 (BI Intelligence 2017, p. 13). This can only be good news for content programming distributed over social media and online video platforms like YouTube, Facebook, Instagram and Twitter. Of particular note was that Facebook’s social video viewership increased by 200% over a 12-month period (2015–2016) (BI Intelligence 2017, p. 46). The increase in Facebook’s audiences for video saw the company’s advertising revenue reach $9.1 billion, creating a social media milestone by surpassing revenues from television for the first time (BI Intelligence 2017, p. 47). In 1997, Netflix could hardly have posed even the smallest of threats to the Hollywood majors and established US broadcast networks as it was a subscription-based business initially relying upon one of the oldest, physical methods of distribution by mailing DVDs to its subscribers. In 2006, the movie rental service shifted to an online streaming service and began to wind down its physical distribution service. There was little about the 1997 Netflix formation that could have prepared established Hollywood players for the behemoth it has become in the intervening 20 years and the challenge it now represents to their core business of entertainment. Netflix, as both a global brand and service, now dominates public and commercial thinking about streaming services. Effectively providing for film and television programming what iTunes under Apple provided for music, Netflix joins born-digital companies such as Amazon, YouTube, Facebook, Google and, to a lesser extent, Yahoo! and Microsoft, to dominate digital delivery of online content. These ‘digital natives’ specialise in the user-friendly, easy-access, low-cost delivery of premium mass-media content. They also prioritise the har- nessing of ‘big data’ in their decision-making, which is redefining thinking around niche audiences. Some of biggest issues facing the new players in online distribution concerns the provision of content. The decision to produce particular programming is determined by consumption patterns recorded by the downloading data supplied by the viewing choices of their subscribers. Emerging particularly strongly through the entry point of distribution, Netflix, Amazon Prime Video and Apple have embarked on the next stage of their forays into the business of entertainment by developing original content for their subscribers. In 2018, Netflix reported an $8 billion production pipeline while forecasts for Amazon predict it will surpass $8 billion by 2022, while Apple is set to rebrand iTunes into a more comprehensive original content provider and spend upwards of $4 billion by 2022 (Wallenstein 2017). 360 S. MAHER AND S. KERRIGAN

Netflix‘s multi-billion-dollar pipeline of original content spans formats and genres including feature films, long form drama series, documentaries, comedy specials and reality TV. As Cunningham and Silver have identified, leading players Google/YouTube, Apple, Amazon, Yahoo!, Facebook, Netflix and Hulu are seeking to establish themselves as global screen networks (Cunningham and Silver 2013, p. 64). After surveying what each of these providers has to offer, they conclude that each business model offers a range of original content and, where varying degrees of innovation can be seen in the development of ubiquitous access mixed with low-end and user-generated content, ‘there is much experimentation with a wide range of original content, a level of “off- Broadway” professional, pro-am and tyro experimentation not typically seen before in the professional TV space’ (Cunningham and Silver 2013, p. 105). Prior to digital disruption, the issue of convergence dominated the discourse, but both phenomena continue to reconfigure the filmmaking landscape and research-based filmmaking is offered hitherto unseen opportunities in the face of these changes. The challenges facing research-based filmmaking speaks much more to opportunities posed by these digital affordances, provided an innovation model is embraced that produces experimentation in the form and content of research-based filmmaking.

Conclusion The opportunities stemming from the digital transformations affecting distribution has enormous bearing on all content makers and spans research-based filmmaking from pro-am and YouTube-style content all the way to the Hollywood majors. Despite practice-led filmmaking as research becoming a mainstay in universities across Australia, the United States and United Kingdom, in line with traditional research in film, television and media, the emphasis has, more often than not, focused on the production of content. In part, this has been driven by performance-based research metrics and objectives that rely on quantifiable outcomes, leading to the research film as artefact and as targeting niche and often highly specialised audiences. While the issue of widespread distribution and access may have traditionally been a low priority, recent developments in research-based film festivals and commercial educational digital depositories that provide online streaming services means there has never been a greater opportunity for filmmaking produced within the academy to reach wider and more diverse audiences. Initiatives that combine conferences and film festivals, research depositories and web streaming services constitute a burgeoning educational framework enabling research-based filmmaking to extend its potential impact as it circulates through educational and research- based digital distribution networks. As audience behaviours continue to be determined by an array of online affordances, this changes the kind of content being watched as well as how and when those audiences are watching it. Short form video content reflects the peripatetic engagement promoted by the kinds of devices and social media DIGITAL DISRUPTION AND INNOVATION IN DISTRIBUTION: OPPORTUNITIES… 361 platforms on which it is consumed. Digital disruption now manifests as opportunities that can facilitate content reaching audiences across multiple platforms that cater for new types of pro-am and professional content. These new avenues of digital distribution are enhancing the place for the academic research films that seek to use the intellectual potential of the medium to inform and advance understandings in innovative ways.

Acknowledgements The FRN survey results were funded through the Arts and Humanities Research Council (grant no. AH/P005713/1), led by Joanna Callaghan, University of Sussex, UK, and Associate Professor Susan Kerrigan, University of Newcastle, Australia.

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Ella Barclay and Alex Munt

Introduction In one of the interviews conducted for this research, we spoke with Bree Pickering, the director at the Murray Art Museum (MAMA) who stated: ‘I can fairly confidently say that Australian video artists are leading the way in terms of video art, especially as it relates to integrating installation into the conceptual and material process’ (B. Pickering, personal interview, 10 June 2018). Here, Pickering mirrors the primary aim of this chapter, to ascertain the relationship between the conceptualisation of contemporary artists’ moving image work and the ways in which this informs its installation in the gallery, and the experience of art audiences. Moreover, her view confirms our intuition that Australian artists working in moving image production are holding their own on the global stage. Prior to her role at MAMA, Bree Pickering was based in the United States, as museum director at Vox Populi in Philadelphia and, before that, as curator of the Australian Embassy in Washington DC. In other words, hers is an informed and respected opinion. With a focus on the Australian context, we have chosen to profile recent work by four emerging to mid-career Australian artists working with the moving image in contemporary art spaces: Brian Fuata, Pia van Gelder, Biljana Jancic and Angelica Mesiti. Given the parameters of a concise chapter, this is a finite selection of artists. Our criteria were based on two main elements. Firstly,

E. Barclay Australian National University, Canberra, ACT, Australia

A. Munt (*) University of Technology Sydney, Sydney, NSW, Australia e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s) 2019 363 C. Batty et al. (eds.), The Palgrave Handbook of Screen Production, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-21744-0_28 364 E. BARCLAY AND A. MUNT that the artists selected have engaged at a sophisticated level towards the installation of their work in a gallery environment and the way in which the work meets an audience. Secondly, from a phenomenological perspective, we wanted to write about work we had experienced ourselves. The four exhibitions discussed here were held in Sydney spaces from 2012 to 2018. The research includes interviews conducted with the artists and curators involved. We were keen to have their voices interspersed within the critical and scholarly framework provided. This chapter aims to contribute to work on artists’ moving image in an Australian context and be of interest to scholars, contemporary artists and those engaged in the hybridisation of research and production activities in ‘creative practice research’ as a (relatively) new model of humanities research within the academy (see Batty and Kerrigan 2018). Since the 1990s there has been a clear upward trend in the number of moving image artworks produced and shown in contemporary galleries and art spaces. For curator Michael Newman, ‘it has become practically impossible to walk around the gallery district of a major city, or visit a biennial, triennial or art fair, without seeing a large number of artworks consisting of images that move’ (Comer 2009, p. 88). In fact, for artist and theorist Hito Steyerl, contemporary biennials program a total duration of moving image artworks greater than it is possible to view within the given time period (Steyerl and Berardi 2012). With the migration of the moving image from the cinema theatre to the art gallery there has been a radical shift in the way in which an audience confronts the work. For screen and architectural theorist Giuliana Bruno, ‘motion pictures have now actually moved. To a certain extent, they have changed address’ (Bruno 2007: 234). For theorist Erika Balsom (2013: 40), the ‘Black Box/White Cube’ dichotomy is significant, in that:

the object found within the art gallery is framed by the space around it in such a manner as to radically change the meanings attached to it. Accordingly, the exhibition space must not be seen as a mere container, but a meta medium to be investigated. It is the means by which art is made visible and knowable to those who consume it.

The hybridisation of moving image artworks is of interest here, and so we set out specifically to examine the ways in which works meet their audience. Questions of the diversity, spatiality and site-specificity of artists’ moving image work will be explored in relation to case studies. We aim to show the ways in which the contingency of contemporary art spaces—white, or increasingly grey (industrial), cubes—informs the conception, production and installation of the work. In order to understand the ways in which artists approach the installation of moving image work for the gallery, the concept of the dispositif proves useful. Balsom employs this term when she says, ‘the gallery does not simply serve as a neutral, protective container for the moving image, but produces a new cinematic dispositif through its particular discursive and institutional framing and DISPOSITIFS AT PLAY: ARTISTS’ MOVING IMAGES IN THE GALLERY 365 the various practices associated with it’ (Balsom 2013: 40). To add to this, screen theorist Adrian Martin (writing about ‘black box’ and ‘white cube’ scenarios) refers to the dispositif as an ‘an apparatus, arrangement or set-up of interrelated pieces or elements’ (Martin 2014: xiii). He speaks to the dual status of the term dispositif in that it refers to both ‘a mixture of aesthetic properties and social-historical conditions’ which define a medium, and the parameters of a given work (Martin 2014: 189). That is, the dispositif may refer to the historical passage of the moving image across eras or in relation to the distinct properties of a particular artwork or exhibition in this context. The theoretical armature of the dispositif is grounded in post-structuralism and is linked to Raymond Bellour’s La Querelle des dispositifs (The Quarrel of the Dispositifs) (Bellour 2012), in which he contrasts the traditional black box ‘cinematic’ dispositif with the excessive heterogeneity—near singularity—of white cube dispositifs at play in the gallery. Daniel Fairfax highlights this, in his translation of Bellour, in the introduction for a recent issue of Senses of Cinema devoted to ‘Cinema and the Museum’:

the author argues in favour of a clear distinction between the cinematic dispositif (a term French film theory uses to refer not only to the apparatus of filmic recording and projection, but to the system of viewing practices as a whole), and the multiple, ceaselessly re-invented dispositifs of moving images as displayed in galleries ... for what he dubs ‘the quarrel of the dispositifs’. (Fairfax 2018)

For Martin, another way to describe the ‘ceaseless reinvention’ of dispositifs for artists’ moving image work is to say that, in fact, ‘installation could be another workable translation of dispositif ’ (2014: 188, his emphasis). Martin notes the work of Anne-Marie Duguet in her ‘pioneering’ application of the dispositif in art criticism (Duguet 1988: 188). This synchronises with our analysis of the Australian artists discussed here, as they offer diverse approaches to the installation of their work with regard to the space of the gallery and an intended audience experience. With an understanding of the dispositif as ‘the arrangement of diverse elements in such a way to trigger, guide and organise a set of actions’ (Martin 2014: 179), these case studies aim to uncover the dispositifs at play for the works discussed.

Document Art curator Chrissie Iles notes that most artists arrived at the moving image medium (from the late 1950s) via sculpture, photography, drawing, sound or performance (Iles and Whitney Museum of American Art 2001: 34). In this context, the wider historical art movements of pop art, minimalism, conceptual and performance-based art were (re)calibrated with respect to the ‘new’ medium arriving in the gallery. In performance art, a convergence took place between the radical art practices of this domain and the accessibility of consumer-grade film and video-recording technologies to document the 366 E. BARCLAY AND A. MUNT experimental, often controversial, works for posterity. Seminal artists working with moving image-based documentation of their work in the gallery included Mike Parr, Marina Abramović, Yayoi Kusama and Chris Burden. Shoot (Burden 1971) is an early example where film footage was recorded depicting the artist being (actually) shot in the gallery and contributed a significant dimension to the ‘work’—post-event. This confluence led to questions about the status and authenticity of an artwork—which could be taken as either the performance itself, or its documentation as moving image. Art historian Peggy Phelan is one who is sceptical of the divide between ephemeral performance art in the gallery and its representation, which she argues serves to com- modify an inherently disruptive, political and transient art practice. She says, ‘performance honours the idea that a limited number of people in a specific time/place can have an experience of value which leaves no visible trace afterward’ (Phelan 1993: 18). However, this view is largely outmoded today, with a reassessment of the documentation of performance art as an important legacy, archive and resource for younger artists. The founding curator and director of Performa New York, RoseLee Goldberg, asserts, ‘the history of documentation is the history of performance’ (Giannachi and Westerman 2017: 26). Brian Fuata is a contemporary artist who has engaged with the history, and tension, between performance art in the gallery and its documentation. Fuata is of Samoan descent and works across moving image and performance-based art. He has garnered an international reputation for an interpolation of media. His Apparitional Charlatan: A Revisionist Account of an Arbitrary Historical Category of Dance Film is a Performance of our Time Together on Stage Before Class ... (Fuata 2015) is a moving image artwork rendered in the form of an Apple operating system (OS) screensaver (Fig. 1). The work was conceived for, and installed, as a large-scale work within the ‘grey cube’ at Carriageworks in Redfern, Sydney, as a part of the group exhibition, 24 Frames per Second, curated by Beatrice Gralton and Nina Miall, in 2015. Fuata engaged a videog- rapher to document his a priori performance (bodily performance in front of the camera) within a ‘white cube’ contemporary art gallery nested within the industrial architecture of Carriageworks—the Anna Schwartz Gallery. He then removed his bodily presence from the documentation, leaving the gallery space as the visual residue. The result is an endless loop of roaming camera shots through the empty white gallery space. Fuata then worked with installation and sound designer Dave Meckin to superimpose 214 randomly ordered slides, which featured text drawn from the artist’s notes after viewing 78 performance videos, curated by American poet Kenneth Goldsmith for his online repository of experimental and artists’ moving images: UbuWeb (Goldsmith 2011). The notes refer to documentation videos of performance art across the twentieth century, of work by, among others, Xavier Le Roy, Gordon Matta-Clark, Yvonne Rainer and Carolee Schneemann. Fuata’s notes and phrases extracted from the archive materialise as large-scale white text DISPOSITIFS AT PLAY: ARTISTS’ MOVING IMAGES IN THE GALLERY 367

Fig. 1 Apparitional Charlatan: A Revisionist Account of an Arbitrary Historical Category of Dance Film is a Performance of our Time Together on Stage Before Class ... (Brian Fuata (2015). Photo: Zan Wimberly. Courtesy of the artist) superimposed over images of the empty white cube gallery space. Any trace of Fuata’s body is erased in the montage. Apparitional Charlatan forms an exploration of the relationship between the forms and aesthetics of digital media and the history of performance art, and its documentation, in the gallery. The work engages with notions of presence and absence, and speaks to the transience of the medium. Fuata says: ‘I was primarily thinking about performance documentation as itself a live performance. The work presents a simple idea of liveness to be an infinitesimal configuration of set content’ (B. Fuata, personal interview, 25 April 2018). While arguably viewing the documentation of performance presents a less transformative experience than a live encounter with the work, the sheer excess of archival artists’ moving images accessible in online archives today allows contemporary artists to build extensive personal knowledge bases that, in turn, can be referenced and resurrected in their own moving image-based gallery practices. The components of Fuata’s dispositif for Apparitional Charlatan might be summarised as: the erasure/disappearance of the body of the artist; the projection of generic ‘white cube’ gallery spatiality within a ‘grey cube’ art space; and the ‘remediation’ (Bolter and Grusin 1999) of video documentation in the form of a desktop OS screensaver which is generated by an algorithm to randomly generate the artwork, providing a new iteration for each viewer. This playful execution of a performance work concurs with the articulation of a dis- 368 E. BARCLAY AND A. MUNT positif as ‘a game with rules, where the execution of the game’s moves – the following of the rules – generates outcomes’ (Martin 2014: 179, his emphasis).

Signal The year 1963 was significant for artists’ moving image work as the year in which the consumer television set was hijacked as both sculptural form and medium. For Exposition of Music: Electronic Television at Galerie Parnass, Nam June Paik installed 12 domestic TV sets, modified to disrupt signals and images from live broadcasting, while Wolf Vostell’s Television Dé-collage at Smolin Gallery encouraged the audience to interact with six TV sets as a ‘collage’ of moving images the same year (Bennett 2016). A. L. Rees, experimental film and video theorist, citing the work of video ‘glitch’ pioneers Woody and Steina Vasulka, notes that ‘Video art was also medium-specific in its early days, exploiting direct playback as well as interference with the electronic signal’ (Manasseh 2009: 59). The installation of the monitor within the gallery (a space historically reserved for painting and sculpture) and the notion of wilful error, or deliberate misuse, linked to audience participation, has resurfaced in recent moving image artworks by Pia van Gelder. In her Eyes Without a Face (2012) and AV Bells (2011), van Gelder invites the art gallery audience to interact with and ‘regenerate’ the artwork using patterns of signal interference delivered by bespoke machines. Consistent with Brian Fuata’s Apparitional Charlatan, van Gelder exploits the factors of contingency which defines artists’ moving image work in the gallery. This serves as another example of the way in which audiences today meet, and interact, with such contemporary works:

I always imagine myself as being the person who sets up the opportunity for the machine to be listened to. I think they’re the doers and I’m the facilitator. But if this facilitating is the only thing that the audience notices, they are responding through a preconceived hierarchy. The interactions are never meant to be solos because I am trying to reveal a collaboration between machines and [the user]. Pia van Gelder (in Barclay 2011: 21)

For Eyes without a Face, the viewer is invited to interact with an analogue modular synthesiser triggered by hand gestures. A camera is positioned above a table, with a small spotlight on the table, so that when a viewer places their hands on the table, they see their hands appear on the monitor and are able to modify and play with different sound and video waves via hand articulations. This work speaks to the 1970s video art of Steina and Woody Vasulka, who introduced live video-processing practices to the gallery space. In this work, where video is an instrument, the gallery audience is invited to modulate sound and video oscillations and subsequently compose their own interactive (and performative) viewing experience. In this sense, van Gelder has invented a video machine with a sensory capacity in relation to the gallery environment, which defines thedispositif for this DISPOSITIFS AT PLAY: ARTISTS’ MOVING IMAGES IN THE GALLERY 369 work. The artist says: ‘This produces several layers of video which can be distinguished by their coloured channels, red, green and blue. The blue layer is the original source image from the video camera. This image produces shifts in the frequencies of the control-voltage which modulates every other oscillator’ (P. van Gelder, personal interview, 20 April 2018). In Eyes Without a Face, van Gelder’s deliberate misalignments determine the conditions within which the audience interact with the work and compose a moving image work via their own creative processes of experimentation delivered via hand gestures. In another one of van Gelder’s works, AV Bells (van Gelder 2011), the viewer again interacts with a series of signals, calibrated for the work, using glass ‘bells’ to change the audio-visual frequencies on the three monitors installed in the gallery. A crossing of signals creates various sounds and patterns on the monitors and this kind of cross-channelled, unexpected or ‘misbehaving’ feedback is what the audience is invited to explore. This represents another example where contingency, through error and chance, creates a critical distance from commodified and industrial modes of moving image production, for which stability is essential. It is the frictions, or accidents, which van Gelder exploits and places (literally) in the hands of the audience. She says:

I tend to connect things and play in the studio until I have something that seems to work ... I enjoy finding a patch that behaves in a way that is unexpected. Things get out of control and seem to start making themselves. If I can step back from the machine and look and listen and think ‘How on earth is that happening?’, then I’m happy. This takes a lot of fiddling and fine tuning, or knobbing. (P. van Gelder, personal interview, 20 April 2018)

Knobbing in this context can be theorised as seeking nuanced and specific calibrations by tweaking multiple buttons and turning knobs on electronic devices such as bespoke synthesisers. The installation of both artworks discussed here, which are very much ‘live’ in the electrical sense, demand careful planning on the part of the artist. The machines are designed to misbehave whilst remaining safe for public engagement. In the work of Pia van Gelder, the moving image, via audio-visual apparatus, makes the work itself contingent upon an engagement of the user. This model of artist as ‘facilitator’ serves to critique conventional modes of authorship. Van Gelder’s dispositifs are defined by a literal arrangement of parts in the form of an artist’s machine—a digital continuation of analogue-signal medium-specific video art of the 1960s–70s.

Space Biljana Jancic is a contemporary artist who works across media creating sculptural, surface articulated forms and moving image components, produced both with a camera lens and exploring default signals of audio-visual projection (Fig. 2). She has a preference for industrial materials, and collides physical with virtual (moving image) forms in this context. For Jancic, a layering of forms 370 E. BARCLAY AND A. MUNT

Fig. 2 Biljana Jancic, Surface Tension (2017). (Courtesy of the artist and UTS ART. Photo: Biljana Jancic)

‘complicate the relationship between the real and virtual dimensions of the image today’ (B. Jancic, personal interview, 20 April 2018). She has developed a site-specific practice to produce (often large-scale) spatial interventions within the confines of the gallery. Her favoured materials include painted PVC pipe, reflective mirror tape, chromakey adhesives and the ‘default’ blue signal of digital projectors. Jancic juxtaposes moving images alongside sculpture, painting and photography, and her work can be situated, from an art history perspective, in relation to the Suprematism of the early twentieth century and Minimalism since the 1960s, where artists have ‘engaged the viewer in a phenomenological experience of objects in relation to the architectural dimensions of the gallery – not to pictorial space – transforming actual space into a perceptual field’ (Iles and Whitney Museum of American Art 2001). In her practice, Jancic situates the moving image as industrial projection, optical illusion and reflection, in order to transform the physical space of the gallery. The site-specificity of Jancic’sdispositifs are of interest to this research into the ways artists approach the installation of their work within the gallery. Surface Tension (Jancic 2017), at UTS Art, consolidates the artist’s work in A Beach (Beneath), for Primavera 2016 at the Museum of Contemporary Art (MCA), where she relied on the default, iridescent blue projections to critique the supposed neutrality of a prime metropolitan ‘white box’ art gallery space. This analysis of Surface Tension focuses on its conceptualisation and installation in relation to the history and architectonic qualities of the UTS Art gallery space, and explores the ways in which the artist responds to the gallery in an institutional context. UTS Art is only thematically a white cube space, in the sense that it is glazed, and susceptible to daylight, on its longitudinal axis. DISPOSITIFS AT PLAY: ARTISTS’ MOVING IMAGES IN THE GALLERY 371

Rather than being a purpose-built art gallery, it was designed as a generic space for academic or commercial display prior to becoming home to the gallery. In an interview with UTS Art curator Tania Creighton, the space was originally described as a generic ‘mixed use’ zone (T. Creighton, personal interview, 17 June 2018). The gallery operates as a kind of institutional ‘fishbowl’ defined by curtain-wall glazing, with views to an external courtyard to one side and a busy stairwell atrium on the other, congested with student traffic from the Faculty of Design, Architecture and Building at the University of Technology Sydney (UTS). The gallery is naturally lit by vast amounts of daylight—a condition that has presented challenges for moving image artists, with the solution typically found in the installation of micro ‘black boxes’ for audio-visual consistency. In contrast, for Jancic, daylight and the patterning of light and shadow across the gallery space formed a central part of her dispositif in this location. In Surface Tension, Jancic developed site-specific ‘moving images’ for the gallery which took the form of vectors of industrial aluminium ‘mirror’ tape (which reflect real-time movement in the gallery environment) and a two- channel projection of foliage and shadows, in response to the interplay of natural light seeping through the architectural brise soleil to the courtyard (Munt 2017). For Claudia Arozqueta, this work, experienced as a ‘compelling optical illusion leads to an ambiguous atmosphere: an intermediate space between indoors and outside’ (Arozqueta 2017). Consistent with the other case studies examined here, there is again contingency at play in relation to the reflectivity of the industrial materials combined with the reflections in the glazed surfaces of the gallery which produce an infinite variation of a subtle interplay of bodies, forms, light and space. Jancic draws our attention to the flicker of light and shadow play which dismantles the expectations of white cube-style spaces. With respect to the large-scale projections, for Jancic, ‘It wasn’t so important to me that the images be well defined. I was much more interested in installing projections that looked like they were receding into the architecture and that felt like they were integrated into the space, rather than floating above it’ (B. Jancic, personal interview, 2018). The two-channel ‘soft’ blurred video images contrast with the late modernist architectural language of the gallery to produce a dissolution, and merging, of interior and exterior space.

Channels Since the late 2000s, a clear trend in artists’ moving image work has been towards a ‘cinematic’ aesthetic allied to the production values of industrial film production models. Here, the moving image artist takes the role of a film auteur—creatively directing the various ‘departments’ of production and post- production, from performance and choreography, to cinematography, production design (and costume) to post-production, including editing, colour grading, digital effects and nuanced sound design. In addition, ‘talent’ has been drawn from blockbuster cinema, including Cate Blanchett for Julian Rosefeldt’s Manifesto (2014); Maggie Cheung and Zhao Tao for Isaac Julien’s 372 E. BARCLAY AND A. MUNT

Ten Thousand Waves (2010); and James Franco for Julien’s follow-up work, Playtime (2013). A rationale, for the convergence of Hollywood-style production aesthetics and artists’ moving image artworks, is a case of both the high-profile exposure that a celebrity actor can bring to an (oversaturated) art market and the recent shift to high-resolution digital moving image technologies that are affordable and accessible for artists today. However, while moving image production for the black box (cinema theatre) and the white cube may increasingly share a cinematic aesthetic, there remains a clear differentiation when it comes to the dispositifs at play. For artists’ moving image installation, ‘the multiplication of screens may induce absorption into a panoramic spectacle’ (Newman 2009: 88). In Rosefeldt’s Manifesto, 13 channels were utilised (each with a central performance by Blanchett), while Julien’s immersive gallery ‘films’ rely on nine channels for Ten Thousand Waves and seven for Playtime. The dispositif shared by these artists dislocates the cinematic image from its fixed, singular screen position in a darkened theatre, to provide a much more fluid, and navigable, experience for a contemporary art audience. This conforms to the idea put forward by Chrissie Iles that, ‘content becomes space and space content’ as artists seek to engulf their audience ‘with images and sound rather than physical walls’, resulting in a dematerialisation of the fabric of the art gallery (in Suderburg 2000: 255). The work of Australian moving image artist Angelica Mesiti is also consistent with industrial screen production models as she collaborates with film producers, cinematographers, sound designers and post-production creatives. Mesiti, whose work has been described in the popular media as ‘cinematic and mesmerising’ (Carey 2018), is Australia’s representative for the 58th Venice Biennale (2019). Her successful oeuvre is defined by explorations in the multi- modality of language in human communication. The Colour of Saying (2015) is a three-channel moving image work in which a choir performs Serenade to Music (1938) in silence, using the hand gestures of sign language in lieu of vocal communication. The work is punctuated with moments of percussive clapping to mediate the ‘silent’ language, which extends to a rendition of Swan Lake, via hand gestures, to express the traditional steps in the choreography of the work.1 The Colour of Saying (2015) was installed in the above-mentioned Anna Schwartz gallery—during the same year in which Brian Fuata recorded, then erased, his performance for Apparitional Charlatan in this very space. For the installation of The Colour of Saying (2015), Mesiti carefully considered the placement of the three screens (channels), which were arranged obliquely in relation to the orthogonality of the white cube space. Most distinctive in Mesiti’s dispositif for her large-scale, multi-screen works (and in contrast to the international works already discussed) is her decision to ground the screens to the stra- tum of the floor. This is, in fact, the inverse of Julien’s tendency to have screens that appear to ‘float’ in the installation of his works. For Mesiti’s audience, this means the work is consumed at eye level and that the images of the bodies that feature in the work reflect the human scale of being in the world.

1 http://www.angelicamesiti.com/selectedworks#/the-colour-of-saying/ DISPOSITIFS AT PLAY: ARTISTS’ MOVING IMAGES IN THE GALLERY 373

To return to the views of Bree Pickering, where we started this chapter, Mesiti ‘uses screen location to shift the viewer’s relationship to the subject in the same way an installation artist or sculptor might – manipulating space to adjust the viewer’s physical relationship to the work thereby generating a whole of body response’ (B. Pickering, personal interview, June 2018). In relation to the anthro- pomorphic dimension of Mesiti’s dispositif, she adds that although ‘the multichannel works seem monumental when first apprehended in an exhibition space, the experience of viewing each channel is intimate and quite personal, which is critical given the content’ (B. Pickering, personal interview, June 2018). Here, she identifies a correlation between Mesiti’s preference for a specific horizontaldisposi - tif and the social aspects of the work that deal with the physical performance, gesture and choreography of the body and its communicative potential. That is, ‘for Mesiti, the body serves as both subject and object, a means with which to mark time and an instrument for creating rhythmic beats’ (Richards 2018).

Conclusion For this chapter, devoted to new Australian artists’ moving image in the gallery, our intuition has been confirmed. That is, in our ‘local’ context there is evidence of a body of sophisticated and nuanced works which critically examine the ways in which moving image artwork is installed and received in contemporary gallery spaces. In this research we have employed the concept of the dispositif, frequently associated with film criticism, to further an understanding of artists’ installation practices, and to deploy a working term which can be utilised to speak to the diversity of arrangements in the apparatus and spatial display of the work, tightly integrated with its conceptual framework. The dispositifs at play in the diverse works represented here reflect both continuity with the history of the moving image in the gallery and the ways in which these forms are remediated in the digital era. The impact of the democratisation of moving image production, its accessibility and affordability has been critical for production and post-production in this context. The art gallery has historically presented the viewing and spectatorship of moving image artists’ work as problematic, due to levels of light and audio intrusion. However, in the work of the artists examined here, this very contingency of the gallery presents a renewed opportunity to engage with, critique, interact with or dematerialise the space. This new agenda finds form with regard to the specific dispositifs‘ at play’ we have identified for each artwork and directly impact upon the audience experience. For Fuata, a performance work encased within an algorithmically generated OS screensaver; for van Gelder, the misbehaving oscillations of sound and video ‘facilitated’ by the artist; for Jancic, a site-specific critique of the homogeneity of white cube gallery space; and for Mesiti, an embrace of the human scale in large-scale, immersive moving image works. The contemporary spaces here are all Sydney-based and our work suggests that this model of examining the conceptual foundations of Australian artists’ moving image works may be extended into other cities, territories, or indeed regional, and even remote, exemplars of such work that seeks to engage diverse audiences with inventive and playful dispositifs in the gallery. 374 E. BARCLAY AND A. MUNT

References Arozqueta, C. (2017). Biljana Jancic at UTS Gallery. Retrieved from https://www. artforum.com/picks/biljana-jancic-67177 Balsom, E. (2013). Exhibiting Cinema in Contemporary Art. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. Barclay, E. (2011). Are ‘Friends’ Electric. Runway Magazine, 20, 18–21. Batty, C., & Kerrigan, S. (2018). Screen Production Research: Creative Practice as a Mode of Enquiry. Cham: Palgrave Macmillan. Bellour, R. (2012). La Querelle des dispositifs: Cinéma, Installations, Expositions. Paris: POL. Bennett, O. (2016, January 7). ‘Images in Motion: The Rise of Video Art.’ Art Fund. Bolter, J. D., & Grusin, R. (1999). Remediation: Understanding New Media. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Bruno, G. (2007). Public Intimacy: Architecture and the Visual Arts. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Burden, C. (1971). Shoot. Los Angeles: F Space. Carey, P. (2018). Artist Angelica Mesiti Selected to Represent Australia at the 2019 Venice Biennale. ABC Arts. https://www.abc.net.au/news/2018-03-09/angelicamesiti-is-selected-for-the-venice-biennale/9533660. Retreived 28 Sep 2019. Comer, S. (2009). Film and Video Art. London: Tate. Duguet, A. (1988). Dispositifs. Communications, 48(1), 221–242. Fairfax, D. (2018). Introduction: The Quarrel of the Dispositifs: Reprise. In Cinema and the Museum, Special Issue: Senses of Cinema. http://sensesofcinema.com/2018/ cinema-and-the-museum/the-quarrel-of-the-dispositifs/. Retrieved 28 Sep 2019. Fuata, B. (2015). Apparitional Charlatan – A Revisionist Account of an Arbitrary Historical Category of Dance Film Is a Performance of Our Time Together on Stage Before Class …. Sydney: Carriageworks. Giannachi, G., & Westerman, J. (2017). Histories of Performance Documentation: Museum, Artistic, and Scholarly Practices. Milton: Routledge Ltd.. Goldsmith, K. (2011). Ubu Web. Retrieved from http://www.ubu.com/resources/ Iles, C., & Whitney Museum of American Art. (2001). Into the Light: The Projected Image in American Art, 1964–1977. New York: Whitney Museum of American Art. Jancic, B. (2017). Surface Tension. Sydney: UTS Art. Manasseh, C. (2009). The Problematic of Video Art in the Museum, 1968–1990. Amherst: Cambria Press. Martin, A. (2014). Mise en Scène and Film Style: From Classical Hollywood to New Media Art. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Mesiti, A. (2015). The Colour of Saying. Sydney: Anna Schwartz Gallery. Munt, A. (2017). Catalogue Essay: Surface Tension. Sydney: UTS Art. Newman, M. (2009). Moving Image in the Gallery Since the 1990s. In S. Comer (Ed.), Film and Video Art. London: Tate. Phelan, P. (1993). In 1st ed. (Ed.), Unmarked: The Politics of Performance. London: Routledge. Richards, B. (2018). Angelica Mesiti. Retrieved from https://nga.gov.au/installations/mesiti/default.cfm Steyerl, H., & Berardi, F. (2012). The Wretched of the Screen. Berlin: Cc2012: Sternberg Press. Suderburg, E. (Ed.). (2000). Space, Site, Intervention. Minneapolis/Oxford: University of Minnesota Press. van Gelder, P. (2011). AV Bells. Melbourne: Westspace. van Gelder, P. (2012). Eyes Without a Face. Sydney: Artspace. Mobile Reception: Materiality and Locality with Small Screens

Bettina Frankham and Chris Caines

Introduction Mobile screens have always been intimate displays. Attached to uniquely personal devices that rarely leave our sides and linked to networks that carry our most intimate communications, these screens provide a boutique set of opportunities and challenges for screen-based productions. In this chapter we examine these affordances and restrictions with particular focus on what sets these mobile screens apart from other screens as sites of reception and distribution. We particularly focus on the materialities of these devices, the key aspects of the locative and the nature of mobile devices as networked screens. We also examine the juxtaposition between the mobile functioning as both an extremely personal device while also acting as a site of consumption and distribution. As Farman posits (2016), the mobile can be considered not a medium as such but instead a locus that draws together a wide and diverse range of apps, practices and histories in one material networked form. In essence, mobile reception refers to a multi-stranded medium where elements can operate separately or combine into the hybrid forms that make the mobile a distinctive platform. We draw on two key case study exemplars from mobile-based media art productions that have made sophisticated use of these properties in ways that distinguish mobile screen work as a modality with its own language, aesthetic rules and creative production strategies. Karen by the UK artist collective Blast Theory (2015a) and The City of Forking Paths by the Canadian duo Cardiff and Miller (2014) display a nuanced sensitivity to the material circumstances of

B. Frankham (*) • C. Caines University of Technology Sydney, Sydney, Australia e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s) 2019 375 C. Batty et al. (eds.), The Palgrave Handbook of Screen Production, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-21744-0_29 376 B. FRANKHAM AND C. CAINES mobile screen production while achieving very different outcomes. In these examples we are looking at how media artists are continuing a tradition of experimentation with the materiality of new mediums and how this contributes to developing the language of the medium. We examine how the particular properties of the mobile screen influence the type of content that is produced. This examination ranges from the nature of the stories that sit well in the medium to the types of physical and virtual interaction that distinguish these screens from other networked screens.

The Specificity of Mobile Transmission Miniaturisation and the widespread availability of mobile data networks have enabled a broad diversity of what digital mobile media can be. As Farman notes ‘nearly all digital devices fall under the category of “mobile”’ (Farman 2016, p. xii). In this chapter, however, we are being very specific in focusing on mobile devices with screens that can deliver sound and moving images. In particular, through the examples we consider, the focus is on smartphones and pocket media players (such as iPods) as points where personal communication (as transmitted by messaging, video chat and other social apps) and media consumption (specifically of music, sound, still and moving images) converge. Mobile as a delivery platform brings with it a wide range of technical variations that a maker must consider (Heyward 2014, pp. 121–133). Not just the divergence in operating systems, (Android, iOS, Windows Phone) but also differences in screen size, how the device fits into the user’s hands, aspects of telecommunication infrastructure such as mobile network access, wireless network access, as well as more localised interaction with other apps on the device such as alarms, calendars and notifications. The physicality of our connections to these devices and the ways we negotiate ‘familiar embodied and sensory’ relationships with content on smartphones through touch (Pink et al. 2015, p. 238) demonstrate the uniqueness of smartphones when it comes to engaging with media. Drawing these particularities back up to the surface for consideration permits a more deliberate approach to practice that is critically and aesthetically active while simultaneously striving to offer content that is opti- mised for these exhibition circumstances. Despite the seemingly intangible nature of moving image and sound, there are, nonetheless, concrete, material circumstances connected with delivering content via a mobile device. This force of materiality on shaping content is reinforced by McLuhan’s media theory, which Casemajor says highlights ‘how the physical constraints of media shape the way information is produced’ (2015, p. 5). Not only then is the McLuhan-esque dictum that ‘the medium is the message’ relevant to our examination of the mobile device, but it also draws in the digital context of networks, software frameworks and device capabilities that comprise the specificities of this mode of screen content delivery. An understanding of these material circumstances grants creators of mobile media opportunities to take advantage of particular affordances or find ways to MOBILE RECEPTION: MATERIALITY AND LOCALITY WITH SMALL SCREENS 377 accommodate device limitations. Characteristics such as being able to hold the device in your hand and move around while engaging with the screen are perhaps taken-for-granted features of viewing content on a smartphone. Yet these fundamental affordances have far-reaching consequences for the kinds of content that can succeed in a mobile ecology that is growing in significance. The Deloitte Mobile Consumer Survey 2017 found that ‘[a]round 70 percent of 18–34 year olds watch videos on their smartphone weekly’ (Drumm et al. 2017, p. 12). In this itinerant context, makers of non-site-specific mobile content need to think about where their users might be physically located (on a bus, in the bathroom, walking down the street) when experiencing the work. The cinema, lounge or even the desktop computer screen are no longer the given as predominant venues for screen media. In addition, touch screens on mobile devices permit almost frictionless interaction with and between content elements—a feature which can be linked to a preference for media elements that are short and readily combined or linked with other similarly granular elements. It is a landscape where conventional rules for screen media production and how it is exhibited are being rethought and reimagined.

Our Intimate Devices A common defining quality of locative and mobile media since it began to be recognised as a distinct form has been the effect of personal intimacy (Ito 2005), where a direct one-on-one relationship with the user/listener/viewer/ reader is enabled. Works are often experienced solo, they whisper in your ear, relate personal stories and provide intimate experiences for you alone moving through that place at that time, or so they are designed to feel. A large part of this effect comes from the pre-existing, particularly private relationship we have with our mobile phones. Works that use mobiles for delivery and interaction in space are also freighted with the emotional bond we have with these most personal of devices and all for which they contain and serve as a conduit. The Sony Walkman is often cited as the progenitor to the intimacy effect present in mobile devices and media (Okada 2005). As a device for the delivery of personal music and sound, it sat at the intersection of the public and private, pioneering the experience of personal media combined with public space, generating in that intersection a personal cinema that included all you could see, generated by the juxtaposition of how you were choosing to soundtrack the spaces you were inhabiting and moving through.

Audio and Mobile Screens Audio over mobile devices (especially mobile phones) carries all the historical associations and conventions of the personal phone call, freighted with the intimacy of a lifetime of one-on-one direct voice-to-ear conversations. The reception experience of media works that use an intimate mode of address via audio as a central content strategy colours the way that the entire project is 378 B. FRANKHAM AND C. CAINES received by an audience, giving it the register of the personal and intimate through a mix of body memory and cultural association. This aspect of the mobile screen as both medium and delivery device is made particularly evident in The City of Forking Paths, relying as it does (in a similar way to Karen) on a central figure playing the character of your guide, friend and co-adventurer throughout the work. Both works make conscious use of this particularity to heighten the bond between protagonist and audience. In addition to this, both rely on an intimate vocal performance that starts in the register of the familiar, the storytelling tone of an old friend, and deepens from there into complex and affecting territory that implicate the viewer/listener into the webs of narrative that form the structure of these pieces (Fig. 1).

Fig. 1 A user experiencing The City of Forking Paths via mobile phone in The Rocks, Sydney MOBILE RECEPTION: MATERIALITY AND LOCALITY WITH SMALL SCREENS 379

The City of Forking Paths: Cardiff/Miller This site-specific work for The Rocks area of Sydney was commissioned as a permanent public artwork by the City of Sydney in 2014, and was featured in the Sydney Biennale of that year. Although primarily a guided video and binaural audio walk, it operates as an app on an iPod touch, enabling it to be time- locked and geo-located. This means an audience cannot begin to experience the work until after sunset and cannot start anywhere except Customs House in the centre of The Rocks area. Cardiff and Miller make use of a combination of immersive binaural soundscapes and personal voice-driven narratives, combined with a journey through specific locations, to generate the collective ingredients that make up this work. Alongside these elements, The City of Forking Paths adds the effects of time to its palette. Produced in early 2014, the work, re-experienced at the time of writing (mid-2018), provides a striking contrast between then and now. That disjunction as an element of the piece creates a further level of imaginative engagement as the present and the past depicted in the work continue to diverge. To engage with the piece as time passes requires entering into the work increasingly as another world, with temporal as well as spatial markers to navigate. For Cardiff, the element of binaural sound is key to not only orientation in space but also the physical immersion that she has developed as a way of heightening the tension between the imaginative space of the work being presented and the location in which it is presented:

I am interested in how audio affects our perception of the physical world. We understand three-dimensional space by using our vision, but also by the character of sounds we hear. If these sounds are manipulated and changed, then our perception of reality can be drastically affected. (Janet Cardiff’s Audio Walks 2011)

For Cardiff and Miller, working with intimate personal screens locatively developed from long-standing practice with audio, and specifically the audio walk, as a genre. In her Walk Book (Cardiff and Schaub 2005), Cardiff describes the combination of physical presence and imaginative immersion that binaural audio makes possible as a key feature in audience engagement with a mobile work. The City of Forking Paths has been described as a type of ‘physical cinema’ (Barns 2014), which is achieved through continuous immersion in spatial binaural sound throughout the work and also through the inclusion of physical locomotion as a core driving structure of the piece. Key to the locative video walking pieces produced by Cardiff and Miller is Cardiff herself as central narrator and guide. In The City of Forking Paths, as in many previous pieces going back as far as Forest Walk in 1991, Cardiff takes on a character that initially relaxes the listener/viewer, orienting them in a sort of guided mobile meditation. After this opening set-up, the tenor of the piece subtly shifts, introducing narrative complexities and locative overlays that build an imaginative space between the real space inhabited by the audience and the 380 B. FRANKHAM AND C. CAINES screen space represented through the looking glass of the mobile device. This disjunction in situational awareness is exploited masterfully by Cardiff and Miller to create a hyper-sensitivity to the conjunction of media and place in these works that, in a very real sense, is the central creative construct they are working with an audience member to build together. In The City of Forking Paths Cardiff begins with the bored tone of an international artist commissioned to do yet another project in yet another foreign city. She listlessly describes what is around her, she complains that Miller is not with her; she regards the Rocks with no more engagement than a jaded tourist wandering the streets. Imperceptibly this tone changes, and before long you feel as if you are on an intense imaginative journey. The complexities of the piece reveal themselves and a viewer/listener begins to experience the work as a mix of reflective odyssey and locative play. Actors appear to play instruments and appear out of doorways, sounds come and go, suggesting larger worlds outside this one and, in the hour the piece takes to experience before you return to Customs House, comes to an affecting resolution that could not be achieved without all the elements of sound, video, location and walking coming together to create a powerful mobile immersion.

Karen App: Blast Theory Devised by UK artist group, Blast Theory, Karen is a smartphone application that uses the premise of interacting with an online life coach (the eponymous Karen, played by actress Claire Cage) as the basis for a choose-your-own- adventure-style interactive drama. The work is described by Blast Theory as ‘a hybrid, sitting somewhere between a game, a drama and a self-help quiz’ (Adams 2015) and includes interactive elements such as sliding-scale and multiple-choice personality profile questions. As part of the premise of engaging in life coaching sessions, the user receives mobile phone notifications from Karen when each episode can be accessed. Like The City of Forking Paths, content is time-locked and is made available according to a pre-set schedule that shifts depending on when the previous instalment was completed. These appointments are also presaged by onscreen text at the end of each episode/ session that alert the user to when the next session will be available. Released first via the Apple App Store on 15 April 2015 and then a few months later for Android via the Google Play Store, comments left by users in the app stores indicate that the Karen app causes a level of genre confusion for some. For example:

Not Really Very Helpful: Too Generic 21 Jul 2017 Mefightforthee This won’t give you any information you can’t get doing several of the less formal personality quizzes floating around. As a coach she is infuriatingly obsessed with tell- MOBILE RECEPTION: MATERIALITY AND LOCALITY WITH SMALL SCREENS 381

ing you about her life, something that makes the process much MUCH longer and less professional than it should. If I was paying a life coach to help me and she spent this much time telling me about her love life I would fire her. We are here to work on my goals right? Furthermore the program promotes a very unprofessional attitude for a life coach who asks about her dress choice and personal problems. Who coaches in a terry robe?! My friend & I also did it together and there is zero variation to Karen’s actions or questions. No life coach would be so generically formulaic. As a psych student I don’t think Karen is useful for anything beyond the superficial. If you have real issues go find a real person. (Apple 2017)

While it is solid advice to seek out a real person if you have real issues, the comment seems to indicate that the user has missed the playful and critical intentions of Blast Theory in creating the app. This reading that sits at odds with the maker’s intentions may be partially attributed to the infrastructure used to deliver the material to the audience. At over 5000 downloads of the Android version from the Google Play Store (2018) and over 10,000 downloads for iOS in the first four months after its launch (Adams 2015), the piece achieved the kind of audience reach that has not been experienced by other, more localised projects Blast Theory have undertaken. Consequently, there may be a high percentage of the audience for Karen who are engaging with the app without prior knowledge of Blast Theory and the kind of work for which they are known. For some users then, this lack of context finds its expression in frustra- tion that the app does not perform in a way that is consistent with what some may perceive to be its genre, namely a personal growth or self-help tool rather than a theatrical (yet smartphone-distributed) artwork. The choice to deliver the work via smartphone has undoubtedly enabled the user to experience additional levels of intimacy and personalisation and has taken the project into the private and personal spaces of participants’ everyday lives. At the same time, however, the release via the App Store and Google Play means that Blast Theory has reached a very broad audience and has, by default, bought into the expectations that are associated with these distribution outlets. So, while the release of the Karen app has made it possible to produce something that takes full advantage of smartphone affordances, it could also be interpreted as a kind of platform trolling that only adds to the subversion and questioning central to the work. As Blast Theory self describe the purpose of the app:

We feel it’s our job as artists to pose questions about this new world where technology is ever more personalised and intrusive. We love having our services tailored to us and we’re scared of the price we’re paying for that personalisation. (Blast Theory 2015b)

It is these tensions, between the desired effects and the consequences of their realisation, between the potentials of a platform and the genre expectations, that come as part of the distribution strategy, that add depth and complexity to the already thought-provoking content presented in the Karen app. 382 B. FRANKHAM AND C. CAINES

Mobile Media as Augmentation One of the characteristics of experiencing screen media on a mobile device can be an unexpected sense of immersion where the screen of the device ceases to be a barrier between viewer and content and transforms into a portal through which the two worlds (the user’s world and the world of the work) can connect. It is an unexpected transformation because immersion is usually associated with screens that occupy the full field of view and do so at a level of high audio-visual fidelity. In the case of pieces that use site-specific spaces or locative techniques, these spaces are already augmented by the audiences themselves. They are augmented by memory triggers and associations of place, by the shifting environs the walker passes through, by the physical fact of inhabiting a moving gait with all the continual bodily information the very act produces as it happens. Of course, walking is also already a narrative, a chain of consecutive events in motion, a personal physical enaction of our seductive understanding of time as story. As has been noted by numerous walkers and thinkers, we move through it as an act of bodily cogitation. As we walk we join the dots, find the next foothold, sense the new direction. Any form of truly locative media (audio, text, image, video, augmented reality (AR)) is designed to take these pre- existing augmentations as a given, as material to be used in the construction of overall affect. Locative media work is composed of a shifting collection of ingredients: site (the entire environment, static or in motion); physical intimate personal presence; relationship to and associations with media delivery mechanisms or devices and the media delivered in situ. For the artist building work from these elements, the associations between the elements give rise to any gestalt impact the work has in the location. This can be thought of in much in the same way as the famous Kuleshov effect in cinematic editing. One of the building blocks of cinematic language, the Kuleshov effect notes the way an associative meaning is enabled through the links the viewer makes between individual shots. In the case of Karen, a sense of co-presence and co-chronology is activated to achieve a feeling that the two worlds (of the user and of Karen) are coinciding with each other. Devices such as: direct address; Karen appearing to push buttons to bring up interactive question graphics; less than perfect framing (and at times handheld camera); spontaneous performance style; the sharing of personal details and spaces; and communication via SMS-style text messages all operate to conjure the illusion of a relational interaction so that the user feels they have some influence and agency in the exchanges. In the experience of both The City of Forking Paths and Karen it can feel as if there is an added dimension that is accessed through the screen of the mobile and that permits one to connect with a place that can feel no less real than the world we inhabit in our daily lives; in fact the screen and audio content overlays and interacts with our real-world experience. With The City of Forking Paths, the screen acts as a portal between the two divergent versions of the locale— MOBILE RECEPTION: MATERIALITY AND LOCALITY WITH SMALL SCREENS 383 the one of our current experience and the enhanced version presented by Cardiff and Miller. In the case of Karen, the feeling can manifest as quite genuine concern for Karen’s well-being, distaste for the boundary crossing into which the user is drawn or guilt when confronted by Karen over an intrusion into her bedroom. These effects are more than the kind of afterimages that Bunt (2013) describes as occurring when we process the content of an artwork or piece of media after encountering it in the gallery or cinema. The encounters described in relation to the examples in this chapter may be more correctly considered as augmentations because of the way the content intervenes and intrudes into the user’s life. While narrative devices and emotional triggers are key to producing this sense of augmentation, the very nature of the device and the way it accom- panies the user into all facets of their quotidian experiences is also significant in generating this effect. The convergence among applications, practices and histories means that projects delivered via mobile screens can operate in ways that are akin to augmented and mixed reality where the sense of separation between the world of the participant and that of the content, and of the user existing outside the world of the work, is blurred. In these situations, the content adds, shapes and changes perceptions of the physical world of the user. Similar to the effects of locative media already discussed in the section titled The City of Forking Paths: Cardiff/Miller, there is potential to activate the affects, responses and motivations of the user to add narrative and emotional depth. These augmentations can be as a consequence, not just of specific content, but also of the associations the user has with their device, as well as the affordances of the mobile device itself. This kind of emotional augmentation is very much the terrain in which both The City of Forking Paths and the Karen app are operating. The Karen app intrudes on the personal world of the user by incorporating a variety of production techniques, including narrative, performance style, camera technique, duration and scheduling, alongside mobile-specific affordances such as being able to send notifications, device portability and associations with intimate and/or personal communication. Backed by the central conceit of interactions with your life coach, Karen, the app gathers information about you, the user, through personality-profiling questions alongside your responses to situations that are thrown up in the narrative which surrounds these interactions. This data about you then shapes the tone of your ongoing interactions and the tactics that Karen employs as your life coach. However, the augmentation moves beyond the interjection of these personality-profiling questions to the user’s everyday life. The scheduling of episodes, which constitutes the rhythm of the work, is irregular, and sessions can happen at odd times during the day from 8 am through to 11 pm at night (Fig. 2). Even with a forewarning of when the next episode will occur, the messages from Karen/Karen can still trigger the kind of anticipation, delight or dread with which users would be familiar from other smartphone-based notifications 384 B. FRANKHAM AND C. CAINES

Fig. 2 Schedule of Karen episodes showing spread of instalments over nine days such as text messages or social media interactions. There can also be multiple sessions occurring in a day, the content of which does not seem to be immediately relevant to the practice of life coaching (as evidenced by the user comment cited in section “Karen App: Blast Theory”). But this is where the genius of the project lies. Yes, Karen seems a bit chaotic and perhaps ‘a bit rubbish’ as a life coach. However, as noted in the individually generated data report available to purchase upon completing the experience, ‘[p]erhaps it is through empathy with Karen that you reflect on your own capacities in your chosen area’ (Blast Theory 2018). These strategies aim to provoke reactions that can be added to the data on you as a subject and are ‘used to personalise the experience’ (Blast Theory 2018). The covert or embedded nature of these strategies, in that they are part of the drama that surrounds the life coaching sessions, means that they are potentially more likely to prompt authentic responses, evading the likelihood of respondents gaming the quizzes to present their most idealised self. There is an interesting effect that occurs whereby the user is simultaneously aware that answers will shift the dialogue with Karen in different directions but they also want to present an authentic version of themselves. As Mee observed, ‘Although I was trying to “test” Karen’s responses, and to see how our relationship would unfold if I answered her questions differently each time through, I almost always defaulted to truthful answers’ (2016, p. 169). Mee’s observation is backed up by Blast Theory’s Matt Adams, who said ‘this was true of many MOBILE RECEPTION: MATERIALITY AND LOCALITY WITH SMALL SCREENS 385 participants, who found it more interesting to see how Karen/Karen responded to them [original emphasis] rather than to a fictitious version of themselves’ (Mee 2016, p. 169). Subjected to personal questions, contact at odd hours, disclosure about Karen’s private life and a tone that is more co-conspirator than professional and client, the user is drawn into a kind of ‘friend-crush’ (Turney 2015) where they are destabilised from being outside of Karen’s world and begin to have a stake in the course of her life. Indeed, Blast Theory are quite open about this manipulation, including outlining how user responses dictate the reappearance of certain motifs in later episodes ‘as a reminder of your relationship with her [Karen]’ (Blast Theory 2018). The rhythm and frequency of interactions is not what one might expect of a life coach/client relationship, and this rhythm is integral to the kind of boundary blurring that Blast Theory is working to cultivate. The irregularity of the schedule fits with what Lustig describes as ‘variable reward technology’ (Brueck 2018), where the spikes of pleasure or reward are doled out by social media (and the Internet more generally) at unpredictable times rather than consistently. The idea is an updating of Ferster and Skinner’s general concepts of schedules of reinforcement, specifically the practice of a variable ratio schedule of reinforcement where ‘the reinforcement occurs after a given number of responses, the number varying unpredictably from reinforcement to reinforcement (Ferster and Skinner 1957, p. 391). Without the stability of a predictable, regular schedule of engagement, and given the vulnerable and at times volatile nature of Karen’s character, the user can find themselves unsettled and emotionally engaged to a degree that is somewhat unexpected. Playing with the tropes of social media and the access to intimate modes that is enabled by mobile digital devices, these irregular intrusions generate a sense of co-presence that, as Berry describes in relation to the experience of social media more generally, can ‘transcend specific local time zones, seasons and weather so that people may be in a common social media space synchronously yet be experiencing completely different local physical conditions’ (Berry 2017, p. 26). If the user responds immediately to the SMS-style prompts about the availability of a new episode of Karen, then the time of day in Karen’s location will match that of the user. However, if the user delays opening the app, the times of day slip out of synchronisation so that you may experience an interaction where it is late at night for Karen, but early in the morning for you. Nonetheless, the mode of direct, frequently intimate address and user familiarity with the sometimes aligned, sometimes unsynchronised patterns of consumption common to mobile media smooths over such disjunctions so that the exchanges seep into and overlay the user’s everyday routine. Augmentation is also enacted in the way that the user’s personal histories are directly brought to bear on the shaping and structuring of the work. Indeed, there are times when the app relies on such interactions between user perceptions and the content as a means to personalise the experience and add complexity. The user’s perceptual and emotional responses work with the sometimes 386 B. FRANKHAM AND C. CAINES blank, Kuleshov-style performance techniques (where the actor’s performance can be read in multiple ways depending on context) to provoke a deeper reading of what is going on under the surface of the exchanges with Karen and her flatmate Dave. Karen regularly employs the classic tricks of the psychic and pop psychologist, making broad statements and summations that could apply to multiple situations but that are focused based on the data gathered by the app. In providing what can seem like wise insights (‘I think you put off doing things that are difficult’) the user’s hunger for individual connection, which could be seen as a fundamental part of the contemporary human condition, is triggered. The user’s state of mind lends the work emotional complexity and authenticity as they are directly implicated in the drama and denouement of the piece. Karen tells the user it is they who have precipitated her and Dave finally cutting the cords of their complicated relationship (‘you set the cat among the pigeons’ (Blast Theory 2015a)) and we get the impression that we are a direct catalyst for Karen moving on and moving out of the flat where most of the drama has taken place.

Conclusion With the increasing use of mobile devices as the screens of choice for consuming a variety of media content, there is considerable scope for screen producers to explore and experiment with the possibilities of mobile reception. In both The City of Forking Paths and Karen we see examples of mobile projects that make use of both the unique affordances and materiality of the mobile as context, setting and compositional material for the creation of new mobile screen- based works that exploit these qualities to great effect. These works offer distinctive examples of ways the Kuleshov effect can be applied to digital, interactive and mobile media in their combination of the inputs of place, media and viewer to create an experience that exceeds the content and boundaries of the small screen. In The City of Forking Paths we see how Cardiff and Miller make use of both location and the act of walking in combination with the intimate performative voice and the displacement of binaural sound to create a powerful sense of mobile-based immersion. As part of a trajectory of experimentation by the artists over 35 years, The City of Forking Paths pushes at the boundaries of content delivery and mobile media aesthetics to achieve a version of magic realism that is only possible through the combination of moving through The Rocks in Sydney guided by their video walk as augmentation. Their high-level mastery of the unique affordances and restrictions of mobile delivery enables a nuanced and affecting experience for the user that makes the most of the intimate status of the device and yet goes far beyond its usual quotidian and prosaic uses. This intimate status is equally exploited by the Karen app as the user is drawn into a complicated sense of relationship with the central character of the piece at the same time as their personal data is harvested to direct the path of MOBILE RECEPTION: MATERIALITY AND LOCALITY WITH SMALL SCREENS 387 their ongoing in-app interactions. Interestingly, the very networks (i.e. the Google Play and Apple App stores) that facilitate this high degree of access to users’ personal digital spaces also produce a degree of genre confusion around the intention of the work. While this means that some users, who may be unfamiliar with the work of Blast Theory, do not get the playful and critical bent of the work, it can also be read as a kind of platform trolling that adds to the subversive purposes that underpin the Blast Theory oeuvre. From our analysis of the creative choices, operation and reception of these two mobile media art projects we can see that a degree of augmentation is at play as the content overlays the users’ real-world experiences with mobile media interventions. It is the interaction among user, device, content and location (in the case of The City of Forking Paths) that creates an unexpected sense of immersion that is less about the high fidelity of the media content and more a result of intense emotional engagement that is skilfully accreted over the course of each work. So, while technology is undoubtedly key in enabling these quality user media experiences, it is the confluence of media content, device associations and the interactions between components that set these works apart as thought-provoking exemplars of what is possible through the mobile reception of digital media art.

References Adams, M. (2015). How We Made Experiential Life-Coaching App, Karen. Guardian (Culture professionals network), Fri 14 Aug 2015 21.40 AEST. Viewed 20 May 2018 https://www.theguardian.com/culture-professionals-network/2015/aug/ 14/how-we-made-life-coaching-app-karen-blast-theory Apple. (2017). App Store Preview – Karen by Blast Theory. Ratings and Reviews. https://itunes.apple.com/au/app/karen-by-blast-theory/id945629374?mt=8. Accessed 12 June 2018. Barns, S. (2014). A Wrinkle in Time, a City of Forking Paths. Viewed 20 Sept 2018 http://sitesandsounds.net.au/forkingpaths/ Berry, M. (2017). Creating with Mobile Media. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Blast Theory. (2015a). Karen. Google Play. Blast Theory. (2015b). Karen (Projects). Viewed 10 May 2018, https://www.blasttheory.co.uk/projects/karen/ Blast Theory (2018, August 31). Karen Data Report. Personal communication. Brueck, H. (2018, March 12). This Is What Your Smartphone Is Doing to Your Brain – And It Isn’t Good. Business Insider Australia. Viewed 10 May 2018 https://www. businessinsider.com.au/what-your-smartphone-is-doing-to-your-brain-and-it-isnt- good-2018-3?r=US&IR=T Bunt, B. (2013, January 16). Participation/Mediation, brogan bunt, vol. 2018. Viewed 20 June 2018 http://www.broganbunt.net/?p=1949%3E Cardiff, J., & Miller, G. B. (2014). The City of Forking Paths. 19th Biennale of Sydney. Cardiff, J., & Schaub, M. (2005). Janet Cardiff: The Walk Book. Thyssen-Bornemisza Art Contemporary (Vienna). Casemajor, N. (2015). Digital Materialisms: Frameworks for Digital Media Studies. Westminster Papers in Culture and Communication, 10(1), 4–17. 388 B. FRANKHAM AND C. CAINES

Drumm, J., White, N., Swiegers, M., & Davey, M. (2017). Smart Everything, Everywhere: Mobile Consumer Survey 2017 (The Australian cut), Deloitte Touche Tohmatsu Limited. Farman, J. (Ed.). (2016). Foundations of Mobile Media Studies: Essential Texts on the Formation of a Field. Abingdon/New York: Routledge. Ferster, C. B., & Skinner, B. F. (1957). Schedules of Reinforcement. New York: Appleton-Century-Crofts. Google Play Store. (2018). Play Store - Karen by Blast Theory, Series Play Store - Karen by Blast Theory App store. https://play.google.com/store/apps/details?id=com. blasttheory.talktome. Accessed 12 June 2018. Heyward, M. (2014). Notes for Walking an Augmented Landscape: Spatial Narrative, Walked Practices and Locative Technologies. PhD thesis, University of Technology Sydney. Ito, M. (2005). Introduction. In M. Ito, D. Okabe, & M. Matsuda (Eds.), Personal, Portable, Pedestrian: Mobile Phones in Japanese Life (pp. 1–16). Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Janet Cardiff’s Audio Walks. (2011). Fabrica: Brighton Centre for Contemporary Art. Viewed 20 Sept 2018 https://fortynotes.wordpress.com/2011/03/03/ janet-cardiffs-audio-walks/ Mee, E. B. (2016). The Audience Is the Message: Blast Theory’s App-Drama Karen. TDR: The Drama Review, 60(3), 165–171. Okada, T. (2005). Youth Culture and the Shaping of Japanese Mobile Media: Personalization and the Ketai Internet as Multimedia. In M. Ito, D. Okabe, & M. Matsuda (Eds.), Personal, Portable, Pedestrian: Mobile Phones in Japanese Life (pp. 41–60). Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Pink, S., Sinanan, J., Hjorth, L., & Horst, H. (2015). Tactile Digital Ethnography: Researching Mobile Media Through the Hand. Mobile Media & Communication, 4(2), 237–251. Turney, E. (2015). App Close and Personal: Meet Karen, She Wants Your Data. BBC. Viewed 6 May 2018 http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/articles/22HfmykfTdVf n2KZvFh7SBh/app-close-and-personal-meet-karen-she-wants-your-data Appeasing the Trolls: Contextualising New Screen Practices with Smartphones

Patrick Kelly and Marsha Berry

Introduction A man walks past a bunch of people walking distractedly, staring at their smartphones. It is not an uncommon occurrence and he thinks about how those in the crowd fail to interact with one another and the world around them. He chuckles to himself, then stands to one side and takes a 15-second video of them. He applies a filter to give it a B-grade horror connotation. He posts it to Instagram with the hashtags #zombies #B-grade #modernlife #smartphonefilm #amfilming. He quickly gets a few likes but then comments start appearing— ‘stop why oh god’; another, more sarcastic: ‘c00l story br0’. Clearly, the post hasn’t been appreciated by some of his followers, but why? Just as the original poster’s intentions have not cut through, perhaps the followers making these comments are not as angry or sarcastic as they appear; or perhaps they are more so. We fully acknowledge that intended authorial meaning is highly problematic and we do not seek to solve this in any way here; but we do wish to explore some of the implications that exhibiting film content through social media platforms like Instagram may have on our screen production practices. Many of us use our social media accounts to document our thoughts, feelings and observations of the world around us. With these social content production processes becoming faster and faster, it has never been easier to quickly create content that evocatively reflects our everyday experiences. We can use platforms, such as Instagram, Facebook, Twitter and Snapchat, to post video as soon as we have shot it. We can even go live, streaming video for our followers

P. Kelly (*) • M. Berry RMIT University, Melbourne, VIC, Australia e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s) 2019 389 C. Batty et al. (eds.), The Palgrave Handbook of Screen Production, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-21744-0_30 390 P. KELLY AND M. BERRY while we shoot it. With so much content being shared so quickly, however, how can we be reasonably sure that our followers understand the meanings we intend to convey? In posting content immediately to our social networks, do we sometimes sacrifice substance for speed? How can we use our interactions online to reconstruct meaningful stories and experiences, providing additional context to effectively share our perspectives of the world? And, how can we use sarcastic or disruptive comments posted in response to exhibited content to our advantage? To address these questions, our discussion will segue between what happens to screen work once it is made and the making of the screen work itself. We present a nuanced account of filmmaking practices that include sharing incom- plete shots and sequences with a digitally co-present audience. Social media is an emerging area of screen exhibition and lends itself to sharing drafts and rough cuts, and this can become part of the production process by providing filmmakers with an exhibition outlet so that the activity of filmmaking is performed live and the exhibiting of film clips becomes entangled in the production process. The exhibition outlets add liveliness because they are social spaces where people who are digitally co-present can watch, understand and influence screen works through comments on social media timelines. Such improvised screen works can also be gathered together into larger pieces and shared through a plethora of online platforms and other more traditional exhibition spaces such as festivals and galleries. Exploring the challenges faced by screen practitioners who use social media networks to share short form content, we examine the difficulties of working with granular media forms, the process of reimagining our content to create new meanings, the power of visual juxtapositioning, the communication of additional contexts through media practices, and how trolls and their disruptive comments can inform our choices as screen practitioners. In doing so, we draw on one author’s experience of creating the experimental interactive documentary North (dir. Kelly 2013), a project that utilised the database documentary creation platform Korsakow as part of a process of understanding the relationship between various Instagram video posts documenting his experience of Melbourne, Australia. The process of making North illustrates how the distinction between production and exhibition have become blurred in an age of smartphones and social media where it is possible to video a sequence or shot and exhibit it in social media spaces almost instantaneously. Over three days, the filmmaker captured and posted a series of 15-second Instagram videos of various places in Melbourne’s north, south and city centre using his normal Instagram account. Later, the clips were re-organised, accompanying voice-over was added, and the result was a three-minute ‘screen grab’ film that examined the filmmaker’s relationship to the city. In section “Sharing Moments with Co-present Others”, we discuss the relations between co-presence and this emergent filmmaking practice where traditional lines between production and exhibition are blurred through social media. APPEASING THE TROLLS: CONTEXTUALISING NEW SCREEN PRACTICES… 391

Sharing Moments with Co-present Others The Instagram clips that formed the basis of the film were not in keeping with the filmmaker’s typical Instagram presence. The filmmaker’s account (@ patcheskelly) was usually made up of posts depicting weekends away, culinary adventures, snaps of and with friends and family, funny observations during commutes around Melbourne, pop culture references to express a mood, work achievements and, of course, dogs. Like most people, he typically used the platform to share ‘moments’ from his life. In the wake of the launch of Instagram videos in August 2013, however, he decided to conduct a filmic experiment to shoot a variety of clips around Melbourne and use these clips as the basis for a larger experimental documentary film about his relationship to the city. He knew there was some risk that, by posting such new content (barely a dog or pop culture reference in sight), his followers might be a little annoyed by the deviation from his typical posts. This sort of content—and the amount of it—perhaps came as a bit of a shock to his followers and a few of them decided to let him know, through mocking and disruptive comments, that they didn’t really understand what he was doing. Co-presence can be a fascinating feature of the networked world in which we live. The idea of co-presence was first articulated and theorised by Goffman (1963) whereby ‘copresence renders persons uniquely accessible, available, and subject to one another’ (Goffman 1963, p. 22). It is achieved when people ‘sense that they are close enough to be perceived in whatever they are doing, including their experiencing of others, and close enough to be perceived in this sensing of being perceived’ (p. 17). Goffman’s concept presupposed physical proximity. Since the time Goffman theorised co-presence as conscious physical proximity, mobile technology has changed the ways in which we interact (see Hjorth 2016) to include networked proximity. To define co-presence in digital spaces, we refer to Hjorth, who argues that co-presence should be considered a spectrum of interpersonal engagement that ‘goes beyond counterproductive dichotomous models of online and offline, here and there, virtual and actual’ (Hjorth 2016, p. 175). Digital co-presence may be conceived of as a conscious networked proximity so that, like the man in our opening vignette, we may see something that catches our attention, so we film it and share it using social media knowing that there will be friends who will see it and respond in some way. We know that our filmmaking and subsequent exhibition will be perceived by others who are digitally co-present. Another important contributor to the discussion and debates around the shifting nature of co-presence is Turkle, who claims that our rapid cycling through mobile media creates ‘a sense of continual co-presence’ (2008, p. 122). She stresses the adverse effects of social media and mobile devices to argue that these diminish the quality of human interactions. Our interest in this chapter is how co-presence with synchronous and asynchronous others may be experienced, and how these experiences may impact on exhibiting screen works. 392 P. KELLY AND M. BERRY

During the making of North, multiple co-present communities of thought formed around the work. In some cases, there were followers who were supportive of the work, in part or in whole. In response to a black-and-white panning shot at Melbourne’s Federation Square, one follower commented, ‘Melbourne looks beautiful in black & white. I’d love to see the video montage. XO.’ This reveals support for the filmmaker’s approach to content and aesthetics, as well as an understanding that this is part of a larger project. The coupling of conceptualisations of ‘being there’ with physical locations and physically co-present people is no longer fruitful. Audiences are co-present digitally, thus co-presence also provides filmmakers with interesting exhibition trajectories, such as Instagram timelines and Facebook news feeds, as well as opportunities for their screen works and production practices, such as live streams on a variety of platforms. There is no guarantee, of course, that one’s audience will always have a positive or constructive response to any particular piece of content. By sharing short form content through platforms such as Instagram, there is always a risk that some responses will mock or poke fun, wanting to cause a disruption, or will simply seek attention by eclipsing the original post.

Encountering Trolls In contrast to the more supportive comments were the more trollish ones. Another post shot for North, videoed soon after the Federation Square post, garnered a more sarcastic comment, this time from the filmmaker’s partner at the time: ‘you’re dropped’. The same user had previously posted more supportive messages, including smiling emojis, before slowly delving into subtle prodding, including adding the hashtag #banksy to a video of some street art. Of course, this can be (and was) simply understood as amiable teasing, but nonetheless it is behaviour often associated with what we know as the ‘internet troll’. Hardaker analyses such behaviour and defines the internet troll as

a CMC [computer-mediated communication] user who constructs the identity of sincerely wishing to be part of the group in question, including professing, or conveying pseudo-sincere intentions, but whose real intention(s) is/are to cause disruption and/or to trigger or exacerbate conflict for the purposes of their own amusement. (Hardaker 2010, p. 237)

Hardaker’s definition illuminates a spectrum of what types of behaviour can be understood as being associated with a troll. There is a difference between being disruptive and exacerbating conflict. In this project, comments that were identified as trollish were those that were perceived as disruptive. It is difficult to ascertain the intentions of any given online comment. While we acknowledge that there are many instances of more damaging behaviour by trolls online, these are outside the scope of this discussion. There were also several other trollish comments posted to other videos in the series shot for North: APPEASING THE TROLLS: CONTEXTUALISING NEW SCREEN PRACTICES… 393 some from close friends, others from followers more on the periphery of the filmmaker’s social circles who were simply joining in with the trolling. One user wrote on a later post, simply requesting the filmmaker to ‘stop’. This user was participating in what Milner (2013), in his essay about participatory media, theorises as the logic of lulz, which is a derivation of ‘lol’ or ‘laughing out loud’. The function of the comments in relation to the Instagram post could be described as performing what Milner (2013), in his conceptualisation of the logics of lulz and the role of trolling, describes as ‘the work of both “cultural critic” and “cultural syphon”, using humour and antagonism to rile angry responses and shift the content and tone of the conversation’ (Milner 2013, p. 66). Milner further notes trolling ‘disproportionately targets minori- ties and women’ (Milner 2013, p. 67), and while this was not the case in our example we recognise that much trolling has a dark underbelly. Our focus here is more on how the logic of lulz that was manifested in response to the exhibition of segments influenced the remixing of these segments into another work. While screen production projects that utilise social media platforms as part of their production process might do well to attempt to avoid trolls, here we are primarily concerned with understanding why the project failed to effectively present its message at this point through the medium of Instagram. What was missing from these clips at this stage seemed to be the message itself. It was, in part, a problem to do with granularity. Each clip had a small idea behind it, but it was through the reconstruction of these clips that deeper meanings could be understood. In other words, the deeper meanings came from the accumulation and layering of the video material, whereby the process of meaning-making was additive rather than linear and sequential.

Granularity and Making Meaning To reconstruct or remix the clips that were posted to social media so that a deeper meaning or story could be implied, the parts needed to be assembled into longer works. Instagram, the initial exhibition space, pulled the clips into a timeline, with the most recent clip appearing at the top and the first clip at the bottom or end of the timeline for the whole sequence of shots. The clips appear in a reverse chronological sequence that creates a narrative structure that flows backwards through time. On the other hand, the narrative is experienced as flowing forwards in time by digitally co-present others when the clips are posted to platforms such as Instagram. The impact of co-presence was visible in the first exhibitions of the clips but when the clips were remixed in a non-networked space such as video editing software or a Korsakow film webpage (K-film) there was no co-present audience during the production phase. In a previous work, Kelly (2014) refers to the many juxtapositions that can occur through default chronological sorting, which in turn might suggest a myriad of meanings for co-present users. In this way, the exhibition space engages with Manovich’s idea of ‘remixability’ (2005). While the ordering of clips contributes to the making of new meanings, we must also consider the 394 P. KELLY AND M. BERRY meanings contained within each individual clip. Miles defines a medium as ‘highly granular if it is made up of small parts that are self-contained to the extent that they make sense by themselves as is’ (Miles 2014a, p. 74). On the face of it, North is a highly granular project. Each clip in the final work does have some meaning behind it. Depending on the exhibition format (whether the clips are viewed on Instagram, on a webpage as part of a K-film or as part of a longer edited video), the various meanings inherent in each clip may be more or less apparent. The question is: How apparent were the meanings behind each clip upon their original exhibition on the Instagram feed? This was part of the line of enquiry in this experiment to explore how mobile media platforms and applications can provide contexts for new screen practices. Let us unpack some of the clips. A short panning clip of art deco apartments in St Kilda, shot from a distant main road, seeks to connect to memories of being a new arrival in the city, exploring places that were familiar only from seeing them in films and TV shows, such asThe Secret Life of Us (2001). The Instagram caption, ‘Secret Life of what Melbourne meant in 2001’, sought to offer insight into this idea, but the video only received one like. Perhaps a more explicit caption, or a similar understanding of quite specific references to early 2000s Australian dramatic television, was required in order for more followers to make sense of this. Another clip tilts from a quiet residential street in the inner-northern suburb of Coburg up to the sun shining through the leaves of a tree. The filmmaker had recently moved into a house on the street (after already living in the inner north of Melbourne for some years), and this clip was his attempt at showing the realities of his life in Melbourne. This street, while considered ‘home’, shows a place that is a far cry from his initial impressions of Melbourne as a new arrival. The Instagram caption reads ‘Coburg – the ‘burbs’, which perhaps offers some insight into these ideas of home and realism, but the meaning could certainly be more explicitly communicated. Indeed, Instagram captions and comments can be much longer pieces of writing, but this was not the artistic approach decided upon at the time. The Instagram post received no likes at all. It is worth pointing out, of course, that one need not understand something to ‘like’ it on social media—and vice versa. For this reason, it is perhaps more useful to examine the comments, as they indicate a greater level of engagement with a post. Another clip of cars passing through Rathdowne St, Carlton North, was accompanied by the caption ‘A hub of activity, then delightfully still’. At the time, the filmmaker had a desire to live in this trendy neighbourhood. This was the fourth video clip posted to Instagram in an hour, and a close friend jokingly commented, ‘OMG SO COOL U SHUD B A DIREKTOR!!1!11@!’ This troll was clearly hyper-aware of the filmic experiment, but still the filmmaker’s point was not coming across. Additionally, this comment may be understood as an example of the logic of lulz whereby it participates ‘in irony-laden communicative practices’ (Milner 2013, p. 64). The respondent was digitally co-present at the time this clip was exhibited and her response influenced later creative choices APPEASING THE TROLLS: CONTEXTUALISING NEW SCREEN PRACTICES… 395 during the process of screen production and exhibition. She was clearly poking fun at the experiment itself, using the medium and exhibition space to do so. The logic of lulz became a factor against which decisions were made with regard to the granularity of the clips subsequently shot and offered as exhibits. Each piece of video exhibited via Instagram could be interpreted as stand- alone or pulled into a wider narrative alongside the other clips. Video is a highly granular medium, and there are advantages and limitations to this fact. The advantage is that video can be understood as a very malleable medium (Miles 2014a). As both Miles (2014a) and Keen (2018) found in separate studies, we can shift things around, we can remix, we can manipulate and create new meaning. As Keen observes:

With shots or sequences separate there is the option to create multiple relations between them, which alters the way a work can be structured to convey meaning. With this granularity the computer then enables the affordances of remix, index- ing, and spatial montage for interactive documentary. (Keen 2018, p. 52)

A limitation is that the context or meaning behind a video isn’t always immediately obvious. Meaning can be made using a wide variety of screen production methods. For North, beyond the clips themselves, it was through juxtaposition and voice-over that the context around these clips was teased out, reconstructed and redistributed in a new format. Having received several comments poking fun at the experiment, the filmmaker realised that he needed to be less subtle with regard to the story he was telling about Melbourne’s inner north. Pulling these individual clips together into a slightly less granular narrative allowed him to communicate more effectively.

Exploring the Range of Possibilities with Korsakow Having shot, edited and distributed many more posts for Instagram, and having received trollish remarks highlighting the need for a less subtle approach in the communication of the posts’ various meanings, the filmmaker wished to create a clearer narrative for the work. The Instagram phase saw posts distributed immediately in the order in which they were created (i.e. not at a later time, nor in a more curated order), and this spontaneity meant that there was no thread that tied these specific clips into a specific narrative. For instance, the sequence of the posts pointed less to a story and more to a geographic ordering: the journey the filmmaker took in shooting the Instagram videos. Given Miles’ (2014a) and Keen’s (2018) ideas to do with granularity, the filmmaker considered that the use of an alternative exhibition format may allow for more meaningful relations to emerge between the various clips. Perhaps a clearer narrative could emerge from a different ordering of the posts. The affordances of Korsakow, which can allow clips to play multiple times in various cycles and successions, seemed ideal for this next stage in the project. 396 P. KELLY AND M. BERRY

Various relationships were explored using Korsakow, and voice-over was also added, until meanings emerged from what the filmmaker felt were appropriate juxtapositions. K-films use tags in the Korsakow software to categorise ‘in’ and ‘out’ points for clips or ‘SNUs’ (‘smallest narrative units’). The tags define something that speaks to the relationship between one SNU and the next. In North, the tags that were used initially were ‘North’, ‘South’ and ‘Central’. A ‘North’ SNU (e.g. the clip of the Coburg suburban street) would randomly be followed by a ‘South’ SNU (e.g. art deco apartments in St Kilda) or a ‘Central’ SNU (e.g. a clip inside the City of Melbourne’s oldest pub). This, however, is not a typical way to use Korsakow, as Miles writes:

A consequence of the multiple possibilities that circulate around each video clip in a K-film is that trying to visualise or map them outside of any K-film’s individuated viewing is to tilt at windmills. Such a desire misreads the generative autonomy of a system that operates through associative, aggregative and aleatory ways as a narratological map. These multiple possibilities in themselves have their own varying densities. (Miles 2014b, p. 214)

While Miles refers to the clips in most K-films having a ‘promiscuous connectivity’ about them, the clips in North are more auto-ethnographic in nature and each has its own context. For North, instead of focusing on the visual or aural poetics of a clip as a way to understand its meaning and its relationship to the surrounding clips (e.g. the associative connectivity of clips containing riv- ers, sky, bitumen, trams etc.), the filmmaker’s own relationship to the place depicted in each clip took priority. While this authorial, personal narrative- minded approach does not make for a particularly successful object-oriented ontological K-film, the use of the Korsakow software was useful for the filmmaker to understand his own feelings with regard to the relationships that formed between each of the clips. A similar effect could be achieved through any time-based editing software but, to draw on Keen (2018), the affordances of Korsakow that allow creators to watch clips in quick, random succession made for an efficient analysis of how such clips might possibly relate to one another. The utilisation of Korsakow software was a useful exercise in understanding the various relationships between the clips. At the same time, having some insight into whether or how each clip was understood by others, as a result of co-present followers engaging at the first point of exhibition on Instagram, impacted these curatorial decisions. The degree to which the various meanings were understood or acknowledged also proved useful when it came to writing and recording the voice-over that would accompany the clips, and to weave a more explicit thread through the finished project. So, what impact did the trolls have on the decisions that were made at this point in the project? The key changes that were made and the decisions that were enforced, in locking down the order of clips in the final iteration of the project, were mostly to do with the added voice-over and the rigid APPEASING THE TROLLS: CONTEXTUALISING NEW SCREEN PRACTICES… 397

juxtapositioning of clips, both of which added more explicit context to the clips in question. One example of the voice-over adding more explicit meaning is the aforementioned clip of a busy, yet quiet street in Carlton North. The original Instagram caption read ‘Rathdowne St, Carlton North. A hub of activity, then delightfully still’, and garnered some trollish comments from one user. As part of a sequence in the final iteration about the filmmaker’s own impressions of areas that he hates and loves in the city, the voice-over goes, ‘the areas I dream of living in one day, if only I can afford them’ (02:07). This clip is nes- tled between a clip at Princes Bridge—above the Yarra River in the central business district (CBD) at the nexus of north and south—and another clip shot from a tram window heading south over Spencer Street Bridge. The voice-over explicitly discusses the filmmaker’s tendency to not venture south very often in the former clip (01:55), and in the latter clip: ‘But I’m always offered new moments. I only hope that I’ll get out there and experience them’ (02:18). The juxtapositioning and ordering of these clips speak of adventures and opportunities that this city holds, even in areas not necessarily favoured. The sequence both alludes to and calls into question the things that sometimes stop people from exploring the places around them, and those that coax them out: money, distance, time, energy, but also adventure, exploration, indulgence, love. Not all of these ideas are made completely explicit in the project, but the voice-over and captions at varying points in the life of the project suggests that they might be at play here. Ultimately, this is a project about reflecting on and pushing one’s own boundaries. This is a notion not really present at all in the original Instagram clips, but is tied together nicely in the final iteration through the use of juxtaposition and voice-over—tools put to use partly as a result of trollish comments highlighting the lack of a cohesive message in the Instagram clips. The use of Instagram in the early production stages of this project saw a significant shift in the exhibition stage of the filmmaking process. Traditionally a stage that occurs once a film is complete, exhibition occurred at multiple points in the making of North, most notably spread throughout production through the posting of every video clip shot for the project. The use of social media platforms to exhibit work while it is still in production allows filmmakers to gather input—friendly, trollish or both—when constructing projects. In the case of North, this input via comments on Instagram posts was particularly useful because the followers who commented already knew the filmmaker and were familiar with his usual content. When it became clear through their responses that certain meanings weren’t being communicated effectively, the filmmaker took steps to rectify this. As a result, meanings were made more explicit, new juxtapositions emerged and an introspective project was made more outward-facing. After the relationships were decided and an order was constructed, the SNUs and tags were filtered down and a linear film was created with this ‘interactive’ software. This resulted in a tightly curated three-minute version of the K-film. The finished film,North , was then simply a ‘screen grab’ of the resulting 398 P. KELLY AND M. BERRY

K-film or webpage. Informed by co-present followers and the logic of lulz, the final product is also the result of combining several different contemporary screen production processes. The finished film ultimately explores the filmmaker’s developing personal relationship to the city in which he has been a tourist, a new arrival and is now an established resident.

Conclusion This chapter has explored how co-presence may be experienced with synchronous and asynchronous others on platforms such as Instagram, and how such experiences may impact decisions made around the exhibition of screen works. In analysing the process undertaken by one of the authors in the creation of the film North, we have examined the influence that trolls have on the decision to further highlight and tease out contexts and meanings from clips. The exhibition of screen works on varying platforms allows for a conversation of sorts to take place with co-present others, thereby giving screen practitioners insight into how one’s work might already be perceived, as well as how one might exhibit one’s work in the future. Instagram is one exhibition platform that allows such insights to be gleaned. In the case of North, the use of this social network allowed the filmmaker to engage with followers and understand that some meanings needed to be made more explicit. The possibilities of new meanings being created in the project were explored through the use of Korsakow to connect granular clips through visual juxtapositioning. Such processes are significant because they open the range of possibilities of meaning-making through screen production and lead to new understandings of how screen practitioners may exhibit their work. The role of social media in such projects is significant, as it allows for new co- present practices to create dialogue around the direction of creative projects by extending and spreading the exhibition stage throughout production. While trolls are, more often than not, the bane of our online existences, this chapter demonstrates how they can be harnessed; how they can contribute to the making of meaningful screen production projects.

References Goffman, E. (1963). Behavior in Public Places: Notes on the Social Organization of Gatherings. New York: The Free Press. Hardaker, C. (2010). Trolling in Asynchronous Computer-Mediated Communication: From User Discussions to Academic Definitions.Journal of Politeness Research, 6(2), 215–242. ISSN 16125681. Hjorth, L. (2016). Mobile Art: Rethinking the Intersections Between Art, User Created Content (UCC) and the Quotidian. Mobile Media & Communication, 4(2), 169–185. Keen, S. (2018). The Documentary Designer: A List of Propositions for Interactive Documentary Practice Online. In A. Miles (Ed.), Digital Media and Documentary. London: Palgrave Pivot. APPEASING THE TROLLS: CONTEXTUALISING NEW SCREEN PRACTICES… 399

Kelly, P. (2013). North. Directed by Patrick Kelly. Melbourne: Motion Picture. Kelly, P. (2014). Mobile Video Platforms and the Presence of Aura. The Journal of Creative Technologies, (4). Retrieved from https://ojs.aut.ac.nz/journal-of-creative- technologies/index.php/JCT/article/view/27 Manovich, L. (2005). Remixing and Remixability. http://manovich.net/content/04- projects/046-remixability-and-modularity/43_article_2005.pdf Miles, A. (2014a). Interactive Documentary and Affective Ecologies. In K. Nash, C. Hight, & C. Summerhayes (Eds.), New Documentary Ecologies: Emerging Platforms, Practices and Discourses. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Miles, A. (2014b). Materialism and Interactive Documentary: Sketch Notes. Studies in Documentary Film, 8(3), 205–220. https://doi.org/10.1080/17503280. 2014.958894. Milner, R. M. (2013). FCJ-156 Hacking the Social: Internet Memes, Identity Antagonism, and the Logic of Lulz. Fibreculture, 22, 62–92. Turkle, S. (2008). Always On/Always On You: The Tethered Self. In J. E. Katz (Ed.), Handbook of Mobile Communication Studies. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. PART V

Teaching the Screen Work: Pedagogies, Practices, Approaches

In this part, the authors reflect on their teaching practices and recent research projects to offer insights into how screen production is being, and could be, taught. While earlier parts of the book have described various aspects of screen production theory, craft and process that can readily be applied in educational settings, here the emphasis is on how such ideas have been applied in teaching practice, or concepts and tools that screen production educators might want to consider. This includes ideas and issues that are common to those who teach screen production: curriculum design, especially that which remains current with industrial and technological practices; having and developing ‘good’ ideas into ‘quality’ screen works, which can be an issue for those teaching younger students who do not typically have the necessary life experience; and the continual ‘theory vs practice’ debate. First, the filmmaker and academic Andrew Taylor discusses creative limits and how constraints can enable creativity within screen production, citing various creative writing exercises that can help teach this approach. He describes how creative limits have been successfully applied in his own teaching, and the results they have generated. Next, Brian Morris explores the theory/practice divide often discussed in higher education, and how a studio-based teaching pedagogy at his university has improved the production-based curriculum. Kath Dooley then surveys what screen production degree programmes are offering their students, and how they are being taught. Focusing on current practices within Australian universities, and with reference to local and global screen industry trends, she attempts to find models for best practice that generate strong graduate skills and attributes for successful careers. Next, Megan Heyward explores the challenges faced by educators in incorporating immersive, virtual reality (VR) content into screen and media education. She shares an experimental visual and conceptual methodology from her own teaching practice, which integrates ‘threshold concepts’ with early-stage planning of immersive VR projects. Finally, Craig Batty and Stayci Taylor argue 402 Teaching the Screen Work: Pedagogies, Practices, Approaches for a using script development as an effective way to teach screenwriting, as it focuses not only the final product—the script—but also on the process and industry of screen ideas. They draw on industry interviews to frame ways by which students can be trained to work in various roles in what is becoming a fast-changing and precarious industry. There Is No ‘E’ in ‘Constraints’: Teaching Creativity in Higher Education Screen Production

Andrew Taylor

Introduction: What Is This Thing ‘Creativity’? The words ‘creative’ and ‘creativity’ are everywhere—in government, industry and especially in the educational sector. We frequently hear words such as ‘creative nation’, ‘creative economies’, ‘creative industries’, ‘creativity and innovation’, ‘creative thinking’ and ‘creative intelligence’, as people and organisations try to position themselves for the remainder of the twenty-first century. But in spite of its ubiquity, creativity is difficult and complex to define. Dictionary definitions run along these lines: ‘The use of imagination or original ideas to create something; inventiveness’ (Oxford Dictionary 2018); or, ‘Creativity is a phenomenon whereby something new and somehow valuable is formed. The created item may be intangible such as an idea ... or a physical object such as an invention ...’ (Wikipedia 2018). Others see it as a process, a way of thinking and acting rather than an inborn trait (Boon 2014). The psychologist and influential creativity theorist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi posits that creativity is best understood using a ‘systems model’ involving an interplay of social, cultural and personal factors. Csikszentmihalyi argues that creativity does not exist in a vacuum and it needs to be recognised and seen to add some ‘value’ by society and experts in the field (Csikszentmihalyi 1999, as cited in Redvall 2013): ‘Creativity happens when someone does something new that is also useful or generative or influential’ (Csikszentmihalyi 1996; as cited in Stokes 2017, p. 1).

A. Taylor (*) University of Technology Sydney, Sydney, NSW, Australia e-mail: [email protected]

For the purposes of this chapter, I am going to ‘skim the cream of science’ and make a composite definition that proposes creativity is to do with ideas, problem-solving, innovation, and making or creating something new. I also propose that it is a skill or set of skills that can be developed. From here it is not such a stretch to accept this ‘composite dish’ called ‘creativity’ as something worthwhile to teach in a university context, and able to be taught. And, if we can accept these propositions, the next question is how to teach it? In this chapter, then, I explore one particular idea I have found powerful in when teaching in universities. This idea is that limits or constraints foster creativity. The idea of teaching creative writing by imposing constraints is well established in creative writing texts and courses (see, e.g. Grenville 1990; Le Guin 1998; Walderback and Batty 2012). In this chapter, I shift the attention from looking at using constraints in the teaching of creative writing to using them in my own field of film and video production (media arts). I use two case studies drawn from my own work teaching screen production in an Australian university to demonstrate the effectiveness of using constraints to teach both creativity and craft.

Hanif Kureishi Makes Headlines In early 2014 the English writer Hanif Kureishi made headlines around the world with his claim that creative writing cannot be taught and university creative writing courses are a waste of time and money. In contrast to Kureishi, I argue that both creative writing and creativity can be taught in universities. Before proceeding I have a confession. I am a creative writing phoney. For the past fifteen years I have taught Media Arts at the University of Technology Sydney (UTS) and prior to this worked as a documentary filmmaker, cinematographer and animation director. This experience has led to some knowledge of writing and creativity, but I have never taught creative writing in a university setting or other. In spelling out my confession I want to make it clear that I do not wish to engage in a specific polemic about teaching creative writing per se but to talk more generally about teaching creativity, especially in the area where I have expertise, the area of screen production. Kureishi’s headline-grabbing quote, however, serves as a useful departure point and prompts some difficult but fundamental questions for those teaching in higher education. For example, is the role of the teacher (university lecturer) to be an instructor or facilitator? If the role of the teacher is primarily seen as that of an instructor then I tend to agree with Kureishi and it is almost self- evident that one cannot teach creativity or creative writing. One might be able to develop methods to facilitate creativity but simply to instruct others to undertake ‘creative writing’ or be ‘creative’ is unlikely to be fruitful. To simplify matters and put some shape on my argument I am going to assume for the remains of the chapter that teaching in a university in the twenty-first century aspires to a model where the teacher is more a facilitator than an instructor (as in ‘a guide on the side’, rather than a ‘sage on the stage’). THERE IS NO ‘E’ IN ‘CONSTRAINTS’: TEACHING CREATIVITY IN HIGHER… 405

Similarly, I am going to assume an idea of creativity as something that can be learned and therefore taught, as opposed to something that is derived from the gods or delivered to rare individuals like a manna from heaven (as per the artist as genius discourse). Jeanette Winterson, who teaches at Manchester University, disagrees with Kureishi about creative writing courses being a waste. In her rebuttal of Kureishi, she takes the idea of the teacher as facilitator a step further by claiming her role is to open up possibilities for other ways of seeing, being and approaching the world:

My job is not to teach my MA students to write; my job is to explode language in their faces. To show them that writing is both bomb and bomb disposal – a necessary shattering of cliché and assumption, and a powerful defusing of the soul- destroying messages of modern life (that nothing matters, nothing changes, money is everything, etc.). Writing is a state of being as well as an act of doing. My job is to alter their relationship with language. The rest is up to them. (Winterson in Flood 2014)

English novelist Matt Haig also rejected Kureishi’s claims. In responding to Kureishi’s comments, he states:

Creative writing lessons can be very useful, just like music lessons can be useful. ... Of course, it is always important to know your limitations. For instance, I could have 7000 guitar lessons but I wouldn’t be Hendrix, though I would be a lot better than I am now. Like most art forms writing is part instinct and part craft. The craft part is the part that can be taught, and that can make a crucial difference to lots of writers. (Haig in Flood 2014)

Kureishi does not disagree with Haig about the importance of craft but he contends that this learning can be done outside of universities. Kureishi argues that for an aspiring writer it is better for them to spend their time reading as much as they can, looking at free online resources and taking the time needed to write outside of the cost, variable standards and bureaucratic interferences of universities (Kureishi in Flood 2014). There is truth to all these claims. One does not necessarily need universities to become a creative writer—William Shakespeare, Jane Austin, Franz Kafka and countless others would concur. If people have the wherewithal to write outside of a university context, all power to them. But there are many who do not, and despite being a ‘creative writing phoney’ I would argue there can be value in learning craft with peers, with some expert guidance and feedback. Students are also likely to benefit from learning about related subject matter that may inform and enliven their creative writing in a university environment. In most countries university education is expensive, so Kureishi’s claims that creative writing courses are also a waste of money cannot be lightly dismissed. If creative writing courses are predicated on selling an idea to students that they will become successful creative writers, or they will make a living as a writer, 406 A. TAYLOR then statistically this is more than likely to be a false claim. This is also the case with acting, filmmaking and other courses in the creative arts. In all of these areas, there are far more people qualified to work than there are reliable income streams or jobs available. However, if these courses were predicated on an assumption that students would acquire some skills, knowledge and abilities that would enhance their ability to work as a writer, or actor or filmmaker while also developing their creativity then this is more honest, ethical, useful and sustainable. The idea of students learning ‘soft skills’ in higher education is not new, although there is still much discussion and debate on how to make this happen. How can we best implement these ‘soft skills’ and ‘twenty-first-century attributes’?

Limits Foster Creativity My basic premise—that limits or constraints foster creativity—may seem counter-intuitive. The premise runs contrary to an idea of the creative process as one that is closely aligned with unencumbered imagination, freedom of expression and being unbound by rules. I am not suggesting that ‘free association’ and ‘thinking outside the box’ and other lateral approaches have no part to play in creativity, but my thesis is focused on teaching creativity in higher education. It accepts many of the strictures of modern coursework programmes in universities such as large class sizes, demands of rigorous assessment and feedback, and the necessity of keeping administrative costs low. And, given these strictures, it asks how the teaching of creativity can be done in a manner that is still enjoyable for both students and staff (‘enjoyable’ as in challenging, stimulating, fun). As mentioned, the use of constraints in teaching creative writing is well established. Some well-known creative writing exercises include writing without using certain letters, rewriting something written in the third person in the first person, remembering and describing the street one grew up in, taking a character supermarket shopping and describing what they do, or rewriting a 100-word short story ten times using different styles or points of view (for example, as a soap opera, a vehicle manual or an erotic novel) (Blain 2017; Morley 2007). Yes, these exercises are exactly that. They are exercises. Just as people interested in running or surfing or other physical sports need to do a series of exercises to get fit for that activity, so too do those who wish to be able to write. I will use an analogy with surfing to make my point crystal clear. In order to surf there are three overlapping attributes that one needs to develop: (1) fitness; (2) confidence; and (3) skills. In order to surf consistently well in challenging waves all three attributes need to be honed, and they then reinforce each other. The more skills you have, the more waves you catch, the more confidence you develop, the fitter you become, the more waves, the more skills, the more confidence ... and so on. And vice versa, if you lack either THERE IS NO ‘E’ IN ‘CONSTRAINTS’: TEACHING CREATIVITY IN HIGHER… 407

fitness, confidence or skills. Returning to creative writing, exercises such as those outlined develop ‘writing fitness’. They increase a writer’s skill and confidence. And the more we do these, the more ‘creatively fit’ we become. Unfortunately, it is not quite this ‘mathematically’ simple. Just as match fitness is not enough to guarantee a player will perform well, neither is ‘creative fitness’ enough to guarantee the successful realisation of a major creative work like a novel or feature film screenplay. But it is a really good start. In sport, match fitness literally means to be ready and able to play. Similarly, creative fitness means one is ready and able to create. The great contemporary Japanese novelist, Haruki Murakami, is also a marathon runner, and he likens the stam- ina needed to write a novel to that needed to run a marathon. I have to take Murakami’s word for it as I have neither run a marathon nor written a novel. What I do know though, is there is no way I would try and run a marathon without training. I labour these points because creativity is often obfuscated by romantic ideas of it being god-ordained or a mystical process. If, on the other hand, it is thought of as something we can prepare for by doing a series of exercises, then it becomes a far more tangible thing to teach and learn. Apart from developing our creative fitness, exercises with limits have other advantages in higher education. They are more likely to be equitable in terms of the human and physical resources they demand. They also help in establishing a contained ‘level playing field’ for assessment. In turn, assessment is less onerous as there is less volume and there is increased scope for effective self- and peer assessment—all the students have been set the same creative challenge with the same clear limits or guidelines and so it is relatively easy for students to ascertain whether they and their peers have solved this creative problem well, not so well or not at all. More importantly, small contained exercises help allay the crippling fear of creative failure. There is not as much at stake for students and so they are less likely to be daunted by the blank empty page or the pressure to write the next ‘Great Short Story’. This frees people creatively. At the very worst, it helps people develop their creative ‘tool kits’. At best, it helps develop new ways of being in the world, new ways of seeing the world.

Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day? The history of creative writing is full of examples of creative constraints, and so it is not surprising that using constraints has been a popular teaching method in creative writing courses. Poets have been using constraints since Basho was a boy. A haiku, for example, must use only seventeen syllables, in a 5-7-5 pattern, and it should contain a seasonal reference. In the European poetic tradition, a sonnet is a set fourteen lines and has a defined rhyming pattern. A modern writing constraint is the six-word memoir. According to literary legend, Ernest Hemingway was challenged to write a six-word story. His story read: ‘For sale: baby shoes, never worn.’ In a recent US radio show celebrating this micro form, Anne from Hell’s Kitchen shared her six-word memoir: ‘I 408 A. TAYLOR found my mother’s suicide note.’ In an intense few minutes on radio she talked about how important it was for her to come to terms with her mother’s death, and the role of the note in that process. The note, she explained, was just six words: ‘No flowers, no funeral, no nothing’ (Six-Word Memoirs 2018). Writers, particularly in the avant-garde, have used ‘constrained-writing’ approaches that include: alliteratives in which every word must start with the same letter; acrostics: first letter of each word/sentence/paragraph forms a word or sentence; and lipograms: a letter (commonly e or o) is outlawed (Constrained Writing 2018). The most famous example of a lipogram belongs to Georges Perec whose 300-page novel La disparition is written without the letter ‘e’ (the English translation, A Void, is also a lipogram). The novel is remarkable not only for the absence of ‘e’, but for being a mystery in which the absence of that letter is a central theme (Perec 1995). Georges Perec belonged to the Oulipo Group,1 a loose gathering of mainly French-speaking writers and mathematicians who created works using constrained-writing techniques, involving patterns, familiarity, rules and math- ematical structures. Italo Calvino was another writer associated with the Oulipo Group, and the formal structures of his internationally acclaimed works, Invisible Cities (Calvino 1978) and If on a Winter’s Night a Traveller, (Calvino 1992) reflect an Oulipo influence. To be clear, I am not advocating Oulipo or other ‘constrained-writing’ techniques as a formula. Rather, haiku poets, six-word memoirists and Oulipo Group members alike show us that constraints can be creatively fruitful as well as playful, fun and, at times, subversive. (And perhaps by extension, there is a useful lesson here that creativity doesn’t have to be all about angst.)

Creative Limits and Screen Production The use of creative constraints is by no means confined to literature. There are numerous examples in screen production where stellar work has been produced in large part because of the imposition of creative constraints, not despite them. I draw from the world of international cinema to outline four examples:

Italian Neo-Realism Italian neo-realism came about as World War II ended and Mussolini’s government fell, causing the Italian film industry to lose its centre. Neo-realist films were best known for their use of non-professional actors and ‘real-life’ locations, as well as their exploration of the living conditions of the poor and the working class. Its dominant aesthetic reflected shifting social and political values, but it was also material and economic. Italian neo-realism cinema emerged during a time of great scarcity in Italy and its characteristic style was partially a

1 Oulipo is short for the French: Ouvroir de littérature potentielle; roughly translated: ‘workshop of potential literature’. THERE IS NO ‘E’ IN ‘CONSTRAINTS’: TEACHING CREATIVITY IN HIGHER… 409 result of constraints and lack of choice. Rome’s Cinecittà film studios had been significantly damaged during the war and so filming in the streets became a necessity. Similarly, the use of non-professional actors and black-and-white available-light photography are characteristics of neo-realism where the economic and aesthetic intertwined.

Yasujiro Ozu In terms of visual style, Ozu is best remembered for his recurring use of a master wide shot, filmed using a locked-off camera from a low angle (‘tatami mat’ point of view (POV)). It is difficult to know whether this was a constraint Ozu imposed upon his cinematographer when covering a scene or simply a style he adopted early in his career that worked for him and his films. Speculation aside, what is clear is that for most directors Ozu’s sparse coverage, low camera angles and very limited use of moving camera would be considered overly restrictive. But judging by Ozu’s outputs and influence, it appears these impositions or constraints were liberating, not restrictive.

Robert Bresson A similar case to that of Ozu may be made for Robert Bresson’s cinema with its uninflected performance style, widespread employment of non-professional actors, sparse use of music and naturalistic sound. However, in Bresson’s case his Notes on Cinematography (Bresson 1997) make it clear his use of these constraints were part of a philosophy that informed his unique minimalist ‘ascetic approach’. These constraints were a foundation for Bresson’s rich, fertile body of work.

Dogme 95 and The Five Obstructions The influential Dogme filmmaking movement, started by Danish directors Lars von Trier and Thomas Vinterberg, was based on a set of rules that focused on story, acting and theme. These rules or constraints were formalised by von Trier and Vinterberg in their Dogme 95 manifesto. This ten-point manifesto included rules such as ‘shooting must be done on location’; ‘the camera must be hand-held’; ‘optical work and filters are forbidden’. Special effects and elaborate post-production were also forbidden. Many claim the manifesto and movement was in large part a publicity stunt. Nevertheless, the movement inspired an impressive body of work both in Denmark and abroad. In 2003, von Trier made The Five Obstructions, a documentary inspired by his former university teacher, Jørgen Leth. The Five Obstructions (von Trier and Leth 2003) is not a Dogme film in terms of adhering to the strict rules laid out in the manifesto but it was inspired by the idea of how limits or obstructions could enhance creativity. In the film, von Trier sets Leth five challenges to remake a twelve-minute short film, each time with a different obstruction or 410 A. TAYLOR obstacle. For example, for Obstruction #1, Leth must remake the film in Cuba with no set, and with no shot lasting longer than twelve frames. Others have made works stemming from a self-imposed technological limit. Michael Winterbottom’s In this World (2002) is a powerful low-budget feature film following two young Afghan men making their way from a Pakistan refugee camp through Iran and Turkey, and then being smuggled into Europe in shipping containers and lorries. Winterbottom filmed using non-professional actors, a small handycam and a skeleton crew. The technological limits made the filming logistically and financially feasible, and were integral to the film’s strong sense of veracity and actuality. Sean Baker’s Tangerine (2015) is a film shot on the streets, buses and in the doughnut huts of LA, using three iPhone 5s, while more recently Steven Soderbergh filmedUnsane (2018) using an iPhone 7 as the primary camera.

Creative Limits and Teaching Screen Production In the early 2000s, student numbers and class sizes have swelled across the Australian university sector, while teaching staff levels have remained constant. In short, academics are being asked to deliver more for less. I do not want to deny the political and industrial dimension to these changes but I mention them here because teaching creativity using constraints has helped me to deal with these challenges and make teaching and learning more engaging and worthwhile. The following two case studies outline this experience.

The Archival A/V Essay In an introductory documentary production subject, I have had great success with the short audio-visual (A/V) essay assignment. For this exercise, students are limited to using only archival materials and are not allowed to film new material. ‘Archival materials’ in this instance is interpreted in the broadest sense—letters, photographs, home videos, pre-existing audio recordings, grandma’s teaspoon collection and so on. Along with the stipulation to use only ‘archival materials’, there is also a strict length limit of four minutes. Low- tech and low-fi approaches are not penalised and can be part of an aesthetic. The work produced has been wonderfully rich, moving and insightful. Students have made documentary essays that include being part of a Vietnamese refugee family; living with a disabled brother; being caught in the cross-fire of a violent Egyptian protest; and growing up in Oman with a hermaphrodite sibling. Many have explored personal and idiosyncratic themes: their childhood love of video games; an obsession with ‘Lolita fashion’; the experience of being a twin; and the thrills of being a street roller-blader. These short ‘essay’ documentaries open up possibilities for the documentary form and highlight the importance of sound and soundtrack as expressive elements. The essays need very little equipment or production support and so they are both an effective form of production and sustainable in increasingly THERE IS NO ‘E’ IN ‘CONSTRAINTS’: TEACHING CREATIVITY IN HIGHER… 411 economically constricted educational environments. Over and above these pragmatic benefits and educational outcomes, the limits of the assignment help students develop their confidence, creativity and voice. The brevity demanded by the timeframe is short enough for students to explore and take risks, yet not long enough for the essays to become too mawkish, self-indulgent or overwrit- ten. There are other benefits too. We watch the A/V essays as a class group and so assessment becomes more open and useful in terms of students learning about the delicate art of listening to and giving criticism. It is not uncommon for students to share personal details and air sensitive topics like the recent death of a parent or sibling. This shared experience enables me to get to know the students, and them to get to know one another, in a manner that is open, trusting and safe. This is rare in modern tertiary education.

The Maltese Falcon Another exercise with students involving strict limits is reworking a scene from The Maltese Falcon (Huston 1941). For this introductory sync-sound drama exercise, students are broken into crews of around eight to ten people, and given one page of script from the opening of The Maltese Falcon. The scene is a three-hander set in an office involving a private detective, a secretary and a femme fatale. It has ten lines of dialogue and runs for around one minute of screen time. The stipulations are the students must use only one location and three actors, as per the original, and they must cover the same dialogue without any rewrites or additions. I was sceptical of this assignment when I first taught at UTS. It had already been in use since 1990, or even earlier, and my hunch was the exercise was stale and creatively limiting for students wishing to explore film drama. On this score, I have been proven wrong time and time again. Every semester I have taught this subject, I have been thrilled with the results. I’ve seen other-worldly sci-fi versions; all-singing, all-dancing Baz Luhrmann-inspired versions; butch– femme lesbian versions; Wong Kar Wai-esque Cantonese versions; and a version riffing off David Lynch, where the action is forward and all the dialogue is backwards. In other words, I have been constantly astounded and delighted by the imagination and innovation students have brought to this assignment, while still adhering to the given stipulations of number of cast, single location and fixed dialogue. In terms of my overarching thesis, I would argue this creativity is because of the limits of the exercise, not in spite of them. The Maltese Falcon exercise has been used in a subject teaching sync-sound drama filmmaking. The particular division of labour, hierarchy and method of collaboration this entails is difficult to teach and learn, but the contained length and strictures of the assignment are ideal in helping to achieve these ends. And, as with some of the writing exercises mentioned, its contained size and clearly defined limits reduces risk and anxiety around failure. It is sustainable while also being creatively challenging and fulfilling (usually fun too). 412 A. TAYLOR

The brevity of the completed scenes helps to highlight aspects of film drama that are otherwise subtle and intangible. For example, the fine interplay of performance, editing, storytelling, music and sound design is made apparent when two edited versions from identical rushes are played back to back and one version is dark and the other light; one cryptic, the other comic. These lessons about ‘the right weight, the right measure’ are far less likely to be clear when we teach longer form film drama with a more open brief. When a class is presented with two very different versions from an identical set of rushes, it is not so much a case of ‘seeing is believing’ as ‘seeing is knowing’.

Escape from the Content-Free Zone The teaching of ideas, theory and history can be integrated with creative exercises like the two outlined in sections “The Archival A/V Essay” and “The Maltese Falcon”. In turn, this dodges the potential trap of creativity exercises existing in ‘content-free zones’. Taking the A/V documentary essays as an example, before production commences, students are introduced to documentary theory and screenings highlighting the rise of the personal and autobiographical work following second-wave feminism and recent first-person documentary (e.g., they are shown works like Song of Air, The Gleaners & I, My Mother India, Tarnation and My Winnipeg). Similarly, the Maltese Falcon exercise has been used following the introduction of ideas and theories connected with film noir, genre studies, cinematography,mise en scène, subtext and performance. This approach helps students see the introduction of screen history and theory as both useful and applicable to screen production. And vice versa: screen production does not occur in an a-historical, a-theoretical void. In other words, this approach lends itself to a fruitful integration of theory and practice,

Capturing Bicycle Thieves Returning to my earlier examples from international cinema, one can imagine devising an exercise where students examine and analyse Italian neo-realist cinema and then have to create a scene of drama using only available light, actual locations, non-professional actors and working-class characters. In another exercise, students could study Ozu and post-war Japanese cinema and be asked to cover a scene of drama using an interior location, a wide shot and a locked-off camera, similar to Ozu’s ‘tatami mat’ POV. Or, to use a more contemporary example and avoid the pitfalls of the male-dominated canon of international cinema, students might be set an exercise using the Bechdel Test as a starting point. For example, students have to research and find a selection of films that pass the Bechdel Test and recreate a scene based on this research. THERE IS NO ‘E’ IN ‘CONSTRAINTS’: TEACHING CREATIVITY IN HIGHER… 413

McVeigh and Finding the Lightbulb Moment Before concluding, I would like to draw upon the research undertaken by creativity and screenwriting academic, Margaret McVeigh. In her work, Finding the Lightbulb Moment (Mcveigh 2016), McVeigh makes a convincing argument that many screen-writing manuals stress the importance of mastering craft in order to be creative but leave the creative process unexamined. McVeigh surveys influential screenwriting manuals (for example, the books of Field, Seger and McKee) and points out an assumption they share: if craft is mastered then creativity will flow (McVeigh 2016, p. 4). McVeigh, on the other hand, explores a practical integration of creativity and craft. She does not deny the importance of craft but argues that understanding one’s creative process is not something separate but is an important part of a writer’s craft (McVeigh 2016, pp. 5–10). McVeigh’s distinction between thinking of creativity as being something ‘exterior’ and unrelated to craft, compared with it being an integral aspect of practising one’s craft, is profound. This integration of creativity and craft makes perfect sense when I apply it to the A/V essay and Maltese Falcon case studies outlined. In both of these instances, students have developed craft skills while becoming more creatively ‘activated’ and ‘alive’. This is something most teachers of creative arts aspire towards and students implicitly feel when a creative exercise ‘works’. The difference is McVeigh has made explicit something that has until now been implicit. In the future, I will draw upon McVeigh’s insight to prompt student reflection upon how an increased understanding of creative process can be looked upon as an integral part of their craft.

There Is No Need to Attend Film School Kureishi is correct. There is no need to attend film school or a creative writing courses in this DIY age. Many of the craft skills required for creative arts can be gleaned from online sources and elsewhere. However, I disagree with Kureishi’s claims that creative writing cannot be taught and university creative writing courses are a waste of time and money. In this chapter I have argued that universities can play a part in teaching creative arts and creativity, and I have outlined a case for using small, achievable creative exercises to help ensure students are creatively fit when they enter the wider world. Finally, I have argued that when combined with the introduction of ideas, theory and history, creative exercises can contribute to universities becoming both intellectual and creative hubs. In turn, my hope here is for universities to not only reflect the world, but also consciously and actively help to change it.

References Baker, S. (Director and Co-writer). (2015). Tangerine. USA: Duplass Brothers Productions & Through Films. 414 A. TAYLOR

Blain, G. (2017). The Museum of Words. Melbourne/London: Scribe. Boon, W. (2014). Defining Creativity. Amsterdam: BIS Publishers. Bresson, R. (1997). Notes on Cinematography. Copenhagen: Green Integer. Calvino, I. (1978). Invisible Cities. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich. Calvino, I. (1992). If on a Winter’s Night a Traveller. London: Minerva. Constrained Writing. (2018). Wikipedia, the Free Encyclopedia. Retrieved 10 Apr 2018 from: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Constrained_writing Creativity. (2018). Wikipedia, the Free Encyclopedia. Retrieved May 10, 2018 from: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Creativity Csikszentmihalyi, M. (1996). Creativity. New York: Harper Collins Publishers. Csikszentmihalyi, M. (1999). Implications for a Systems Perspective for the Study of Creativity. In R. J. Sternberg (Ed.), Handbook of Creativity (pp. 313–336). New York: Cambridge University Press. English Oxford Living Dictionaries. (2018). Retrieved May 10, 2018 from: https:// en.oxforddictionaries.com/definition/creativity Grenville, K. (1990). The Writing Book: A Workbook for Fiction Writers. Sydney: Allen & Unwin. Flood, A. (2014, March 5). Creative Writing Professor Hanif Kureishi Says such Courses Are ‘A Waste of Time’. The Guardian (Australian Online Edition). Retrieved May 10, 2018: https://www.theguardian.com/ Huston, J. (Writer-Director). (1941). The Maltese Falcon. USA: Warner Brothers. Le Guin, U. (1998). Steering the Craft. Oregon: Eight Mountain Press. McVeigh, M. (2014). Can Creativity Be Taught? Screen Education, 75, 56–73. McVeigh, M. (2016). Finding the Lightbulb Moment: Creativity and Inspiration in the Teaching of the Craft of Screenwriting. Retrieved from http://www.aspera.org. au/research/ Morley, D. (2007). The Cambridge Introduction to Creative Writing. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Perec, G. (1995). La disparition (Translated by Gilbert Adair and published under the title A Void). London: Harvill Press. Redvall, E. N. (2013). Writing and Producing Television Drama in Denmark: From The Kingdom to The Killing. Basingstoke, Hampshire: Palgrave Macmillan. Six Word Memoirs. (2018). Wikipedia, the Free Encyclopedia. Retrieved May 21, 2018 from: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Six-Word_Memoirs Sodenbergh, S. (Director). (2018). Unsane. USA: Extension 765 & Regency Enterprises. Stokes, P. (2017). Creativity from Constraints: The Psychology of Breakthrough. New York: Springer. von Trier, L., & Leth J. (Writer and Director). (2003). The Five Obstructions. Denmark: Zentropa Real ApS. Waldeback, Z., & Batty, C. (2012). The Creative Screenwriter: Exercises to Expand your Craft. London: Methuen Drama, Bloomsbury Publishing. Winterbottom, M. (Writer and Director). (2002). In This World. UK: The Film Consortium & Revolution Films. “Is this Degree Practical or Theoretical?” Screen and Media Education, Studio-Based Teaching and Signature Pedagogies

Brian Morris

Introduction This chapter explores how discourses of theory versus practice operate within the context of screen and media pedagogy in university degree programmes and inform decisions about what is taught and how. Analogously, the discussion has conceptual and practical components (Thrift 2016): it draws upon theories of teaching and learning, critical reflections on some of the author’s own academic and institutional biography, and the experiences of a major change in the pedagogical approach since 2015 in the Bachelor of Communication: Media (hereafter referred to as “the Media degree”) at RMIT University, where he works. That change, which was implemented from 2015, placed the notion of studio-based pedagogy firmly at the centre of a screen- and media-focused curriculum. Like many binaries, theory and practice are tenacious and keep popping up in different guises; any foregrounding of it threatens to induce the rolling of eyes—“are we still discussing this?” It is symptomatic that in the process of researching this chapter, I came across an article by a recently retired colleague (Berkeley 2009), previously unbeknown to me, which discusses that rift as one of the challenges to a previous curriculum redesign in the same degree which was implemented in the first half of the 2000s. More banal and regular cyclical reminders of the theory/practice dichotomy continue to be found in the comments in each semester’s Course Experience Surveys and at the University

B. Morris (*) RMIT University, Melbourne, VIC, Australia e-mail: [email protected]

Open Day where I can confidently predict the most popular question to be asked year in and year out by potential students and parents: “Is this degree practical or theoretical?” A goal of this chapter is to “re-enchant” the discussion around that division. To find a fresh way of thinking that transforms it into a generative rhetoric that might occasion a critical rethink on the part of screen educators and students. That was also one key motivation (amongst others, which I discuss in section 3) for the major recent curriculum renewal of the RMIT Media degree that was implemented from 2015; that is, to find energising new ways for staff and students to rethink how theory and actual making might equally inform what they do as media practitioners, teachers and learners. For the purpose of describing and reflecting upon those efforts at a re-enchantment of the theory–practice divide, I turn in this chapter to the unorthodox prism of a speculative fiction that suggests generative parallels to the situation I am trying to describe. This novel lens provides a fresh way to revisit the everyday dichotomy that haunts university marketing and my own teaching practice and institutional experience, as well as student perceptions and expectations. A cautionary qualification is necessary here though in terms of foregrounding the structural means (i.e., studio-based pedagogy) by which the Media degree addressed that perceived split. The purpose of the chapter is not to explicitly or implicitly put forward a single pedagogical mode as a superior approach. This is not a prescription but instead a contribution to an ongoing conversation about how we do screen-based media in a time when the role of universities, the media industries and social understandings of “learning” appear to be undergoing significant shifts.1 Here, I am describing and analysing a deliberately experimental moment occurring within a quite specific institutional context and set of circumstances. The value of any explicit reflection on pedagogy like this is in an articulation and triggering of critical recognitions of the assumptions and practices we all carry with us into our often quite different teaching situations. As a preliminary step, it requires a de-familiarisation or making strange of the practices that have accreted personally and institutionally over a number of years. To achieve that I turn here to a speculative fiction that similarly concerns itself with investigating spatial environments that seemingly incorporate mutually exclusive worlds.

The Cities of Theory and Practice China Miéville’s The City and the City (2009) combines science fantasy and detective procedure (and was adapted as a four-part BBC mini-series in 2018). Its protagonist, police inspector Tyador Borlú, pursues a murder mystery in his home city of Besźel, a city strangely conjoined with its twin metropolis, Ul

1 See the “What is a Media Lab” project at http://whatisamedialab.com and Parikka (2017) on the “lab imaginary”, for a very different but likeminded approach to thinking about formations under which the research, teaching and doing of media take place. “IS THIS DEGREE PRACTICAL OR THEORETICAL?” SCREEN AND MEDIA… 417

Qoma. What is speculative and particularly gripping about the fictional setting is that the two cities are not simply divided cities located in adjoining contested geographical spaces but, actually, and somehow, physically interspersed. At some locations, city space is fuzzy and almost indeterminate in terms of whether it is officially Besźel or Ul Qoma: “cross-hatched” in the book’s terminology. This fantastic topography has a crucial psychological adjunct in that the inhabitants of each city are required in this imagined world to “unsee” each other, to not directly notice the presence of the other city and its inhabitants while somehow avoiding potential glances, interactions and collisions that would directly acknowledge the “reality” of the situation. To not shift the presence of the other city to the deepest recesses of one’s peripheral vision and consciousness is to risk the punishment of a shadowy and disciplining all- powerful entity called Breach who police the urban division. At its best, the novel is a skilful and canny commentary on the ways in which individuals negotiate contradictions that infuse so many aspects of daily urban life. The city and the city for me are, biographically and professional speaking, the University of Melbourne and RMIT, both institutions where I have studied and taught media studies and media and communication studies. Located on the northern fringes of Melbourne’s city centre, each year their campuses expand further, giving the impression they might eventually physically inter- sperse with one another. More abstractly and subjectively, these institutions have been instrumental in constructing my academic habitus: personal dispositions towards teaching, researching and administering media and cognate disciplines such as cultural studies and communications. As Meaghan Morris (2018) has suggested, the myths framing our understanding of institutions are important in terms of sustaining one’s teaching mojo in challenging times for tertiary education. As she puts it, “using one’s wits and story-telling powers to make raids on common myths while taking advantage of institutional rules generally works better and more pleasurably to sustain energy than ‘speaking bitterness’ (as the Chinese say) alone” (p. 100). The myths of how these two institutions are similar and different accompany me as I go into a classroom, in idle chatter with colleagues and as I work on a research project: I’m often still wondering is this a RMIT or a Melbourne way (even though I have not taught at the latter for over 15 years) of doing media? The common myths about RMIT and the University of Melbourne are, at surface level, distinct and oppositional: the latter is steeped in its elite sandstone history, research prowess and achievements as, frequently, Australia’s number one in multiple global ranking indices; while the former has its origins as a nineteenth-century working man’s college, only becoming a university in 1992—it’s proud of its reputation for vocational training and being more “real world”. The former leans in to ideas and appears to be both traditional and transdisciplinary at the same time (the so-called ‘Melbourne model’ of general- ist undergraduate degrees and postgraduate specialisation and professionalisa- tion), while the latter is rooted in the ethos of the aspirational, entrepreneurial and professional classes (including the creative industries). In the classroom 418 B. MORRIS itself, I experienced this difference in my own shift from an internationally familiar humanities style (exemplified at the University of Melbourne) which privileged ideas, theories and analysis primarily enabled through the activities of lectures, readings and tutorial discussion, to RMIT’s more vocationally driven approach that laid equal if not more emphasis on workshops around using media technologies or particular skills like audio editing. This personal version of the myth risks eliding a more nuanced understanding of those histories as they pertain to the doing and study of media. For instance, important components of media theory in the classroom, particularly those associated with media and cultural studies rather than the US-dominated social science tradition of mass communications, have, in an Australian context, emerged very much in non-sandstone institutions like former polytechnics or the new universities emerging from the expansions of the 1960s. For example, now retired Australian media studies academic Mick Counihan recounts in an interview (King 2012) some of the early media theory moments at RMIT in the form of Cinema Studies electives introduced in the mid-1960s, which he taught in to during the very early 1970s, and how later, around 1977, he recalls running a “unit in the new Media Studies program at RMIT which spent the semester on a single episode of Callen [sic] which put together my interests of the time—film genre, narrative analysis, broadcast scheduling, spies and the cold war—and which I recall enjoying considerably” (p. 9). This is a reminder that theory/practice divisions are long-standing but take on particular formations at specific institutions that might go against the grain of broader narratives that are still accurate in some senses. Increasingly, in the present, these myths are the domain of the powerful marketing and branding apparatuses of contemporary universities and seem akin to the cross-hatched territories of Miéville’s fiction, with both universities making claims to research excellence and industry connectedness as well as producing students with skills that will make an impact in the “real world”.2 In light of this, the theory or practice question asked by potential students at the Open Day might be understood as a public recognition and negotiation of those myths, part of a filtering process to try and ascertain how the actual degree experience might play out in terms of activities in the classroom and skills acquired, as well as future employment prospects. Further clouding the question of how institutions ‘do’ media is the Australian historical split in the tertiary sector between media studies and different kinds of media production training. To say you teach “Media” then is to enter a complex territory like that imagined by Miéville, that is sometimes one thing, sometimes another, and sometimes an indeterminate mix of both.

2 In 2016, for example, the University of Melbourne launched its “Collision” branding strategy (see https://research.unimelb.edu.au/stem), which emphasised the institution as a place where brilliant people and ideas come together. This was later transformed into the “Made Possible” campaign, which emphasised the practical over the conceptual by focusing on actual examples of research-driven projects. “IS THIS DEGREE PRACTICAL OR THEORETICAL?” SCREEN AND MEDIA… 419

Reconfiguring a Media Degree around Studio-Based Pedagogy The Media degree at RMIT has, for much of its approximately 40-year history, included different components that might be considered practical, theoretical or both. At the core of the programme since the late 2000s have been media- making/production courses spanning film, television, radio and, increasingly, online forms. Students are additionally required to complete a “contextual studies” minor in which they undertake a number of courses throughout the three-year degree from one of the following themed strands of humanities and social science-style offerings: these are grouped as Cinema Studies; Approaches to Popular Culture; Literature; Asian Media Cultures; or Politics, Economies and Communication. The remainder of the degree consists of a third elective strand, mostly from related areas of Media and Communication (such as Journalism, Public Relations, Games, Advertising, Creative Writing, Communication Design etc.). In 2015 the Media degree replaced its core production strand courses (namely Writing Media Texts, Editing Media Texts, Broadcast Media, Networked Media in the first year; Film-TV 1 and 2/Radio 1 and 2 and Integrated Media 1 and 2 in the second year; Media Industries 1 and 2 and Production Project 1 and 2 in the third year) with a series of placeholder courses (Media 1–6) that would each be host to a number of themed studios within any given semester (and these would also vary from semester to semester). Prior to that change, those production courses predominantly employed a lecture plus workshop teaching model, implicitly coded and performed as theory and practice, as its foundation. Drivers for the change to themed studios were multifarious. Crucially, the then Dean of the Media and Communication School to which the programme belonged was an RMIT architect-academic whose own academic habitus was firmly embedded in a tradition of design studio teaching. Institutionally, the school sits within a College of Design and Social Context, which provides further orientation to a sense of disciplinary and professional orientations. One of the other largest degree programmes within the school, Communication Design, had itself a long experience with the studio modes of pedagogy. Additionally, the Media programme had already previously experimented with the studio mode in the students’ final semester course, Production Project 2, where the cohort subdivided into themed studio groups for the final media production segment of their degree. For this reason, enthusiasm for the change was fairly high among Media academic staff. A different rationale for the shift was around the potential for closer alignment with the research and teaching interests of staff; that is, if they were permitted and able to devise curricula closer to their actual research interests, in contrast with more generalised survey-type courses, this would be more efficient and encourage more conventional publishing outcomes, particularly for those with less experience in thinking of their production pursuits as research-related. 420 B. MORRIS

What then distinguishes studio-based teaching from other modes such as the familiar lecture-tutorial approach in humanities and social science-based courses? Firstly, it is worth acknowledging that due to the relative lack of an established studio tradition within screen media disciplines (especially more broadcast-oriented forms like film and television), this change in the RMIT Media degree has involved a process of adaptation and invention that drew heavily on ideas from and traditions within the design disciplines in particular (as expertise was close to hand given RMIT’s institutional orientations). As Crowther (2013, p. 18) summarises, within the design professions the term “studio” is loosely used to describe a specific kind of physical space as well as “the mode of engagement (as a pedagogical strategy)”. Central to a studio approach is learning through a problem-based approach and the undertaking of project work. Across the studios and degree the nature of those projects vary and might include making short documentary and fiction films (two to three minutes), online interactive documentaries, podcasts, social media campaign collateral for external partner organisations or live television shows. More significantly, perhaps, adoption of a studio-based pedagogy has been accompanied by an increased emphasis (relative to the past structure) on fragmented or iterative making; for instance, some film-related studios do not culminate in the making of a seven-minute short film in that semester but instead only involve weekly smaller-scale making exercises, such as scenes from different films or exercises based on creativity within technical constraints accompanied by ongoing blog-based critical learning reflections. Going on to describe some of the more intangible qualities of studio-based learning, Crowther (2013) sums up some key characteristics, drawing on work by Shreeve, Sims and Trowler (2010): “learning by doing and acting it out, experiential learning, uncertainty, visible dimension, public performance, social, focus on process and the physical studio spaces itself” (Crowther, p. 21). That spatial configuration is a fascinating topic in itself—it will have to be enough to note here that design education often literally involves the presence of a central table where the teacher engages with the work in progress of individual students. As Mewburn (2010) observes, the pedagogical core of the design studio is the “desk crit”, a “collaborative activity where the teacher and student do design work together, discussing and sketching possibilities and imagining the consequences of design choices” (p. 364). In this performative interaction the teacher takes on roles like “experienced architect”, “client” or “consultant”, while the student is the “novice architect”. In theory and practice the actual studio class sessions in the Media degree, usually two sessions per week for two to three hours, tend to oscillate between structured activities such as mini-lectures, making, readings, working on projects, consultations, class discussions, reviews and critiques, and the “just-in- time” approach of an emergent curriculum determined as the sessions proceed. A comprehensive discussion of how theory and practice actually ends up being performed in a studio is beyond the scope of this chapter and will be the subject “IS THIS DEGREE PRACTICAL OR THEORETICAL?” SCREEN AND MEDIA… 421 of future research.3 For the moment, however, it will be indicative to discuss one vital component of the wider pedagogical assemblage that helps inscribe the theory–practice relationship and how it is operationalised in the studio classroom. This is in the textual form of the initial “studio pitch” or description that is formulated by a studio leader and circulated to students before the semester begins in an electronic booklet, made up of a number of such pitches (usually ten to 12), that informs the students’ balloting for a preferred studio.4 The pitch document is a single page and includes:

• a key image; • a quote (tends to be academic but might be from a prominent practitioner); • a prompt or research question for the studio; • a description that covers motivations and/or a context for the studio such as problems in the world or issues for media (theoretical and practical); • indication of the broad approach of the studio (e.g., industrial models of practice or more speculative ones); • types of activities, projects, media artefacts that the studio might produce or engage with.

Studios are thereby framed from the start as forms of enquiry that ask questions, consider the relevant interplay of assumption, theories and skills, and then propose a course of action to investigate these through different making and thinking exercises. At this level they deliberately attempt to resist a bifurca- tion into being more theory or practice oriented. This doesn’t, of course, prevent students from attempting to interpret them as either more theoretical or more practical, and that is not perhaps such a bad thing: what arguably counts here the most is the collective orientation to a starting point of indeterminacy and not a quick labelling or settling of what is theory or practice. It follows then that the actual operationalisation of that indeterminacy in the teaching space itself might be messy, flexible and a work in progress, and might look different to what teachers and students experience in other disciplinary contexts.

3 What constitutes “theory” (from the technical to the philosophical) can vary amongst studio leaders. One studio, for example, has engaged with media critic Bill Nichols (2001) on the principles of documentary to think about how aesthetics and politics combine, while another rethinks individual making practice via media materialism and Ian Bogost’s Alien Phenomenology (2012). How that theory becomes part of studio activity also differs—often students are asked to make in response to relevant theoretical readings. The outcome of that encounter (the learning) is then typically articulated through a required explicit written reflection. 4 Studio pitch booklets for each semester from 2015 to 2018 can be viewed at www.mediafac- tory.org.au/studios/studio-archive. 422 B. MORRIS

A Signature Pedagogy for Screen and Media Tertiary Education? Berkeley (2009) addresses some of the unease about degrees combining traditional academic approaches and practical skills in these comments about the review of the RMIT Media degree prior to the previous major curriculum renewal around the late 2000s:5

Its structure, however, was an uneasy hybrid between study in traditional academic disciplines and vocational training in practical media production that seemed to be premised on preparing students for work in an industry that was stable and structured, with clearly defined professional standards and career paths. (p. 186)

A key insight here is the connection Berkeley makes between learning modes and how these transition students into particular careers and forms of professional identity. The nature and stability of those defined standards and career paths in the media industries have arguably been radically refigured since digi- talisation and organisational and technological convergence. That earlier renewal of the degree thus recognised and responded to the then apparent process of structural convergence in the media industries, as well as “significant issues about the dislocation between theory and practice in screen production education” (p.186) by attempting to position and prepare students for careers in a fractured media landscape characterised by the transformation of traditional distinct domains like film, television and radio, and the rise of new networked platforms and forms such as social media (and perhaps also the blurring of the professional–amateur divide). But I am less convinced it anticipated the increasing centrality of different forms of precarious labour (the “gig economy”) in media and related creative industries (see Lobato and Thomas 2015, pp. 70–80 for a concise account of the relevant debates) and the implications of this in terms of the typical types of employment to which graduates might transition.6 It is not simply that the traditional career options of working for specialist media organisations have completely dried up (though this is true to some degree), but that this kind of career pathway is only one of several that students must consider. The other likely careers for RMIT Media degree students, based on graduate anecdotes

5 I personally was not involved in that earlier process of renewal but I later taught and managed the degree programme that resulted from 2014 to 2016. 6 Universities are now being pressured to ensure they and their degrees are relevant in terms of the skills taught to graduates. For instance, “employability” is currently a key term in RMIT’s strategic focus. This has arguably created anxiety about students’ future prospects, which may, for many, increase their antipathy towards “theory”. I am not convinced this is evidence of an anti- intellectual orientation (though there is a history of that in Australian culture and life generally), but it is perhaps an instance where the intensification of pressure encourages a rationality that sees theory as disposable in the short term in the interest of getting what are perceived as essential practical skills under one’s belt. “IS THIS DEGREE PRACTICAL OR THEORETICAL?” SCREEN AND MEDIA… 423 and regular browsing of LinkedIn profiles, typically reveal them working as content producers for small in-house media units of non-media organisations or setting up their own small freelance businesses. This change expands considerably the potential answer to the question of what a media professional is and how tertiary institutions might educate them. This issue of suitable pedagogies for screen and media students in a transformed work environment brings me to what education researcher Lee Schulman (2005) calls the “signature pedagogies” that have developed and been central for many of the modern professions requiring tertiary training. As examples he cites the case dialogue method in law schools or clinical rounds for future medical practitioners.7 At the heart of such signature teaching practices is an effort to instil in students a sense of “thinking like a ...”, in a way that experientially simulates part of that profession’s core practices and ways of approaching likely situations and problems in future working life. At the same time, it is also a training in performativity—these pedagogies frequently have a public dimension to them where students are in a sense required to demonstrate acquired knowledge and “role play” ways of thinking and acting identified with that particular profession (Mewburn 2010, p. 364). This raises the question of what might historically be the signature pedagogies for screen media and/or media studies in an Australian context. While difficult to provide empirical evidence, I’d speculate here that for media studies the lecture-tutorial is dominant because of its positioning within a humanities and social science tradition; whilst for media production probably cohort-based training around specialist traditional industry roles such as screenwriting, producing, directing, cinematography and so on (see Hiles 2016 for a UK perspective on how students experience these “cohort specialisms” or what she calls “cohort organisational pedagogies” (p. 25)). These different signature pedagogies are not, of course, mutually exclusive. A degree programme might be predominantly oriented around cohort specialisms after, say, a common first year but still make use of lectures as a teaching mode. But the idea of a signature pedagogy is nevertheless useful in thinking about how teachers approach the work of “teaching”, how students think of their own experience, and the manifestations of theory and practice within those modes. In adapting from design or other disciplines which utilise studio-based teaching as a signature pedagogy, we continue, of course, in RMIT’s Media degree programme, to think through what is unique about media as a disciplinary area; for instance, it has a stronger emphasis on a different kind of collaboration specific to the making of media such as films. As well, the historically separated trajectories of media production and media studies in the Australian tertiary context sets up quite a different situation to that experienced in design.

7 See also Schrand and Eliason (2012) for a relevant discussion of Schulman seen from the perspective of a school which includes liberal arts and design disciplines. 424 B. MORRIS

Conclusion To clarify and conclude: what I think we have been attempting to do in the RMIT Media degree is to find a more generative pedagogical mechanism to integrate media production and media studies in a different way within a “media” degree experience that does not simply relegate each to separate camps where they might thereby be perceived as strictly independent entities. Other very different experiments in doing this might be seen in the now long- running “creative industries” approach associated with Queensland University of Technology (QUT) University (Brisbane) or in the arguments of media studies researchers such as David Gauntlett in his Making Media Studies (2015). As Gauntlett usefully reminds us, “we need to make things with media in order to think more thoroughly about the opportunities and risks associated with different materials, tools and services, both within themselves, and when out in the world” (p. 3; emphasis in original). So perhaps it is time academics as much as students stop thinking of themselves as teaching more theoretical or more practical screen and media courses? What I find generative about using Miéville’s fiction is that provides a way to think about seeing what we see and unsee as theory and practice by habit (and coercion): a kind of opening up of the psycho-geography of the classroom; that is, what we attribute as belonging to the city of theory and to the city of practice. Sometimes we (teachers and students) are in one space, and sometimes in another—at other moments we are in an indeterminate cross-hatched space. Like Borlú, I’ve breached (as a theory academic who at times becomes a practitioner) and am in that paradoxical position of both being “between” but also part of the force that polices or at least continues to articulate the division. I’m still reflecting on that. Perhaps it isn’t possible to evade talking within that theory–practice discourse of division for that plays too heavily into fantasies about the transformative role and capacities of the teacher over the student? Together teachers and students explore multiple cities that sometimes appear distinct and at other times blurred in terms of their ontological grounding. “Is this degree practical or theoretical?” asks the potential new student at any open day, not just at RMIT. “Yes”, I reply.

References Berkeley, L. (2009). Media Education and New Technology: A Case Study of Major Curriculum Change within a University Media Degree. Journal of Media Practice, 10(2–3), 185–197. https://doi.org/10.1386/jmpr.10.2-3.185_1. Bogost, I. (2012). Alien Phenomenology, or What It’s Like to Be a Thing. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Crowther, P. (2013). Understanding the Signature Pedagogy of the Design Studio and the Opportunities for its Technological Enhancement. Journal of Learning Design, 6(3), 18–28. https://doi.org/10.5204/jld.v6i3.155. Gauntlett, D. (2015). Making Media Studies: The Creativity Turn in Media and Communication Studies. New York: Peter Lang. “IS THIS DEGREE PRACTICAL OR THEORETICAL?” SCREEN AND MEDIA… 425

Hiles, M. (2016). What Really Matters to Undergraduates on Creative and Media Courses: UK Study into Student Voice. Journal of Media Practice, 17(1), 21–27. https://doi.org/10.1080/14682753.2016.1159438. King, N. (2012). “I Probably Should Have Done Something Else”. An Interview with Mick Counihan. Communications, Politics & Culture, 45, 38–54. Lobato, R., & Thomas, J. (2015). The Informal Media Economy. Cambridge: Polity Press. Mewburn, I. (2010). Lost in Translation: Reconsidering Reflective Practice and Design Studio Pedagogy. Arts & Humanities in Higher Education, 11(4), 363–379. https://doi.org/10.1177/1474022210393912. Miéville, C. (2009). The City and the City. London: Pan Books. Morris, M. (2018). In Praise of Experimental Institutions. In P. Morrissey & C. Healy (Eds.), Reading the Country: 30 Years On (pp. 91–101). Sydney: UTS ePRESS. https://doi.org/10.5130/978-0-6481242-2-1. Nichols, B. (2001). Introduction to Documentary. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Parikka, J. (2017). The Lab Imaginary: Speculative Practices in Situ. Transmediale, Retrieved from https://transmediale.de/content/the-lab-imaginary-speculative- practices-in-situ on 28 Aug 2018. Schrand, T., & Eliason, J. (2012). Feedback Practices and Signature Pedagogies: What Can the Liberal Arts Learn from the Design Critique? Teaching in Higher Education, 17(1), 51–62. https://doi.org/10.1080/13562517.2011.590977. Shreeve, A., Sims, E. A. R., & Trowler, P. (2010). A Kind of Exchange: Learning from Art and Design Teaching. Higher Education Research and Development, 29(2), 125– 138. https://doi.org/10.1080/07294360903384269. Shulman, L. S. (2005). Signature Pedagogies in the Professions. Daedalus, 134(3), 52–59. Thrift, N. (2016). The University of Life. New Literary History, 47(2–3), 399–417. https://doi.org/10.1353/nlh.2016.0020. Teaching Screen Arts in Australia: Challenges, Opportunities and Current Trends

Kath Dooley

Introduction The Australian screen sector is diverse and sizable, encompassing a wide range of creative, technical and performance-based occupations. The period since the late 1990s has seen rapid and significant change to screen industries both locally and abroad, largely brought about by media convergence and the resulting digital disruption (for an example, see Duke 2018). This technological change continues to impact on the future growth and sustainability of local screen businesses, with on-demand subscription TV platforms, such as Amazon and Netflix, bringing increased competition from overseas productions. Also, recently individuals and institutions within the sector have made a case for increased diversity and inclusivity, considering both practitioners and audiences alike (see Screen Australia’s 2017 ‘Gender Matters’ initiative (2017)). These industrial, social and cultural factors continue to generate a range of opportunities and challenges for the graduates of screen production courses. In 2018, in the lead-up to a restructure of the ‘creative’ majors offered at my institution, Curtin University, I was given the task of researching ‘best practice’ for the teaching of Screen Arts. Such an undertaking called for an exploration of what other universities were doing, and what the industry was demanding in terms of graduate skills and competencies. On a personal level, I was keen to map out how institutions in Australia were responding to the challenges of the digital age. Such an undertaking, I hoped, could reveal how the changes since the late 1990s have impacted on the teaching of Screen Arts. Following this research, this chapter presents an overview of current practice for the teaching of Screen Arts in Australian universities, with reference to local

K. Dooley (*) Curtin University, Bentley, WA, Australia e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s) 2019 427 C. Batty et al. (eds.), The Palgrave Handbook of Screen Production, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-21744-0_33 428 K. DOOLEY and global screen industry trends. I begin with a review of recent academic writing, Australian industry reports and other documents so as to gauge the current employment market for graduates of a bachelor’s degree with a screen major. In doing so I seek to answer the questions: Where are graduates most likely to find work and what skills are most vital for their success? How can educators best foster these skills? The chapter then examines the core offerings and approaches to the teaching of Screen Arts at other institutions in Australia and abroad in an attempt to identify common trends and innovations. Examples of such curricula are studied, revealing differing approaches and emphases with regard to course content, delivery methods and multidisciplinary collaboration. In order to limit the scope of this research, three key groups of institutions were studied:

1. Australian Technology Network (ATN) universities: Curtin University, Royal Melbourne Institute of Technology (RMIT), Queensland University of Technology (QUT), University of South Australia (UniSA), University of Technology Sydney (UTS).1 2. Western Australian universities offering a Screen Arts major: Curtin University, Murdoch University, Edith Cowan University (ECU) and Notre Dame University (the latter also co-located in Sydney). 3. High-profile Australian ‘film schools’: Victorian College of the Arts (VCA) and the Australian Film, Television & Radio School (AFTRS).

The first and second groups were chosen for comparative study based on the nature and location of my own institution, Curtin University, while a study of the third group provides insight into the offerings and practices of institutions historically considered to provide the most prestigious practical screen education in the country.

Australian Screen Industries Australian screen production industries strongly contribute to Australian identity and culture. Local storytellers play an important role in bringing Australian stories and voices to the screen. The sector also makes a significant economic contribution to the nation, attracting substantial investment from major overseas production companies for production and post-production work. For example, the Hollywood production Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Men Tell No Tales brought a budget of over $250 million to Australia (Metro Screen 2015, p. 7). A recent Screen Producers Australia (SPA) report defines screen as ‘narratives or creative content told through screen platforms’, with screen production being ‘the process of making and telling these stories’ (SPA 2018, p. 4).

1 QUT was a member of the ATN at the time that this research was conducted. They have since left the group. TEACHING SCREEN ARTS IN AUSTRALIA: CHALLENGES, OPPORTUNITIES… 429

This report notes an expansion of the term ‘screen’ from traditional film and television to include content such as apps, digital games and subscription video-on-demand (SVOD) services such as Netflix and Stan, which may be viewed on computers, smartphones and tablets (SPA 2018, p. 4). One might also add large-scale screen work into the mix, such as that displayed in the galleries, libraries, archives and museums (GLAM) sector. The diversity of this production means that ‘the industry is comprised of a large and complex network of players, ranging from small individual producers to large multinational film producers, and even major distributors and broadcasting companies with production arms or subsidiaries’ (SPA 2018, p. 4). Recent SPA data on contemporary viewing habits reveals that Australian audiences are engaging with more screen content than ever before:

• On average, Australians are engaging with screens for 17.5 hours per week—with 59% binge-watching regularly. • Australians go to the cinema less often, with the average number of annual visits falling from 7.3 in 2010 to 6.6 in 2016. • The average time that people spend watching broadcast TV decreased by 8% in 2017 alone. In some groups, the trend is even stronger: 25–34 year olds today watch 17% less TV than they did a year ago. • Meanwhile, there has been increasing use of SVOD, with nearly a third of Australian households having SVOD in 2017. • Australians now spend three hours on smartphones every day, with video content playing a major role in the increased consumption. (SPA 2018, p. 4)

In this environment of digital disruption, employment opportunities are growing. Metro Screen report that 29,090 people were employed across the film and video production, post-production, commercial broadcasting and digital games sectors at the end of 2011/12, a growth of approximately 15% on a previous Australian Bureau of Statistics (ABS) survey in 2006/7 (2015, p. 10). It is notable that 55% of these employees are located in New South Wales (NSW) (Metro Screen 2015, p. 10). This professional work in screen production is ‘characterised by boom and bust, project-by-project activity, contract and casual employment’ (Metro Screen 2015, p. 9).

Screen Industries: A 2020 View Imagining the future of the screen industries is an activity that calls for consideration of further evolving screen forms and continued technological change. Cunningham notes that ‘a new industry is emerging based on previously amateur creators turning pro and working across many platforms such as YouTube and other social media, building global fan communities and creating their own media brands’ (2017). As evidence, he cites RackaRacka (Adelaide brothers Danny and Michael Philippou), who create choreographed action videos 430 K. DOOLEY

‘full of fight scenes, comic violence, and pop culture references’ (2017). The most popular of these videos (Marvel vs DC) has had nearly 50 million views, leading Graeme Mason, the CEO of Screen Australia, to describe RackaRacka as Australia’s most successful content creator (Cunningham 2017). Furthermore, Elkington reports that ‘More than 100 Australian YouTube channels earn more than $100,000 and another 2,000 channels earn between $1,000 and $100,000’ (2018). There are currently more than 65 online content creators with more than 1 million subscribers in Australia, and the majority of those viewing their videos live offshore (Cunningham 2017). In this format creators can produce work for global niche markets, showcasing Australian narratives while generating substantial profits through advertising and branding opportunities. Such an explosion of online content has given rise to entirely new screen industries, one example being multichannel networks (MCNs), a Google/YouTube-approved intermediary aggregating, affiliated with, and/or managing, YouTube channels by ‘offering their assistance in diverse areas, ranging from production to monetisation, in exchange for a percentage of the ad revenue’ (VAST MEDIA quoted in Cunningham et al. 2016, p. 377). Elkington, in his capacity as Creative Industries Lecturer at QUT, notes that he has seen ‘a sustained shift in student focus towards YouTube as a way to build profile and translate that profile into a career’ (Elkington 2018). He suggests that while students may aspire to work in broadcast television, which ‘still has the cultural cachet and the mass media “cut-through” to broad sections of society’, a career on YouTube is almost certainly a more viable option (2018). He notes an emerging trend for content producers to successfully move from one medium to the other, a career progression driven by deep engagement with and understanding of one’s audience (2018). While it is hard to be certain of the future of the screen, a number of predic- tions have been made. A recent Swinburne University report titled Television 2025 asked prominent screen industry figures which aspects of the business they were most confident about for the future:

Telstra’s Ian Davis was ‘as positive as I can be of the significant rise of “what-I- want, where-I-want, when-I-want” consumption of television content’. Scott Lorson from Fetch TV still expected viewing behaviours to be strongly concentrated, like smartphone apps and online bookmarks: ‘people regularly explore, but core usage is very concentrated’. ‘The TV experience will be closer to an app experience than to the old projection, theatrical, scheduled sort of experience that TV took from cinema’, said Arul Baskaran from Yahoo!7. Malcolm Long thought ‘the thing that will endure is the big screen’. Everyone agreed scripted drama would continue to be a big part of the business but the ways it is delivered and viewed would change and formats would evolve. ‘The hi-fi (expensive, professional, quality) and the lo-fi (amateur, shared) will endure’, said Nine’s Courtney Gibson. ‘The arse will fall out of the middle. It’s really the amateurs who pose the greatest threat to the professionals in our industry.’ (Given et al. 2015, p. 10) TEACHING SCREEN ARTS IN AUSTRALIA: CHALLENGES, OPPORTUNITIES… 431

One certainty looking forward is the likelihood of continued, disruptive change for the screen industries, destabilising fixed notions of professional career paths. Looking further ahead to 2030 or 2040, one might ask: Will virtual theatres have replaced cinemas? Will the mobile phone become the principal outlet for viewing content? In a networked, digital environment, will a screen practitioner’s understanding of audience become more important than an understanding of craft? Given the flood of content currently available via digital platforms, some would argue that this is already the case. Former RMIT academic Leo Berkeley suggests that the concept of a ‘digital content’ industry is one that encompasses the terrain of this new changing media environment: however, he notes that this concept both challenges existing ideas of ‘professional life’ as well as creating opportunities for new and innovative forms of creative practice (2009, p. 185). Further to this, Cunningham et al. write that:

It would be little overstatement to claim that these overall dynamics of the new screen ecology are a huge, unprecedented experiment in seeking to convert ver- nacular or informal creativity into talent and content increasingly attractive to advertisers, brands, talent agencies, studios and venture capital investors on a near- global scale – with implications for content/entertainment formats, production cultures, industry structures and measurement of audience engagement. (2016, p. 377)

As the line between amateur and professional creator blurs, so too do the previously clear boundaries between forms of media, meaning that traditional roles and career pathways are being transformed. This changing mediascape creates challenges for teachers of media and screen production courses who seek to prepare students for careers in this field. What traditional and new knowledge, skills and capabilities are thus required to gain a foothold in this competitive and dynamic environment?

Screen Education in Australia A recent Metro Screen report into the emerging screen sector states that ‘although formal qualifications are not seen by the industry as essential for a screen production career, the demand seems to be strong, and the screen education sector has grown in response’ (2015, p. 53). As of 2015, there were more than 61 Australian universities offering media or communication-related courses, with more than 7000 students graduating in Screen Studies in 2013 (2015, p. 53). Additionally, approximately 4200 students complete screen and media courses through vocational education providers such as Technical and Further Education (TAFE) and SAE (formerly the School of Audio Engineering) each year (p. 53). Data from the ABS indicates a significant growth in degree qualifications in the screen production industry since the late 1990s, with the 432 K. DOOLEY number of individuals possessing at least a bachelor’s degree increasing from 17% in 1991 to 43% in 2011 (2015, p. 23). Many graduates complete their studies and successfully enter screen industries; however, Metro Screen stress that ‘a successful career in the screen production industry is not linear and predictable’ (2015, p. 13). Whereas professions such as education, medicine or law present the graduate with clear career pathways, ‘screen production has no clear set of hurdles to jump, especially in the transition between formal study and employment’ (p. 13). Rather, the new and emerging screen practitioner must find their own path through experience and mentorship, project by project. Persistence and resilience are key to this quest. Besides formal education, other portals that offer entry into the screen industries include ‘paid or unpaid work experience on a professional production, including formal and informal mentoring’ and a ‘self-learning’/do-it- yourself approach by making short films, web series, or even low-budget features (Metro Screen, p. 15). The latter approach is gaining popularity in an age in which cameras and video editing software are cheap and instructional videos are easily available on YouTube (Metro Screen, p. 15). These portals are not mutually exclusive, with many of today’s tertiary film students engaging in all of these activities.

The Screen Production Graduate: Knowledge, Skills and Capabilities The contemporary screen production educator considers how the course of study that they offer prepares students for work in the screen industries. Drawing upon in-depth interviews with screen practitioners, the Metro Screen report identifies assets and capabilities that have a significant impact on career advancement, regardless of whether the practitioner is seeking a key creative (writer, director or producer) or craft (editor, cinematographer etc.) role. These are:

• formal education and training; • production experience; • networks; • personal qualities, including ‘talent’, and; • overall reputation. (Metro Screen 2015, p. 21)

On the subject of production experience, Metro Screen notes that this it is essential for the practitioner to learn about and develop their craft. Providing evidence of storytelling skills, technical competency and creative innovation, production credits demonstrate what the graduating student can do and dif- ferentiate them from their peers (2015, p. 25). Berger and McDougall argue that ‘Web 2.0 practices mean that students are perhaps more proficient TEACHING SCREEN ARTS IN AUSTRALIA: CHALLENGES, OPPORTUNITIES… 433

producers of Media than they are analysts and researchers of Media’ (2010, p. 10). In other words, students may arrive at university with high-level technical skills, honed through several years of ‘amateur’ media creation, but lack an awareness of critical approaches to practice. Addressing this gap would appear to be key for the university-based screen production student. Berkeley notes that ‘within the screen production industry and the educational programs that feed it, old divisions between theory/practice, expert/novice, creative/critical and professional/amateur have all become problematic’ (2015, p. 194). A 2020 approach to the teaching of screen practice might then seek to break down these barriers, encouraging students to develop a critical and locally/ globally contextualised approach to their practice. A recent Price Waterhouse Cooper ‘Skills for Australia’ report examined the ‘rapidly evolving’ culture and related industries workforce in Australia, concluding that digital change is impacting the way that practitioners collaborate, produce and distribute their work and market themselves. This report ranks key generic workforce skills, the top three being:

• Communication/Collaboration, including virtual collaboration/Social intelligence; • Design mindset/Thinking critically/System thinking/Solving problems/Entrepreneurship; • Learning agility/Information literacy/Intellectual autonomy and self- management. (PWC 2018, p. 13)

With regard to screen production education, Metro Screen identifies many of these skills as not being met by formal education providers (2015, p. 58). Their practitioner interviews note potential skills gaps in areas including ‘general business skills (entrepreneurship, capital raising, project management), leadership and conflict management, creative problem-solving, networking and pitching’ (2015, p. 58). Furthermore, they note that the emergence of transmedia, interactive and branded content calls for the fostering of new skills, such as ‘audience research, user experience analysis, coding, gamification and app development’ (2015, p. 58). Other mentioned skill gaps include ‘distribution, marketing and media training’ (2015, p. 58). On the subject of ‘personal qualities’, Metro Screen also notes that the ‘collaborative and high-risk nature of screen production requires people who are trustworthy and reliable, who are brave and focused, who show initiative and can problem solve, and who can work well with other people and bring out the best in the team’ (2015, p. 35). They suggest that many of the traits listed here ‘may also be considered core skills, which can be acquired through experience and training’ (2015, p. 35). On the subject of talent, they look to academic researcher Renzulli (2012), to describes ‘three interacting clusters of traits that make up talent – above average ability, task commitment (focus), and creativity (curiosity, originality, ingenuity, and a willingness to challenge convention)’ (Metro Screen 2015, p. 38). 434 K. DOOLEY

While some would argue that talent cannot be taught, the 2020 screen production educator might consider how they can foster the traits listed. For example, is leadership, collaboration or conflict management explicitly addressed in the curriculum? What opportunities for creative problem-solving and challenging convention are offered to the student? Are students encouraged to take charge of their own development, identifying their own skills gaps and addressing these, in a way that prepares them for lifelong learning? Further to the factors identified by Metro Screen, Berkeley argues for a media education that offers a broad conception of ‘professional life’ (2009). Considering the twenty-first-century mediascape described in section “Screen Industries: A 2020 View”, he stresses that ‘people just starting their careers and wishing to play a leading role in the media of the future need to understand that the professional storytelling skills they develop will exist “in a more or less symbiotic relationship with ... participatory, collaborative and connectivity- based notions of media work”’ (Deuze quoted in Berkeley 2009, p. 188). This suggestion takes into account digitally disrupted changes to the relationships among the practitioner, his/her peers, audiences and media institutions.

Current University Teaching of Screen Arts in Australia: A Summary The teaching of Screen Arts courses is occurring in a number of different ways in universities across Australia. While most of the surveyed universities offer a screen production major within a Bachelor of Arts or Bachelor of Communications & Media framework, there are some exceptions. Both QUT and VCA offer a screen major as part of a Bachelor of Fine Arts, with QUT also offering a Bachelor of Creative Industries. The latter QUT degree offers a study of screen alongside a second ‘creative’ major or minor, similar to the Bachelor of Creative Media offered by Murdoch. UniSA offers a Bachelor of Media Arts. These specialist degrees focus student learning on ‘creative’ areas and limit the scope for additional study in other fields.

Course Structures Within the many degrees studied, Screen Arts is studied as either a single major or one of two majors. The teaching of screen production at ‘film schools’ VCA and AFTRS is highly structured, with students undertaking a single major that is largely composed of compulsory units. These degrees allow students to choose only two or three elective units respectively. The Bachelor of Media Arts at UniSA is also highly prescriptive, with students allowed only three unit options over three years. This new degree combines traditional areas of film and television with visual effects and digital media, aiming to create multi- skilled students. Similar Media Arts degrees have appeared at other universities in recent times, such as the University of the Arts, London (2018), and the TEACHING SCREEN ARTS IN AUSTRALIA: CHALLENGES, OPPORTUNITIES… 435

University of Southern California School of Cinematic Arts (2018). QUT’s Bachelor of Fine Arts (Film, Screen & New Media) also offers a single major with minimal unit options. This degree has a strong focus on understanding screen business and screen careers in the first year. Unlike VCA, AFTRS or UniSA’s Media Arts degrees, this QUT Bachelor of Fine Arts degree allows students to take a minor in another field. With the exception of ECU, the remaining surveyed university courses all offer a six- to eight-unit major sequence consisting of core units and options (Curtin, RMIT, UTS, Notre Dame, UniSA Bachelor of Arts/Bachelor of Communication & Media, Murdoch). ECU currently offers a 12-unit major sequence within their Bachelor of Media & Communication and Bachelor of Arts/Bachelor of Media & Communication double degree (ECU 2018). These major sequences consist of units addressing screen production in multiple formats and across platforms. At least one unit or module of screenwriting is included in the majority of the majors (RMIT and UniSA excepted). These major sequences most often culminate in a capstone production unit(s) in the third year.

The Teaching of Theory and Practice Curtin currently offers a Screen Studies Stream as one option within the Screen Arts major (Curtin University 2018). Of the institutions surveyed, UniSA is the only other university to offer a Screen Studies major (University of South Australia 2018). This eight-unit sequence is taken as part of a Bachelor of Arts degree, and features some units also taught in both the Bachelor of Media Arts and Bachelor of Communication & Media degrees. Unit descriptions from the universities studied indicate a range of approaches to the teaching of screen theory within production-focused degrees. Several universities offer units that appear to be distinctly theoretical or practical (QUT, UniSA, VCA, ECU, Curtin, Notre Dame, Murdoch). By this I mean that theory units explore and analyse screen forms, histories and cultures with a focus on written assessments, while practical units principally produce screen products, with few exceptions. The VCA programme stands out as one that appears to be formally structured so as to allow flow between theory and practical units, with one unit of each being offered in a connected manner each semester, that is, practical student work is deconstructed in corresponding theory units. Other universities take an approach that sees a combination of theory and practice within individual units (RMIT, UTS, AFTRS). A brochure for the AFTRS Bachelor of Arts states that ‘Screen Studies, delivered in conjunction with the six core subjects, encourages engagement with the historical, aesthetic, industrial, and social-cultural dimensions of fictional and non-fictional screen media (including cinema, television, online and interactive media)’ (AFTRS 2018). Likewise, UTS and RMIT situate practical learning alongside an examination of relevant media arts histories and contexts. In the case of the 436 K. DOOLEY latter institution, Berkeley describes the teaching staff’s decision to integrate theory and practice as much as possible at all levels of the degree as one driven by the realisation that ‘we wanted individual graduates to possess creative, critical and practical abilities and it seemed untenable to say these skills should be treated as discrete and disconnected aspects of the one person’ (2009, p. 190). The chapter ““Is this Degree Practical or Theoretical?” Screen and Media Education, Studio-Based Teaching and Signature Pedagogies” explores RMIT’s current approach to the teaching of media (Morris 2019). The call to combine theory and practice in screen and media courses is one made by several academic writers (see Bell 2004; De Jong 2008; Hammer 2006; MacDonald 2008). Bell traces the common split between the teaching of media theory and practice to capitalist division between intellectual and manual labour, suggesting that ‘when critical theory and creative practice become disengaged from each other within a field like media arts each domain plays a heavy price in terms of a loss of critical purchase’ (2004, p. 737). Likewise, De Jong suggests that ‘by actually creating media screen works, students not only engage in the practice of ‘deconstructing texts’ [...] but develop a deeper understanding of the “structure” or “architecture” of a work that underpin principles of what might otherwise be perceived “natural” construction’ (2008, p. 154). Such an approach to the teaching of ‘critical’ screen literacy is undoubtedly useful in an age of media convergence, given that many students are amateur media producers as well as consumers.

Subject and Media Format Divisions Traditionally, the teaching of screen production has been split into units of study addressing specific screen genres and/or media formats, for example: drama, documentary, television, experimental and so on. MacDonald comments that the ‘division of our moving image industry into film and television, for example, came about through separate development of different technologies that do similar things. The technology may now be converging, but they remain both institutionally and ideologically divided, as well as being totally intertwined and mutually supportive’ (2008, p. 135). Such an approach to teaching appears to be in place at all of the universities located in Perth. Other institutions take a slightly different approach. At UTS, core units studied in the first and second years of the degree appear to be format agnostic, organised instead around the subject headings of ‘Exploring Media Arts’, ‘Composing the Real’, ‘Fictions’ and ‘Aesthetics’. The first unit of study, ‘Exploring Media Arts’, looks at moving image, audio and participatory forms, with each session based around a specific theme, ‘such as time, speed, place or memory’ (UTS 2018). This unit is delivered via a combination of lectures, tutorials and workshops, where students are encouraged to engage in ‘creative play’. The units that follow allow for the production of student work to occur in a range of styles and across platforms. TEACHING SCREEN ARTS IN AUSTRALIA: CHALLENGES, OPPORTUNITIES… 437

The recently revised AFTRS degree sees teaching of all core content split into six units of study: Screen Business, Story, Image, Character & Performance, Rhythm & Juxtaposition, Sound. These divisions, which loosely relate to different craft roles, also allow for teaching across various screen formats. Catherine Gleeson, subject leader for animation, visual effects and editing, states that the degree is ‘about combining traditional roles with multi-skilled, multidisciplinary roles, where people can generate stories for the screen, for any platform and for any medium’ (quoted in Hopkins 2015). Producing multi- skilled graduates is a key aim of the programme, ‘in order to future-proof students as practitioners in a multi-platform world’ (Hopkins 2015).

Teaching Screen Business, Entrepreneurship and Career Planning Entrepreneurship has underpinned successful screen business since the birth of filmmaking. Barnes and de Villiers Scheepers suggest that an ‘entrepreneurial mindset refers to the ability to rapidly sense problems as opportunities, act on potential solutions, and mobilise resources and support, under uncertain conditions’ (2018, p. 97). Achtenhagen notes an increased interest in the topic of media entrepreneurship from both academics and practitioners, which ‘can be interpreted as the result of mutually reinforcing push and pull factors: On the one hand, the crises of many legacy media companies aggravated by their low levels of entrepreneurial orientation have led to diminished traditional career opportunities’ (2017, p. 1). The teaching of content that facilitates an understanding of screen business, entrepreneurship and career planning differs across the studied institutions. These subjects are not isolated as whole units of study at many of the universities surveyed. Universities offering a single, screen-based major have scope to offer units of study that explicitly address these subjects. As highlighted, screen business is one of the core subject strands that is offered across all three years of the AFTRS degree. This area of study ‘examines the changing shape, size, economics and processes of the various traditional and new screen industries in order to identify and exploit opportunities across this changing landscape’ (AFTRS 2018). On a similar note, the QUT Bachelor of Fine Arts degree covers a core first-year unit, ‘Screen Business’. This unit ‘provides an introduction to producing, writing and theoretical aspects of the movie, TV and new media businesses’ (QUT 2018a). The subject of entrepreneurship is given prominence in the QUT Bachelor of Creative Industries and in Murdoch’s Bachelor of Creative Media. The former degree offers a sequence of core ‘Creative Enterprise Studio’ units from first to third year, which encourage partnership with industry and/or community groups. The culmination of this work is the initiation of a creative enterprise project that launches the career of students. The third-year unit is paired with a ‘Creative Enterprise and Entrepreneurship’ unit that offers an ‘intensive “startup bootcamp” experience supported by workshops covering the knowl- 438 K. DOOLEY edge and tools required to transform a creative idea into a viable creative enterprise’ (QUT 2018b). Murdoch’s Bachelor of Creative Media offers a second-year unit option titled ‘Building Enterprise Skills’. This unit encourages the student to assess their ‘current experiences, knowledge and skills in relation to those valued by employers in your discipline or field’ (Murdoch 2018). Career planning is also addressed explicitly by the Murdoch degree. All first-year students complete a unit titled ‘Career Learning: Managing Your Career’, which ‘assists students to clarify their career aspirations and goals and supports them in planning the development of skills they will need for future career success’ (2018). Similarly, the two QUT degrees (Bachelor of Fine Arts, Bachelor of Creative Industries) offer respective core first-year units ‘Pathways to a Creative Career’ and ‘Creative Futures’. A unit titled ‘Preparation for Professional Life’ is also included as a core unit within ECU’s Bachelor of Media and Communication. VCA does not currently offer courses that explicitly address the subject of screen business; however, a core third-year unit, titled ‘Presentation and Marketing’, ‘introduces students to the key issues and skills necessary to enhance the student’s artistic career in the independent film production industry’ (VCA 2018).

Conclusion The intelligence presented in this chapter provides insight into the complexity of the contemporary Screen Arts curriculum. Given the dynamic and multi- faceted nature of the screen sector described here, one can imagine that the educator may feel challenged by the task of delivering a curriculum that addresses the needs of current and future practitioners. Continued technological changes and digital disruption makes it difficult to be certain about the future of the sector, meaning that the fostering of broad skills and resilience becomes vital so as to produce creative and adaptable graduates. Writing on the UK, Europe and North America in 2004, Bell noted the ‘impressive growth’ of film and media studies as subject areas within universities since the late 1990s (2004, p. 738), an observation that could well be extended to Australia. He notes the installation of ‘moving image production facilities’ and the increased teaching of film practice; however, for Bell, ‘this expansion has not been accompanied by any noticeable clarity concerning how the various critical and theoretical elements of courses should relate to studio- and practice-based provision’ (2004, p. 738). The research contained in this chapter evidences an array of current practice in Australia, demonstrating different approaches to the teaching of various screen formats and screen business. A deeper analysis might pinpoint continued tensions between the teaching of theoretical and practical elements, as well as differing philosophies when considering the value of a vocational, rather than more general humanities, education as focus. TEACHING SCREEN ARTS IN AUSTRALIA: CHALLENGES, OPPORTUNITIES… 439

Looking ahead, I agree with MacDonald, who argues for a broader view in which ‘everything is taken seriously but nothing is sacred’ (2008, p. 141). Furthermore, this view ‘accepts existing practices and skills as tools, and then forges new ones through research. [...] It does not seek to control the curriculum, but to explore the field’ (MacDonald 2008, p. 141). Such an approach might allow the educator to find a foothold in the dynamic screen sector, while fostering competencies that enable graduates to successfully navigate a path forward.

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Megan Heyward

Introduction Following the emergence and uptake of immersive imaging technologies and delivery formats such as 360-degree video and virtual reality (VR), screen practitioners are engaging with the potentials and challenges of developing content for new formats, while adapting and translating their existing production skills across to new modes. Given this renewed interest in emergent 360-degree and VR works, encompassing cinematic virtual reality (CVR) as well as interactive modes, screen educators are increasingly required to engage with the potentials of these new formats within a screen media education context, to facilitate student learning as well as prepare students for a diverse and complex professional landscape. As we seek to support student learning, we face multiple challenges arising from the disruption of traditional moving-image storytelling by a frameless, immersive 360-degree format, including challenges with the shooting process, technical aspects of editing and post-production, and complexities encountered if the immersive content is also interactive, offering a set of options to the audience as they negotiate the environment. Before engaging with production issues, we encounter obstacles concerning conceptualisation, scriptwriting and storyboarding approaches for these formats, since there is currently no standardised approach for CVR or 360-degree scripting. As educators engaging

M. Heyward (*) University of Technology Sydney, Sydney, NSW, Australia e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s) 2019 443 C. Batty et al. (eds.), The Palgrave Handbook of Screen Production, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-21744-0_34 444 M. HEYWARD with the reality of immersive media, our task is complex and our toolkit has some gaps. This chapter explores challenges faced by educators in incorporating immersive VR content into screen media education, and suggests several ‘threshold concepts’ (Land and Meyer 2003) or critical conceptual gateways relevant to immersive media and CVR concerning narrative emphasis, spatiality and structure. It shares an experimental visual and conceptual methodology that integrates these concepts and can be applied in the earliest stages of planning and conceptualising immersive VR media, with the potential for application or adaptation by other screen education practitioners. This approach has been trialled within the classroom in the context of the subject Online Documentary at the University of Technology Sydney (UTS) in 2017 and 2018, allowing students to apply the key concepts to existing projects and to implement the framework for the conceptualisation of future projects.

Active Learning in New, Strange Places within Screen Education A transition towards student-focused, constructivist learning strategies and away from teacher-focused approaches has been encouraged in higher education since the mid-2000s. Constructivist learning emphasises student-centred active learning with the teacher as facilitator (Stewart 2012), alongside a reframing of the teacher role from experts to ‘meddlers in the middle ... actively sharing with students in their learning’ (Hunt 2013 discussing McWilliam 2007, p. 40). McWilliam’s insightful suggestions for ‘unlearning’ traditional approaches to university teaching include:

(1) less time giving instructions and more time spent being a usefully ignorant co-worker in the thick of the action; (2) less time spent being a custodial risk minimiser and more time spent being an experimenter and risktaker; (3) less time spent being a forensic classroom auditor and more time spent being a designer, editor and assembler; (4) less time spent being a counsellor and ‘best buddy’ and more time spent being a collaborative critic and authentic evaluator. (McWilliam 2008, p. 263)

These suggestions are especially relevant to creative disciplines where experimentation, collaboration, iteration and feedback are important aspects of the creative development process. Hunt (2013) notes the emphasis on authentic, challenging learning tasks as an important feature of active learning, citing Barnett’s description of the process as potentially unsettling for students, since they are ‘required to venture into new places, strange places, anxiety-provoking places’ (Barnett 2007, p. 147). The notion of strange, new and anxiety-producing places is also likely to be familiar to teachers developing learning materials for emerging screen practices such as immersive VR media. Here teachers, as much as students, grapple with VR AND SCREEN EDUCATION: AN APPROACH TO ASSIST STUDENT… 445 rapid technological change, evolving software and toolkits and the uncertain translation of their existing skills into new formats. These challenges reinforce McWilliam’s guidance to teachers towards experimentation and risk-taking, and to acting as more of a ‘usefully ignorant co-worker’ than an expert.

Threshold Concepts in the Disciplines Concurrent to the shift in teaching and learning towards a learner-focused practice, integrating active learning and authentic, challenging tasks and activities (Angelo 2012) has been recognition of the role of ‘threshold concepts’ (Meyer and Land 2003) operating as a conceptual framework at the level of disciplines. Threshold concepts are critical, transformative conceptual gateways that, when understood, lead to deep learning through the internalisation and integration of the concepts. Meyer and Land express it as follows:

A threshold concept can be considered as akin to a portal, opening up a new and previously inaccessible way of thinking about something. It represents a transformed way of understanding, or interpreting, or viewing something without which the learner cannot progress. As a consequence of comprehending a threshold concept there may thus be a transformed internal view of subject matter, subject landscape, or even worldview. (Meyer and Land 2003, p. 1)

The theory of threshold concepts has been explored across many disciplinary contexts, including economics, languages, engineering, biology, teacher education and product design (Land et al. 2016). Hunt (2013) discusses threshold concepts in the discipline of sociology, paired with active learning strategies of discovery, exploration, experimentation, reflective practice and the scaffolding of learning by the teacher. The threshold concepts framework has recently been applied to the discipline of writing studies (Adler-Kassner and Wardle 2015) where multiple teachers and researchers collaborated via wiki, identifying 37 threshold concepts relating to writing, and sharing approaches for integrating the concepts within learning and teaching activities. It is not clear whether the threshold concepts framework has been formally applied to the area of screen production, yet it is likely that such a framework could be applied and a set of concepts identified, indeed they are likely to represent many of the key areas of screen grammar that we regularly examine and incorporate in our curricula. A basic list might include familiar concepts such as the shot, framing and composition; editing and shot relationships; point of view (POV) and subjectivity; conflict as a narrative drive within drama; and spatial continuity within the 180-degree frame. It is not my intention to attempt to define threshold concepts in relation to screen production, and this by no means represents an exhaustive list. Their relevance lies in their transformative and integrative qualities, such as the deep learning (Angelo 2012) students experience when they undertake certain activities like an editing or continuity exercise or project-based assessment, where 446 M. HEYWARD processes of experimentation, exploration, collaboration and feedback work to embed the concepts. They may also demonstrate themselves as transformative threshold concepts though being experienced as ‘troublesome knowledge’ (Meyer and Land 2003), since the deep learning of the concepts may be more fully integrated following inadequate realisation within a student exercise or project, such as a scene that is disruptive due to crossing the line, or an edit that confuses an audience about character motivation due to a lack of reaction shots. I will turn my attention now to immersive, 360-degree VR to consider possible threshold concepts applicable to this emergent area, and how these might be explored in the context of screen education. I wish to emphasise that this is not presented as a definitive list but rather a starting point for further discussion and debate.

On VR, 360-Degree Video, Narrative VR and CVR VR re-entered public consciousness in 2012 following the launch of Palmer Luckey’s Kickstarter campaign for the Oculus Rift VR platform, which raised an impressive US$2.4 million in its first three months. Although the Rift was envisioned as a highly immersive interactive gaming platform, and in 2012 the headset was only a prototype, it generated huge industry and consumer interest and effectively initiated the re-emergence of the VR media sector, which had been slowly operating in the technology background after a series of technical setbacks in the mid-1990s. When Facebook purchased Oculus in early 2014 for US$2 billion, ‘virtual reality blew up’ (Robertson and Zelenko 2014, p. 2) with the purchase triggering an unprecedented round of commercial investment in VR media and technologies. The surge of research and development into VR converged across game, film and technology sectors, evident in the rapid expansion of imaging and camera technologies, programming, animation and editing software, and end- delivery devices for VR and 360-degree content. The commercial release of affordable 360-degree consumer cameras (GoPro, Ricoh) and viewing platforms (Google Cardboard) from late 2014 motivated media practitioners as well as mainstream audiences. VR became increasingly investigated as a creative filmic medium, often in the context of 360-degree documentaries but also in the form of dramatised storytelling, posing challenges for screen educators in terms of student learning regarding this rapidly materialising form. The term ‘cinematic virtual reality’ or CVR has emerged to describe live action 360-degree VR projects that draw primarily on ‘lens-based cinematographic moving image practice’ (Ross and Munt 2018, p. 192) and are delivered as an immersive VR experience. CVR incorporates the kind of high-end, high-fidelity image and sound quality associated with broadcast and cinematic media; however, interactivity and audience agency—the potential to interact with or alter the unfolding of narrative sequences—is normally limited to exploring which portion of the 360-degree screen to view at any time (Mateer 2017). Under this definition, documentary projects such asClouds Over Sidra VR AND SCREEN EDUCATION: AN APPROACH TO ASSIST STUDENT… 447

(2015), Notes on Blindness (2016) and Collisions (2016) are considered CVR, along with more conventionally dramatic works such as Doug Liman’s Invisible (2017). It should be noted that the CVR definition may perhaps be more uncertain in relation to projects that include interactivity, such as VR Noir (2016), which incorporates the high production values of CVR but is also dependent on interactive choices made by the audience in order for the narrative to play out. Cardboard Crash (2015) also opens up questions about CVR as a term considering it is an animated VR work involving the viewer choosing between various interactive options and ethical outcomes as they travel in a driverless car. Whether ‘cinematic virtual reality’ is also the appropriate term for more factually oriented journalistic or documentary approaches to live action 360-degree video is also somewhat unclear. Examples of these include the Guardian’s project on the impacts of solitary confinement,6×9 (2016), VICE TV’s Cut Off VR (2016), documenting Justin Trudeau’s visit to a remote Canadian First Nation land, or Autism TMI (2016), which conveys the experience of an everyday shopping trip through the eyes of autistic child. This uncertainty reminds us how recent this wider engagement with VR really is, and highlights the challenges for educators as well as the necessity to remain open to diverse ways of discussing and understanding the form as it matures. Kath Dooley uses the term ‘narrative virtual reality’ somewhat interchangeably with CVR to describe live action 360-degree VR projects which may incorporate greater or lesser degrees of audience agency and interactivity, representing a ‘medium-specific, user-focused, engagement with time and place’ where ‘stories often play out in real time ... the VR viewer is “present” as an active agent who is involved in the unfolding narrative’ (Dooley 2017, p. 161). She defines narrative VR projects as ‘story-based drama, documentary or hybrid productions that feature a beginning, middle and end, although not necessarily in that order’ (p. 162) and emphasises a spectrum of possible audience agency, from choosing a viewing direction within 360-degree films to more game-like experiences involving choices and interactive options. Dooley discusses the importance of a ‘core experience’ or core narrative to frame and orient the audience experience within narrative VR, and draws attention to a possible optimal sweet spot integrating a core narrative with a certain degree of audience agency. Considering Dooley’s slightly broader, inclusive definition, I will alternate somewhat between the terms narrative VR and CVR across the next sections.

Narrative Emphasis and ‘Key Moments’ as Threshold Concepts in Narrative VR As educators, we understand that familiar shooting and editing practices for directing audience attention within traditional film do not operate as effectively within the immersive narrative VR experience. Irrespective of the degree of 448 M. HEYWARD interactivity, issues regarding how to manage and direct audience attention within a 360-degree scene are significant in narrative VR, in ways distinct from traditional film. For example, more time is needed for the audience to orient themselves within a narrative VR scene (Dooley citing Grambart 2015). Attracting and directing the viewer’s attention is also an essential consideration (Dooley 2017) due to the potential for the audience to miss critical aspects of narrative if they happen to be looking in the wrong direction when something important happens. Artist and filmmaker Lynette Wallworth, who developed the Emmy Award- winning narrative VR documentary Collisions (2016) and more recently, the acclaimed VR project Awavena (2018) worked with immersive media for two decades, often in an installation context, before exploring the narrative and immersive potentials of VR. Her understanding of how to conceptualise and shape immersive experiences across multiple formats and environments is significant. RegardingCollisions , Wallworth discussed the use of sound to frame the experience, and about ‘trigger points’ or ‘key moments’ in the story that can be signposted by sound cues, allowing the viewer to turn in that direction to experience important elements taking place within a portion of the 360-degree field.

Sound is so important in VR. It’s so important because it (be)comes a tour to guide and direct the viewer ... You’re calling attention continually, and because you have the capacity then to see 360 then you use sound to frame the viewers’ experience ... There are trigger points or key moments that then make you look up if the action is above you, or if you need someone to look behind ... because they can look anywhere in that space so, that sound is incredibly effective because you get that sense of where the sound was located. (Wallworth 2016, video interview)

The use of sound as a means of directing audience attention is also employed by other VR and film practitioners, but I understand Wallworth’s meaning here as emphasising the concept of narrative ‘key moments’ occurring within 360-degree space. If we understand narrative VR as a form in which the viewer is located centrally, where stories often play out in real time and where the viewer can direct their attention to different parts of the 360-degree scene, understanding where (in space) and when (in time) important moments of narrative emphasis occur—key moments—is critical to our conceptualisation and planning of VR content. This also resonates with the notion of the CVR core experience (Dooley 2017) but identifies points of heightened narrative emphasis more clearly within a scene. If we consider ‘key moments’ as a narrative concept rather than purely sound-focused concept, we can begin to more readily consider questions such as: what are the ‘key moments’ within this scene; when do they occur in the scene, where do they occur in the scene, how do we draw attention to them, how many are in a particular scene, is the pacing between key moments appropriate VR AND SCREEN EDUCATION: AN APPROACH TO ASSIST STUDENT… 449 in the VR context, for example are there too many or too few in the scene, or do they require too much rapid turning or spinning to be comfortable for the person experiencing the work. If, as educators, we consider ‘key moments’ as an important threshold concept for understanding narrative emphasis in narrative VR, then we can use it to help students identify and map where key moments of narrative emphasis fall within a VR scene. The concept of ‘key moments’ considers both the spatial and time-based factors relating to narrative emphasis within VR, and offers an approach that can markedly assist in mapping and directing audience attention, and in conceptualising and planning narrative VR experiences.

Spatial Relationships and ‘Spatiality’ in the 360-Degree Field From a spatial perspective, classical filmmaking involves a series of distinct shots edited together to convey narrative, present POV and direct audience attention, drawing from a suite of shots, angles and editing conventions and operating predominantly within a 180-degree field of vision. In this field, actors are in front of the camera, on one side of the 180-degree line, crew are behind the camera on the other side of the line, and cinematic action occurs generally within the 180-degree space. Classical continuity editing is predicated on these spatial relationships, and represents a familiar, essential conceptual understanding in screen production education. VR is a more or less frameless form where the audience is positioned inside a 360-degree space, with no edge of screen or frame boundary apart from the edge of the headset itself. This leads to production challenges in terms of the visibility of equipment and crew, issues in directing audience attention within 360-degree space and the challenges in translating traditional filmic representations such as scriptwriting and storyboarding into the 360-degree environment. Physical reactions and processes involving proprioception are also activated by immersion in a wraparound visual field (Dooley 2017). As such, attention to defining spatial relationships within a 360-degree scene is paramount, in terms of storytelling and production as well as audience experience. Vincent McCurley, Creative Technologist at the National Film Board of Canada and developer of Cardboard Crash (2015), has written about the specific spatiality of VR and the need to place the audience at the centre of the VR scene: ‘For VR ... instead of objects being defined relative to the frame, we define them relative to the audience. This approach should come naturally to practitioners of user-centered design, but may feel foreign to those used to directing audience attention’ (McCurley 2016, p. 1). Multiple experimental approaches to scripting and storyboarding CVR projects are currently being investigated as screen practitioners and scriptwriters explore how to write for this form. These include various modifications of the traditional master scene scriptwriting template to incorporate spatial elements, 450 M. HEYWARD often by dividing the scene into four quadrants—front, back, left and right— comprising four zones of potential action that need to be taken into account within each scene (Ross and Munt 2018). However, there are drawbacks to applying traditional text-focused approaches to a form in which spatiality is so critical. This has led to further experimental adaptations of the text-based script, such as colour coding of different quadrants (the Petridis model as discussed by Anderson-Moore 2016) or including diagrams, shot descriptions and even timings of key actions into ‘a hybrid document, which is part-script, part-storyboard and part-shot list’ (Ross and Munt 2018, p. 202). Ross’ own hybrid scripting approach integrates a scene description, a separate audio description, a 360-degree diagram and a still image representing the style of the visual evident within the scene. This diversity heightens the complexity for screen educators seeking to engage with VR content in the classroom. In terms of 360-degree storyboarding, there is a similar recognition of the criticality of spatial relationships, although variations exist in the specifics. VR practitioners Vincent McCurley and Andrew Leitch have modified traditional film storyboards to depict CVR space. McCurley uses an elliptical frame that depicts onscreen elements and their spatial relationships essentially from the top down, and represents the audience or viewer as an element at the centre of the visual (McCurley 2016). Leitch also uses a top-down elliptical depiction of spatial relationships with the audience again positioned centrally, alongside a curved frame showing front and rear visuals from a front-on audience perspective, that is, in the manner of a traditional storyboard (Leitch 2017). At conceptualisation, scripting, storyboarding and production stages, as well as the experiential stage where the audience actually engages with an immersive CVR work, spatial relationships are an essential element for VR producers to understand, define and manage. From this we can recognise that spatiality and spatial relationships within the 360-degree field are a pivotal threshold concept within CVR, and that educators must develop ways to assist students to understand and effectively define spatiality within VR.

‘Structure’ within the Narrative VR Experience Cinematic Virtual Reality emerged from a context of computer games, a form in which audience agency and interactive engagement is understood as a fundamental aspect of the experience. Computer games themselves represent a prominent category within the extensive range of interactive media and digital platforms that have emerged since the 1980s, across computing, software, networked communication, and the suite of apps, devices and platforms we negotiate in our everyday lives. Designing content and interactivity for these digital platforms involves finding ways to manage the flow of content and the types of interactivity available, and developing approaches that emphasise intuitive, easily comprehensible user experience within potentially complex systems. Jesse James Garrett was the first to propose a diagrammatic model identifying the various elements that worked together to create the overall user experi- VR AND SCREEN EDUCATION: AN APPROACH TO ASSIST STUDENT… 451 ence for software and websites. These ‘elements of user experience’ (Garrett 2003) identified strategic, functional, structural, navigational, interactive and visual elements operating together to construct the shape and user experience of the interactive media and products with which we engage. Over time, the strategy component of Garrett’s elements shifted to a predominantly user- centred perspective (Garrett 2003; Kuniavsky 2010; Norman 2013), leading to the emergence of what is now termed ‘user-centred design’ or UCD, evident in the design of products as diverse as the iPod, interactive toys and bank- ing services (Kuniavsky 2010). However, the identification of interrelated factors shaping user experience continues to be recognised as a fundamental principle of UCD. Garrett defined ‘structure’ as interrelated elements combining the types of interactivity available—the interaction design—and the flow of content within the system—the information architecture or ‘arrangement of content elements within the information space’ (Garrett 2003, p. 32). He streamlined a complex set of interlinked elements into a simple diagrammatic model, providing a methodology for designing interactive media that foregrounded user experience and provided clarity and flexibility at the planning and conceptualisation stage. Garrett’s use of minimal box and line ‘wireframe’ diagrams to convey overall content flow or information architecture, paired with more atomised wireframes depicting screens with navigation details and interactive buttons, has become a standard methodology in user experience and user interface (UX/ UI) design for website, software, game and mobile applications. Wireframing is now an integral aspect of the iterative, agile developmental process for digital content, providing a methodology that combines conceptual flexibility, rapid iteration and prototyping, and the potential for user testing and feedback prior to building an expensive final version of a project that may otherwise turn out to be difficult to use or provide an unsatisfying user experience. User experience, the types of interactivity available to the viewer and the flow of content within a work are also important considerations in designing VR. VR media span a range of possible forms of interactivity, from the high agency and interaction involved in VR gaming, through to the lesser interactivity within CVR. Although CVR may involve lesser degrees of interactivity than a game, it is nevertheless a real-time engagement with time and place (Dooley 2017), involving a viewer navigating an environment and making choices about where to look or what to do or see next, whether experienced within a single scene, unfolding over multiple sequential scenes, or by the viewer making choices so that certain scenes instead of others are seen within an interactive CVR. The majority of narrative VR projects can be seen to operate with a single scene or sequential scene structure. Common examples include 6×9 (single), Clouds Over Sidra (sequential), Notes on Blindness (sequential), Collisions (sequential), Autism TMI (essentially a single scene). A scene normally conveys a core narrative (Dooley 2017) along with key moments and trigger points of 452 M. HEYWARD narrative emphasis within each scene (Wallworth 2016). CVR projects structured sequentially often utilise a fade to black or white as a transition between scenes, assisting audience acclimation and orientation. Single scenes of several minutes in length, or a series of sequential scenes, often of a similar length, are the most recognisable structure for CVR, accounting for the short overall length of most experiences, which mainly fall under 15 minutes. Interactive structure is also evident in selected narrative CVR works such as VR Noir and Cardboard Crash, in which users use a hand controller, tap buttons on the side of the VR headset, or use eye gaze to focus on certain onscreen points of interest (POIs) in order to choose between interactive options. In terms of overall project length, interactive CVR projects tend to offer a limited set of options so as to limit the overall length of the CVR experience, which otherwise could negatively impact audience comfort. In the same way, rapid editing within narrative VR projects is generally discouraged due to concerns around audience comfort, proprioception and the resulting user experience. Identifying the structure of a CVR work, whether single scene, sequential scene or interactive structure, helps us to understand the flow of content within a CVR experience, the types of interactivity involved, the areas of narrative emphasis and the overall shape and complexity of the VR experience. It helps us to understand what the audience is experiencing, when they are experiencing it, what they are being asked to do and how long they are there. From an educational perspective, a structural understanding of narrative CVR, represented via a simple wireframe, can allow students to more easily understand narrative flow and the specifics of the user experience. Structural wireframing can therefore act as a tool to assist in identifying potentially problematic areas and rapidly make adjustments, providing clarity and iterative flexibility at the conceptualisation stage prior to the complex shooting and editing stages of CVR production.

In the Classroom: An Active Learning Approach via Wireframe Visualisation If we recognise key moments of narrative emphasis, spatial relationships within the 360-degree field and the overall structure of the VR experience as important threshold concepts contributing to the experience of narrative VR, then we can consider how these concepts might be effectively explored and applied in the classroom. This section discusses an experimental visual methodology integrating these concepts into a simple wireframe visualisation that can be applied to existing narrative VR works, or implemented to rapidly conceptualise and plan new projects. It has been successfully trialled within an undergraduate subject, Online Documentary, at UTS from spring 2017 onwards. Online Documentary explores the creative, distributive and iterative potentials arising from the intersections of digital technologies with documentary VR AND SCREEN EDUCATION: AN APPROACH TO ASSIST STUDENT… 453 form. Taught within the Bachelor of Communication, its focus has been primarily on emerging opportunities for developing interactive, online content in documentary and factual genres using digital media platforms. Following the re-emergence of VR since 2014 and the resulting development of multiple immersive documentary and factual projects across 360-degree video and CVR, it has been important to include VR as a relevant form to be examined within the subject. The students are drawn from majors across the communication degree including screen media (media arts and production), journalism, writing, digital and social media, as well as other majors. Approximately one-quarter are screen media students with a reasonable understanding of screen fundamentals such as shooting, editing, continuity and storyboarding. The tutorials run in Mac labs due to the emphasis in early classes on examining online documentaries, and later, on developing online documentary project prototypes in small teams. A lecture programme frames the weekly content to be explored in the tutorials through contextualising important concepts, unpacking planning and developmental approaches and considering future documentary directions. During the VR-focused week, the lecture discusses the increasing use of VR and immersive media for documentary contents before considering the concepts concerning key moments, spatiality in the 360-degree field and VR project structure, whether single, sequential or interactive. These concepts are also presented as a visual and conceptual wireframe, offering a framework for planning and conceptualising VR projects rapidly and intuitively. The approach draws together a basic 360-degree spatial visualisation, depicted from the top down within a circular frame with rough spatial depictions of key POIs within the scene, a timeline of key moments of narrative emphasis and a basic structural wireframe concerning the number and sequencing of VR scenes. The example diagram (Fig. 1) is hand-drawn and deliberately rough to emphasise the iterative nature of project wireframing. Students are shown a short VR project that can be displayed via a 360-degree web browser, such as Autism TMI, a two-minute work developed by the UK’s National Autistic Society, followed by a corresponding visual wireframe integrating the concepts of spatiality, key moments and structure. Autism TMI operates extremely well in this instance, involving a clear POV and narrative (an autistic person experiencing sensory overload in a shopping centre) that unfolds with increasing intensity over time, marked by key moments and distinct spatial relationships (a woman with loud clacking shoes, man with vibrantly coloured balloons, the bright flashing lights of a shop, a cleaner pushing a mop entering and leaving the 360-degree field). This sensory intensity leads to tunnel vision and the scene darkens, until vision returns and the person is found to now be outside the centre and calm. Elements within the soundtrack and visuals reinforce the key moments within the work, such as high saturation colour on the balloons and bucket, heightened audio of clacking heels, fast breathing and the mother’s voice fading or returning. Spatial relationships, key 454 M. HEYWARD

Fig. 1 Single-scene VR wireframe diagram of Autism TMI by Megan Heyward, 2017 moments and structure within the project are clearly demonstrable and evident via the wireframe diagram. In the tutorials, students are provided with two active learning tasks to assist in embedding the concepts. The first is a reverse engineering exercise in which students working in small teams examine two existing narrative VR projects, such as Clouds Over Sidra, 6 × 9, Cut Off VR or similar works that can be explored via 360-degree web browser on desktop machines or laptops. They are asked to identify the key moments, spatial relationships and the project structure, and create a hand-drawn wireframe of these in the style of the example visualisation, including the 360-degree frame and the spatial relationships within it, a timeline and the overall project structure. For simplicity and ease of access most of the in-class examples are either single-scene or sequentially structured VR works. Tutors move around the room to view the student VR AND SCREEN EDUCATION: AN APPROACH TO ASSIST STUDENT… 455 diagrams, understanding that while there may be some variations between teams, the visual wireframing methodology has been understood and effectively applied to the example works. The second exercise further embeds this method by asking students to brainstorm and devise a short VR experience concerning a documentary or factual issue. Normally a topic is presented, which may revisit topics or exercises students have engaged with earlier in the semester. One example allows students ten minutes to brainstorm an immersive VR experience aimed at 13 to 17-year-olds, to act as an anti-drug, anti-ice experience. Students must define POV within the concept, identify whether it is a single scene, sequential or interactive structure, map out spatial relationships within scenes, and identify key moments of narrative emphasis. They are then provided a further ten minutes to draw up the concept using a wireframe visualisation, and then present the concept back to the class. Using this methodology, students have rapidly conceptualised and visualised a range of intriguing and diverse VR experiences, such as a single scene involving waking up on a hospital gurney with doctors and nurses attending to you, an overdose victim, sequential scenes charting a fall into addiction across multiple locations (e.g. party, bedroom, dilapidated home), or a single scene charting a drug deal gone wrong, with the potential for further engagement with objects in the scene (see Fig. 2). What is most striking about using this method in the classroom is observing how quickly students are able to conceptualise and plan the overall shape of a VR experience while simultaneously understanding the various elements and relationships within the experience. This approach provides a methodology that rapidly facilitates student understanding of elements critical to narrative VR. It also provides a tool allowing fast, flexible conceptualisation and iteration of VR content that can be applied well before more detailed scripting, storyboarding and production stages. Implementing this approach at the earliest stages has the potential to engage students promptly and intuitively with a VR experience, assess the overall shape and emphasis and make refinements if required, well before they become attached to their ideas, commence detailed scripting or become resistant to revisions. The flexible nature of the visualisation supports iterative brainstorming and helps to identify potential problems before they become realised in production form.

Conclusion The visual wireframe methodology presented represents a flexible, iterative approach that can be applied to rapidly conceptualise the overall shape and scope of narrative VR works, map spatial relationships, identify key moments of narrative emphasis and understand the structural flow, pacing and complexity of scenes available to the audience within the VR experience. It has proven to be an intuitive and highly usable tool within the screen media classroom, both 456 M. HEYWARD

Fig. 2 Student VR wireframe diagram from in-class exercise by Elizabeth Dominis and Eloisa Justa, 2018 for embedding critical threshold concepts concerning narrative VR and for conceptualising future work. We cannot predict the future of narrative-driven CVR and immersive media or the shapes it might take: whether explorations of spectacular environments, character-based interactions within an unfolding drama, immersive virtual experiences shared in real time or other forms yet to be determined. Just as screen practitioners are experimenting with the potentials of narrative VR, screen educators must also consider alternate methods to facilitate student understanding of this emergent form. As Dooley (2017) suggests, there is no singular approach or even established screen grammar for narrative VR, and perhaps no singular approach is appropriate; rather we need to engage a broader, more fluid set of tools, supporting adaptive, flexible approaches to media development and the capacity for rapid iteration and refinement prior to the production phase. As such, this visual wireframing approach, operating along with other CVR scripting and storyboarding approaches in development VR AND SCREEN EDUCATION: AN APPROACH TO ASSIST STUDENT… 457 or still to emerge, may prove increasingly effective within an expanded narrative VR toolkit, and highly relevant to screen media educators as well as students.

References Adler-Kassner, L., & Wardle, E. (Eds.). (2015). Naming What We Know: Threshold Concepts of Writing Studies. Logan: Utah State University Press. AFTRS/Start VR. (2016). VR Noir [VR Film]. Sydney: AFTRS/Start VR. Anderson-Moore, O. (2016). Enter the New World of Narrative VR Production, from Script to Post. No Film School. Retrieved from https://nofilmschool.com/2016/07/ vr-narrative-production-from-script-to-post Angelo, T. (2012). Designing Subjects for Learning: Practical, Research-Based Guidelines. In L. Hunt & D. Chalmers (Eds.), University Teaching in Focus: A Learning-Centred Approach, 93–111. Melbourne: ACER Press. ARTE Experience. (2016). Notes on Blindness [VR Film]. Paris: ARTE Experience. Barnett, R. (2007). A Will to Learn: Being a Student in an Age of Uncertainty. Maidenhead: SRHE/Open University Press. Dominis, E., & Justa, E. (2018). VR Wireframe Diagram [Illustration]. Sydney: UTS. Dooley, K. (2017). Storytelling with Virtual Reality in 360-Degrees: A New Screen Grammar. Studies in Australasian Cinema, 11(3), 161–171. https://doi.org/10.1 080/17503175.2017.1387357. Garrett, J. J. (2003). The Elements of User Experience. San Francisco: New Riders. Grambart, S. (2015). Sleepy Hollow and Narrative in VR (Slide Share). Retrieved from https://www.slideshare.net/fitc_slideshare/sleepy-hollow-narrative-in-vr. Heyward, M. (2017). VR Wireframe Diagram [Illustration]. Sydney: UTS. Hunt, L. (2013). Quality Teaching in the Social Sciences. In Salter D. J. (Ed.), Cases on Quality Teaching Practices in Higher Education. 39–56. Pennsylvania: IGI Global. Kuniavsky, M. (2010). Smart Things: Ubiquitous Computing User Experience Design. Burlington MA: Morgan Kaufmann. Land, R., Meyer, J. H. F., & Flanagan, M. T. (Eds.). (2016). Threshold Concepts in Practice. Rotterdam/Boston/Taipei: Sense Publishers. Leitch, A. (2017). A Storyboard for Virtual Reality. Medium.com. Retrieved from https://medium.com/cinematicvr/a-storyboard-for-virtual-reality-fa000a9b4497. Liman, D. (2017). Invisible [VR Film]. Los Angeles: 30 ninjas/CNÉ/Jaunt VR/Samsung. Mateer, J. (2017). Directing for Cinematic Virtual Reality: How the Traditional Film Director’s Craft Applies to Immersive Environments and Notions of Presence. Journal of Media Practice, 18(1), 14–25. McCurley, V. (2015). Cardboard Crash [VR Film]. Montreal: NFB. McCurley, V. (2016). Storyboarding in Virtual Reality. Medium.com. Retrieved from https://virtualrealitypop.com/storyboarding-in-virtual-reality-67d3438a2fb1. McWilliam, E. (2008). Unlearning How to Teach. Innovations in Education and Teaching International, 45(3), 263–269. https://doi.org/10.1080/ 14703290802176147. Meyer, Jan H. F., & Land, R. (2003). Threshold Concepts and Troublesome Knowledge: Linkages to Ways of Thinking and Practising. ETL Project Occasional Report 4. Retrieved from http://www.etl.tla.ed.ac.uk/docs/ETLreport4.pdf. 458 M. HEYWARD

Milk, C., & VRSE.works. (2015). Clouds Over Sidra [VR Film]. Los Angeles: VRSE.works. Norman, D. (2013). The Design of Everyday Things. New York: Basic Books. Robertson, A., & Zelenko, M. (2014). The Verge. ‘Voices from a Virtual Past’. In The Rise and Fall and Rise of Virtual Reality. Retrieved from http://www.theverge. com/a/virtual-reality. Ross, M., & Munt, A. (2018). Cinematic Virtual Reality: Towards the Spatialized Screenplay. Journal of Screenwriting, 9(2), 191–209. https://doi.org/10.1386/ jocs.9.2.191_1. Stewart, M. (2012). Understanding Learning: Theories and Critique. In L. Hunt & D. Chalmers (Eds.), University Teaching in Focus: A Learning-Centred Approach (pp. 3–20). Melbourne: ACER Press. The Guardian. (2016). 6×9 [VR Film]. London: The Guardian. Retrieved from https:// www.theguardian.com/world/ng-interactive/2016/apr/27/6x9-a-virtual- experience-of-solitary-confinement The National Autistic Society. (2016). Autism TMI [VR Film]. London: National Autistic Society. Retrieved from https://www.autism.org.uk/get-involved/campaign/tmi/vr.aspx VICE TV. (2016). Cut Off VR [VR Film]. Canada: VICE Media. Retrieved from https://cutoff.vice.com/page/virtual-reality Wallworth, L. (2016). Collisions [VR Film]. Australia/USA: Coco Films. Wallworth, L. (2016). “Collisions” with Dolby Atmos and Jaunt VR [Video interview]. Retrieved from https://vimeo.com/152198175. Wallworth, L. (2018). Awavena [VR Film]. Australia/USA/Brazil: Coco Films. Teaching Screenwriting Through Script Development: Looking Beyond the Screenplay

Craig Batty and Stayci Taylor

Introduction Very little has been written about screenwriting pedagogies in the context of formal education. While many of the hundreds of how-to books (and blogs) on the market espouse their own methods, they almost always speak to the individual writer or the paid-for script consultancy service (see Batty 2016; Bordino 2017). Macdonald (2004a) has raised similar concerns, namely that in a university setting, craft ‘theory’ is not enough: lecturers and tutors, and by association their students, should have a more rigorous understanding of theory in order to understand their practice and, particularly in the case of research degrees (see Batty et al. 2016), to innovate practice through critical application. In this chapter, we focus on screenwriting pedagogy through the lens of script development, asking what we might glean from industry that helps our students to learn about aspects of writing for the screen beyond the screenplay itself. In other words, is script development a more viable pedagogy for teaching and learning the craft of screenwriting, one that exposes students to the wider world of industry and career ‘success’ than merely focusing on the writing of a script? This is a sentiment shared by Noel Maloney (2018) in his study of screenwriting curricula in Australia, the UK and Europe. For example, he reported on those pedagogies that focus on holistic script development, such as the National Film School of Denmark (with an integrated writers’ room approach to teaching), which, as we go on to outline here, are perhaps more

C. Batty (*) University of Technology Sydney, Sydney, NSW, Australia e-mail: [email protected] S. Taylor RMIT University, Melbourne, VIC, Australia

© The Author(s) 2019 459 C. Batty et al. (eds.), The Palgrave Handbook of Screen Production, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-21744-0_35 460 C. BATTY AND S. TAYLOR useful for the contemporary writer trying to navigate the expanding yet precarious screen industry. In a similar way that an earlier article drew on interviews to provide baseline definitions, experiences and proposals for research on script development (Taylor and Batty 2016), this chapter draws on a dataset of 14 new interviews with industry professionals from Australia, New Zealand, the UK and the USA, which were conducted in late 2017. These interviewees, who have been ano- nymised for reporting purposes (named as participants 1–14), have worked in a variety of roles in industries across these countries, including as screenwriters, script consultants, script editors, story editors and storyline writers; and as screenwriting educators in universities, colleges and private training and consultancy settings. They thus represent a rich and diverse dataset for the discovery of new insights into what is fast becoming an important, and distinctive, area of research—and as we go on to argue here, a similarly important and distinctive screenwriting pedagogy.

Researching Script Development Recent scholarship on script development has sought to provide a series of definitions, experiences, theoretical and practice-based approaches, and calls for more research into the practice. Kerrigan and Batty (2016), for example, have noted how, because script development is not a singular individual pursuit—as Macdonald argues, ‘in screenwriting the process is multiplied by the collective involvement of many in the process of development’ (2004b, p. 265)—screenwriters become conditioned agents who internalise the expertise and views of their peers in the work they deliver. Similarly, notions of collaborative authorship, namely how screenwriting involves ‘multiple forms of both writing and filmmaking’ (Conor 2014, p. 54), can be understood as important to script development practices. Here, screen production arguably joins creative writing as an interesting endeavour, particularly in the academy (see Kerrigan and Batty 2016). Definitionally, script development has been acknowledged as a social, cultural and creative practice in which ideas, emotions and personalities combine with the practicalities, policies and movements of the industry to create, refine and tell a story in the best way possible under the given circumstances (see Batty et al. 2017). A practice that ranges from readers’ reports on drafts and competition entries at the emerging/aspiring end of the market, to intensive face-to-face workshopping with script development personnel on commissioned work, script development is a term used widely in industry practice, yet in both scholarly and industry literature there would appear to be only a few attempts to define it. Thus, although studies of script development exist in a range of disciplines, including film, television, creative industries, creative labour and business (Bloore 2012; Conor 2013; Joyce 2003; Lyle 2015; Macdonald 2013; Munt 2008; O’Connell 2014; Taylor 2014, 2015, b; Wreyford 2016). Batty et al. TEACHING SCREENWRITING THROUGH SCRIPT DEVELOPMENT: LOOKING… 461

(2017) summarise that existing literature on the practice—whether explicit in its focus or implicit in its reference—is wide, varied and multifaceted and, as such, from a scholarly point of view at least, fragile. This is why, in a follow-up article arguing for more collaborative research on script development, Batty et al. (2018) referred to studying the practice as a ‘wicked problem’. Simultaneously a process and a set of products, influenced by policy as well as people, and incorporating objective agendas at the same time as subjective experiences, script development, then, is a core practice within the screen industry yet one that is hard to pin down. It means different things to different people, under different circumstances, at different times and for different agendas. Therefore, how would one ever go about teaching it? Why are we arguing it is a useful framework through which lecturers and tutors might encourage students to learn about the industry of screen ideas? Here, we go on to analyse what our interviewees told us about their understandings and experiences of script development, with a view to unpacking how this might inform a pedagogy of screenwriting that looks beyond the screenplay and incorporates a holistic approach to screenwriting teaching and training.

Definitions: What Is Script Development? It is first useful to define our terms in regard to the list of script development roles outlined in Section 1, so that the discussion here will have currency with readers:

Screenwriter: Writer of scripts for screen works (such as those made for film and television). Script consultant: Often used interchangeably with the terms script editor and script doctor, we offer the term script consultant as someone brought into the script development process to offer feedback, notes and guidance on early drafts. Sometimes a screenwriter will book their services before seeking to find production avenues for their screenplay, and sometimes a consultant is brought in by someone other than the writer (e.g., producer) in a more formalised, industrial process. Script editor: Often used interchangeably with script consultant or script doctor, we offer the term script editor as someone who makes close notes and changes to the pages of the screenplay or script, for both story cohesion and production purposes. Story editor: This role is unique to narrative television. The story editor is in charge of editing television storylines for logic, continuity and (production) house style. Storyline writer: This role is usually enacted within a team of storyliners, who will typically be responsible for brainstorming ideas at 462 C. BATTY AND S. TAYLOR

the story table, before being assigned singular storylines to write up as an outline or ‘beat sheet’ (short summary of each scene in the storyline). These will be compiled into a week’s worth of episodes, after which the storyliners will be assigned one or more episodes to write up as scene-by- scene breakdowns. In a big production, these storylines will then be contracted out to dedicated scriptwriters; on smaller productions, the storyline writer might then go on to script the episode.

Given the extant literature pointing to a range of understandings within a range of contexts, we decided to ask our interviewees if they could define script development. Considering that all of them have, across various roles, had their work developed and developed the work of others, we wanted to know if they could single out core aspects of the practice. This is an important baseline for anyone wishing to use script development in their teaching, we argue, as it would necessarily influence content, assessment and desired learning outcomes. Many of the interviewees spoke of the ‘product’ aspect of script development: the forward movement, and improvement, of not just a script but also an idea, concept or premise. It was described as: ‘an initial idea is developed into a script’ (P1); ‘a creative concept is turned into a script’ (P3); ‘both story development and also script redrafting’ (P4); ‘the process whereby you build the viability of the project by focussing on the screenplay’ (P7). Other aspects raised were how, through script development, screen ideas and their associated documents are ‘shaped, moulded, re-worked, added to, refined, given detail and form’ (P9), ‘bringing a script to its full potential’ (P13) so that it is ‘acceptable’ [for industry]’ (P12). Within these definitions, it was noted that script development ‘includes the stages of concept development, writing treatments and scene-by-scene outlines, and then also the redrafting of scripts’ (P4). In other words, there are various milestones and outcomes expected along the way, which educators could consider when devising their curricula. Others talked about, and sometimes gave their focus to, script development as a process. This could be important in educational settings, underpinned as they typically are by ideas of learning and assimilating knowledge. One interviewee described it as ‘a process that can be interminable, frustrating, painful and very occasionally successful. The terms “sausage making, political contest and gambit” come to mind’ (P2). For another interviewee, it was important that development be something personal and authentic to the writer:

the writer should also see doodling, riffing, sketching and experimenting – irrespective of perceived outcome – as a part of script development. Similarly, one should not perceive script development merely as putting words on a page. One can develop a script by chewing over some thoughts on a long walk in the woods. (P5) TEACHING SCREENWRITING THROUGH SCRIPT DEVELOPMENT: LOOKING… 463

In a similar vein, another interviewee was keen to make the point that script development should not only be about the outcome; as with many pedagogic practices in colleges and universities, the learning itself was also deemed important:

It’s beyond getting money and getting a script editor, it’s way more than that, it even comes down to your own relationship to the work and how that evolves over time and becomes more focussed [… and] the process by which writers are supported to do all of the above. (P10)

‘Like any creative process there’s a level of alchemy […] what’s a process for one project isn’t going to be good for another project’ (P11), said another interviewee, reminding us that personal processes—like personal learning—are important factors if one is to survive ‘development hell’. Another made the valid point that it is ‘about taking into account the fact that the idea began with a writer on their own, so it’s about admitting [as in, granting admittance] to all the people that have to come into that story – so it will develop in ways you haven’t imagined’ (P14). In other words, it is important to be open to ideas and changes, and while feedback can feel personal, in a good development scenario it is about opening up the screen idea to others so that it can improve on its own merit. Writers’ room scenarios as pedagogy would be an example here of creating such learning opportunities in the classroom. Perhaps, by contrast to the process perspective, some see development as primarily, or only, in relation to the industry itself, namely screen financing and production. This was a common pattern in the responses from our interviewees who had worked in producer roles. For example: ‘script development should ultimately be part of getting a script made into a film, and therefore consideration of practical elements is essential’ (P6); its function is ‘to create a blueprint for the production of a financially and artistically successful film or television production’ (P8); and perhaps more clear-cut, script development ‘always should have the end goal of production in mind’ (P10). This can be a difficult aspect to approach in teaching, especially given time and resource constraints, but considering collaborative projects between student writers and screen production students is one clear way to emulate this perspective.

Goals: What Is the Purpose of Script Development? When asked about the goals of script development, our interviewees provided a range of answers. Many of these are very relevant to teaching and learning scenarios in that they help to contextualise the underpinning ideologies of the practice, at least from the perspective of our interviewees. Here, then, we share some observations that we hope will shape educators’ understandings of the underlying intentions of development, in order that they inform pedagogic aspects such as desired learning outcomes, location within the curriculum and how they could be assessed. 464 C. BATTY AND S. TAYLOR

The broad goals of development included a strong sense of forward movement (e.g., improvement), creative exploration and an aim towards quality— however that may be defined. These broad goals were described as follows: ‘to make the script as good as it can possibly be’ (P1); ‘to explore all possibilities for story development, script structure, character etc. during the concept development’ (P4); ‘allowing all parties to explore ideas and agree on the fundamental elements of the film that they are planning to make’ (P6); and ‘to achieve various iterations for various requirements’ (P7). One interviewee summarised the dilemma of development, incorporating both viable product and personal process, as such:

Looked at in one way, the goal is to arrive at a script that can be produced. But this has to be seen as a goal which enjoys a relationship to quality. So the goal is tempered by a desire to have a script develop in the most truthful way within the parameters of the production. (P5)

Perhaps surprisingly, the idea of the script’s eventual audience—including industry stakeholders who might have the keys to further development or means of production, especially if that involves funding—only came up a few times. This may be a result of the nature of the questions asked, which were partly framed from the perspective of development being a practice important to writers as well as producers and other industry personnel; or it may be due to the fact that many of the interviewees have taught students at some point in their careers, and so have become attuned to the perspective of (typically) the original creator. Nevertheless, when audience was highlighted it was done so as follows:

The main intention of script development is to find the depth and complexity in a script, to make the storytelling satisfying, surprising, engaging and transforming for the audience. (P4)

[T]he idea of an audience, a lot of script development doesn’t operate with that in mind – it’s not about being commercial, it’s about being attuned to a specific audience. (P10)

[T]he goal is to develop this so it’s realised in a creatively fresh way, satisfying to the writer, the producer, and ultimately the audience. (P13)

[T]o be pragmatic, to produce the script that can be made. (P14)

Interviewees also discussed how development means to navigate a myriad of voices, opinions and tastes; and in some cases, to interpret what is really going on. For example, one interviewee described how ‘each participant has its own unique agenda, which is often in conflict with others’ agendas and desires’; therefore, development is about ‘success at the very most, survival at the very least’ (P2). Another said that ‘development provides an opportunity to explore, TEACHING SCREENWRITING THROUGH SCRIPT DEVELOPMENT: LOOKING… 465 often at very little cost, radical interpretations of the story’ (P6), while another added that ‘the team who conceived, incubated and birthed the idea [should] still recognise it as their baby’ (P9). Passion was used to describe what can become apparent in development, especially from the writer, but ironically passion ‘can be one of the things that causes most trouble as people often feel passionate about completely different interpretation of a script’ (P3). One interviewee, who was keen to detail their views on what makes development a good experience, also pointed to a paradox:

Ultimately the person that determines whether a script is good enough is the person at the top of the food chain – the commissioner or the network or the executive producer – but, of course, ‘nobody knows anything’ and the truth is that only the audience really knows whether it is good enough. (P1)

How, then, might we go about teaching and assessing development when, in the end, the products of development are only truly assessable by their intended audiences? Is this where a focus on process and reflection could come in as useful? As another interviewee said, pointing out the shortfalls of having a one-size-fits-all framework for assessing development, ‘I don’t think it’s about trying to get a perfect script; I think that’s not achievable or a reality – it’s about trying to tell the best possible version of that story in the framework you’re working in’ (P11).

Effective Processes: How Is Script Development Best Practised? What, then, are some of the ‘effective’ processes of development? What works well and why? And how might these be translated into productive approaches to teaching? Here the interviewees delved into their experiences of good and bad development, from their positions of having their work developed and developing others’. The first, perhaps most prominent, piece of advice that came up continually was that everyone should ‘be on the same page’ and work towards a shared vision of the screen idea. For example:

It is important that anyone involved in developing a script with a writer is ‘on the same page’ […] Effective script development needs agreement from the outset on what is trying to be achieved. (P1)

‘Good relationship[s] … Clearly understood goals … Well-structured and efficient decision-making process[es] … and a willingness to communicate’ were espoused by one interviewee (P3), while another argued for ‘a strong sense of collaboration, of everyone working together […] a commonly agreed vision of the aims and intentions for the script’ (P4). As another outlined, script development is fluid and organic, and different aspects and stakes come into play at various stages of the process: 466 C. BATTY AND S. TAYLOR

These goals can be abstract, philosophical and also be informed by specifics such as genre and reference films. As the script progresses the goals can involve more practical considerations such as scope, budget, location and schedule. (P7)

A contrast to this is when things do not cohere so well; when there is a clear sense of an agenda at play that does not necessarily align with the project being developed. Some interviewees alluded to developers ‘writing through’ the writer, using them to get their own voices heard. Accordingly, writers and developers need ‘to listen, not to the words that people say but to the issues that underlie the words – […] be an interpreter’ (P2). It was suggested that ‘diplomacy is a key contributor in fostering an effective working relationship’ (P4), wherein it is ‘about understanding that writing is personal to the writer, that creating is taking personal risk, and taking time in development to discuss and understand a writer’s drives and motivations and intentions’ (P4). Script development should strive for ‘A creative team whose egos are absent, who participate with enthusiasm and don’t get [bad] feelings when their ideas are rejected’ (P9). Here, ‘suitable mentorship’ (P10) was suggested as a way of ensuring the process works; developers should be good mentors whose personalities and story values align with those of the writer, so that the process can be synchronous, not combative. As one interviewee stated:

I think the writer has to always be able to understand what’s behind the question being asked. People will often tell a writer what they ‘should’ do – but it’s not up to someone else to tell you what you should do, for the writer it’s about recognising that they’re identifying a problem and then you solve it. (P14)

As a strategy, it was clear from many interviewees that mutual respect and understanding was a key factor from both sides of development. ‘Successful writing for the screen is a product of collaboration and compromise, but the writer always needs to be happy or comfortable with those compromises’ (P1). At the same time, developers should have, one interviewee said, ‘An ability to be honest, to state out loud what is working and what is not, and a willingness to try things out is essential’ (P6). As another stated:

I don’t believe the developer’s job is to pitch solutions, but you can brainstorm ideas […] My best day at work is when I’ve spent a day arguing with a writer about what doesn’t work, but then they go away and solve it with something I haven’t thought of. (P11)

Another common response was that script development needs time, and in industry settings this often involves money to pay for the writer’s and others’ time to work on the idea/script. In teaching scenarios, the time factor is a difficult one to navigate: classes are getting shorter and students have greater outside work and life pressures. Online learning may be one way of helping to facilitate a more sustained development process, but given the relationship TEACHING SCREENWRITING THROUGH SCRIPT DEVELOPMENT: LOOKING… 467 issues discussed, might this be at the expense of a more nuanced and productive learning experience? One interviewee discussed a teaching strategy they had found useful for development, that of the ‘Note of Intention’. This was seen as a way for the writer to talk to the developer, to at least start a conversation about their script that was not just concerned with broad craft issues, such as

the kind of thing they would put in the covering letter when submitting a script – why they want to write/make the film, what intrigues them about the story and the main character, what will raise our curiosity, what is challenging about the central conflict of their story, what they think the script/treatment is about, what reflections they want their audience to draw from the story. (P1)

Another (P13) shared their list of good, effective practices, here drawn from their experiences on both sides of the script development table (developing and being developed):

• clear and constructive communication; • everyone at the table being on the same page in terms of what the project is; • openness to respectful sharing; • a sense of humour and playfulness; • passion and genuine interest in the project; • fostering a sense of excitement in the writer/s about the next draft, and ways it can be improved; • ensuring suggestions result in genuine improvements, rather than just making it different; • acknowledging and praising what’s working in the script as well as the areas where it’s falling short.

Usefully, most of these points could also serve as a checklist for screen production group work more broadly.

Teaching and Training: How Should We Approach Script Development Pedagogies? Part of our interview strategy was to ask a specific question about how script development could be taught, or how script developers could be trained. This was a popular question among our interviewees, which seems to suggest they had all had experiences they had reflected on and, after the fact, would have hoped had been conducted differently. The first, perhaps most prominent, theme that emerged from this question was understanding and valuing the human aspect of development: 468 C. BATTY AND S. TAYLOR

Given that script development is essentially a relationship, I think it’s interesting to consider this in the context of how one might ‘train’ others to be friends or partners. How do we get what we want without demanding? How do we criticize without insulting? How do we flatter in such a manner that true praise is identifiable as such? (P6)

For educators in colleges and universities, a complicating factor here is the lack of life experience of students, and thus their potential lack of knowing how to skilfully navigate human relationships. As one interviewee said: ‘I do think that it is very difficult to train anyone to learn how to balance personalities and how to negotiate difficult conversations about creativity. I think it’s something that comes with a huge amount of practice’ (P6). Good script development, it was suggested, relies on ‘Knowing when to be objective/subjective – knowing when your role is to see that the people who made it are lost and just don’t know anymore – be a mirror’ (P10) to the situation, guiding people through it smoothly and ethically. One interviewee said that development ‘requires life experience, good craft, and a thorough understanding of film language’ (P7). There was common agreement that being script or film literate is an important aspect of development training, which for teaching scenarios could mean that craft and criticality are woven into the curriculum quite purposefully. For our interviewees, this training includes reading produced and unproduced scripts, screenwriting books and other resources, and attending relevant workshops and conferences as part of one’s continual professional development. For example:

Anybody who wishes to get involved should read as many different scripts as possible, good and bad, and get to know the difference. (P1)

[I]t is important to have script-literate people at all levels of decision-making. This is not always the case. (P5)

[R]ead a lot, write a lot, watch a lot. (P11)

Script development requires ongoing education for filmmakers, particularly writers and producers. The more workshops and seminars from reputable developers that writers and producers can attend, the better their knowledge will be. (P7).

On the specific aspect of screenwriting-related craft, one interviewee was clear: ‘understand the concepts of Joseph Campbell, Christopher Vogler, Syd Field and Robert McKee’ (P8). Another said: ‘You need to read Aristotle’s Poetics’ (P12). While it would be common for screenwriting curricula to set such texts for students to read, it could be worth considering at what point these texts are used, and also how. For example, are they used as background craft reading, or as specific frameworks for deconstructing a peer’s draft script? As might be expected, interviewees talked a lot about good script notes— written and verbal—as an aspect of development teaching or training. Much of TEACHING SCREENWRITING THROUGH SCRIPT DEVELOPMENT: LOOKING… 469 this, we suggest, could fairly easily be worked into the curriculum, and could be assessed against appropriate criteria. Script notes should provide ‘very good communication without hidden agendas, a development process that has integrity’ (P2). ‘Don’t give answers, ask questions […] honour the individual writer’s own process’ (P14). One interviewee pointed out that ‘All writers thrive on encouragement and are far more open to criticism (constructive) if they receive praise for the good bits first – in other words tact and diplomacy are essential elements in a potential script editor’s skillset’ (P1). In terms of how to give script notes, as one interviewee said: ‘Work hard to be an active listener. When in doubt, ask lots of questions of the writer, and get them to articulate what their intention was’ (P13). With this also comes the suggestion that those whose work is being developed should feel empowered to go back to those doing the developing for clarification of notes, if required. All in all, script notes were felt to be the start of a conversation, not prescribed solutions that close a conversation down:

A ‘good’ note creates a change, which enhances the writer’s intention. A ‘bad’ note seems to derail where a writer wants to go. A sensitive script editor will know when to let the writer go away and trust them to work out the problem for themselves, rather than telling them what they have to do. (P1).

Writers were also encouraged to ‘be humble, but confident’ in the development process: ‘Be open and defend your story. And accept that you operate in a reality which means you need to understand how to compromise’ (P14). One interviewee pointed out that while developers ‘need to understand what makes a good script’, they also ‘need to be aware of the creative process. They need to understand how a writer thinks and works’ (P5). Another interviewee urged developers to have greater ‘forward thinking, more willingness to be speculative, not so risk averse, willing to support innovation’ (P10), while another joked that in order to survive script development, one needs ‘Experience of crisis negotiation’ (P2). Other aspects of script development teaching and training were generously offered, which we outline here. These are less themed and more practical, which we hope will provide educators with tangible and accessible ideas for their classrooms (real or virtual):

If they are already trained in screenwriting, work in small groups and role-play being writers and script development personnel with set criteria in mind. Study commissioning guidelines and channel and funding body requirement documents. (P3)

I think it is important for those working in script development to have sat on both sides of the table – i.e., as writer and as note-giving/developer. I teach them that doing script development is not about trying to change a script to the way they would have written it, but to respect the writer’s intentions, vision, style etc., 470 C. BATTY AND S. TAYLOR

and to work with what is on the page. To approach development primarily through asking a lot of questions of the story to provoke the writer into thinking fully about the ideas and the way they have translated those to script on the page. I impress upon them that it is about finding the best ways to tell the concept, not to change the concept. (P4)

Get used to the sound of your own voice throwing out ideas, observe others as they have their ideas accepted or quashed; how do they feel/react? Get used to the pace of a story-lining table; feel the nerves and sit on them. (P9)

I think my theatre background has provided a lot of valuable skills as well, especially in terms of collaboration and group devised work. The principles of improv – playing the ‘yes’ game so things keep moving, building on a suggestion and exploring it rather than shutting it down because you don’t agree with it, etc. (P13)

Conclusion In this chapter we have outlined a series of perspectives of script development that we hope might go some way in informing a pedagogy of screenwriting beyond the screenplay, perhaps resulting in students who become conditioned agents (Kerrigan and Batty 2016) of the internalised aspects of development experienced during their studies. Naturally, teaching and learning approaches are contingent on context and many of the ideas presented here might not be feasible for all educators, but at the very least they provide a set of understandings and approaches that can inform curriculum design and pedagogy. Individual educators should also reflect on their experiences and capabilities in order to create a pedagogy that is viable. We could pose the question: What is it we are even asking of our students? Are we training them to write the best script, or are we asking them to learn about the industry in which they hope to operate? For screenwriters and others involved in the production of screen ideas, can script development offer an approach to screenwriting that acknowledges the different career paths that exist beyond that of the writer, especially in what is a rapidly changing and precarious industry? For those who do become writers, can this approach provide useful skills and tactics for navigating what is commonly referred to as ‘development hell’? It is worth remembering—especially for those educators working across all aspects of screen production—that at the heart of script development as both a process and a set of products is the writer. What they do and what they deliver is interwoven with how they experience becoming the aforementioned conditioned agents of script development. As one interviewee described it: ‘development should never lose sight of the fact that its primary purpose is to enable writing, which is to say to empower the writer. Once “development” becomes a thing in itself, in which the writer is merely one component, then writing is doomed’ (P5). Thus, while script development is a practice that enables the TEACHING SCREENWRITING THROUGH SCRIPT DEVELOPMENT: LOOKING… 471 creation of a screenplay, it should also be seen as representing the creative endeavours of the screenwriter: their personal as well as professional journey.

References Batty, C. (2016). Screenwriting Studies, Screenwriting Practice and the Screenwriting Manual. New Writing: The International Journal for the Practice and Theory of Creative Writing, 13(1), 59–70. Batty, C., Sawtell, L., & Taylor, S. (2016). Thinking Through the Screenplay: The Academy as a Site for Research-Based Script Development. Journal of Writing in Creative Practice, 9(1–2), 149–162. Batty, C., Taylor, S., Sawtell, L., & Conor, B. (2017). Script Development: Defining the Field. Journal of Screenwriting, 8(3), 225–247. Batty, C., O’Meara, R., Taylor, S., Joyce, H., Burne, P., Maloney, N., Poole, M., & Tofler, M. (2018). Script Development as a ‘Wicked Problem’.Journal of Screenwriting, 9(2), 153–174. Bloore, P. (2012). The Screenplay Business: Managing Creativity and Script Development in the Film Industry. Abingdon: Routledge. Bordino, A. W. (2017). Script Doctoring and Authorial Control in Hollywood and Independent American Cinema. Journal of Screenwriting, 8(3), 249–265. Conor, B. (2013). Hired Hands, Liars, Schmucks: Histories of Screenwriting Work and Workers in Contemporary Screen Production. In M. Banks, S. Taylor, & R. Gill (Eds.), Theorizing Cultural Work: Transforming Labour in the Cultural and Creative Industries (pp. 44–55). London: Routledge. Conor, B. (2014). Screenwriting: Creative Labour and Professional Practice. London: Routledge. Joyce, H. (2003). In Development: Script Writing Policies and Practices in the New Zealand Film Commission 1978–1995. PhD Thesis, University of Auckland. Kerrigan, S., & Batty, C. (2016). Re-Conceptualising Screenwriting for the Academy: The Social, Cultural and Creative Practice of Developing a Screenplay. New Writing: The International Journal for the Practice and Theory of Creative Writing, 13(1), 130–143. Lyle, H. B. (2015). An Account and Analysis of the Culture and Practices of Screenplay Development in the UK. PhD Thesis, University of East Anglia. Macdonald, I. W. (2004a). Manuals Are Not Enough: Relating Screenwriting Practice to Theories. Journal of British Cinema and Television, 1(2), 260–274. Macdonald, I. W. (2004b). The Presentation of the Screen Idea in Narrative Film- Making. PhD Thesis, Leeds Metropolitan University. Macdonald, I. W. (2013). Screenwriting Poetics and the Screen Idea. Basingstoke/New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Maloney, N. (2018). Changing Focus: Collaboration, Creative Process and Critical Awareness in UK and European Screenwriting Education. Melbourne: International Specialised Skills Institute. Available at http://www.issinstitute.org.au/wp-content/media/2018/11/Maloney-Final.pdf. Accessed 3 May 2019. Munt, A. (2008). “Am I Crazy to Make a Film for Only $100,000 or Am I Crazy Not to?” Kriv Stenders Goes Micro-Budget Digital for Boxing Day. Senses of Cinema, 46, 26. Viewed 10 May 2017, http://sensesofcinema.com/2008/australian-cin- ema46/kriv-stenders-boxing-day 472 C. BATTY AND S. TAYLOR

O’Connell, D. (2014). The Irish Film Board: Gatekeeper or Facilitator? The Experience of the Irish Screenwriter. In C. Batty (Ed.), Screenwriters and Screenwriting: Putting Practice into Context (pp. 113–129). Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Taylor, S. (2014). The Model Screenwriter: A Comedy Case Study. Minding the Gap: Writing Across Thresholds and Fault Lines – Refereed Proceedings of the 19th Conference of the Australasian Association of Writing Programs, 2014 (pp. 1–20). Taylor, S. (2015). Arrested Development: Can Funny, Female Characters Survive Script Development Processes? Philament: An Online Journal of the Arts and Culture, 20, 61–77. Taylor, S. (2015b). “It’s the Wild West Out There”: Can Web Series Destablilise Traditional Notions of Script Development? What’s This Space?: Screen Practice, Audiences and Education for the Future Decade – Refereed Proceedings of the Annual Conference of the Australian Screen Production, Education and Research Association (ASPERA), 2015 (pp. 1–14). Taylor, S., & Batty, C. (2016). Script Development and the Hidden Practices of Screenwriting: Perspectives from Industry Professionals. New Writing: The International Journal for the Practice and Theory of Creative Writing, 13(2), 204–217. Wreyford, N. (2016). The Gendered Contexts of Screenwriting Work: Socialized Recruitment and Judgments of Taste and Talent in the UK Film Industry. PhD Thesis, King’s College London. Index1

A Arts and Humanities Research Council, Acoustic, 224, 227 267 Active learning, 444–445, 452–455 Audience Aesthetic, 6, 13, 22, 24–26, 28, 38, 61, cinema, 221, 338, 339, 345 62, 80, 81, 89, 106–108, 111, 114, engagement, 37, 88, 135, 188, 341, 127, 133, 134, 199, 209, 237, 249, 379, 431 273, 286, 291, 293–295, 300, 302, experience, xxix, 258, 365, 373, 447, 327, 329, 335, 337, 338, 340, 343, 449 344, 365, 367, 371, 372, 375, 386, Audio software, 222 392, 408–410, 421n3, 435, 436 Augmentation, 260, 382–387 Agency, xxix, 3–15, 21, 146, 169, 170, Augmented cinema, 340 175, 177, 183, 195, 238–240, 298, Authentic, 6, 34, 36, 39, 44, 45, 72, 308–310, 312–317, 328n3, 350, 108, 114, 188, 199, 228, 295, 296, 382, 431, 446, 447, 450, 451 298, 300, 301, 303, 323, 326–330, Amazon, 36, 348, 349, 353, 359, 360, 332, 341, 384, 444, 445, 462 427 Authenticity, 20, 21, 29, 35, 36, 43, Animation, 75–85, 87, 90–92, 119, 121, 108, 152, 294–296, 298, 300, 301, 124, 126, 127, 214, 226, 261, 262, 303, 323–332, 338, 345, 366, 270, 290, 314, 343, 351, 404, 437, 386 446 Authorial, 20, 28, 169–179, 199, 200, definition, 75, 76, 82, 84 204, 232, 245, 389, 396 Anthropology, 245 Autism TMI, 447, 451, 453, 454 linguistic, 244 Auto-ethnography, 154 Apple, 213, 348, 358–360, 366, 380, Awavena, 448 381, 387 Art gallery, xxxiii, 200, 354, 355, 364, 366, 368, 370–373 B Artists’ moving image, 363–373 Back region knowledge, 325, 326 Art practices, 118, 121, 365, 366 Bakhtin, Mikhail, 8–9

1 Note: Page numbers followed by ‘n’ refer to notes.

Ballyhoo, 340 Collaboration, xxx, xxxi, xxxiii, 90, 104, Barthes, Roland, 23, 134, 152 123, 169, 194, 197, 198, 235, 240, Battleship Potemkin, 340 250, 259, 262, 266, 281, 284, 287, Baxter and Me, 169–179, 351 289–291, 332, 343–345, 368, 411, BBC 423, 428, 433, 434, 444, 446, 465, BBC Alba, 19–22, 24, 28 466, 470 Cambridgeshire, 266 Collective experience, 43, 194, 305, 336 Behind-the-scenes footage, 338 Collisions, 447, 448, 451 Binaural sound, 379, 386 Colours of the Alphabet, 243–246, 248, Black box, 364, 365, 371, 372 252, 254 Blast Theory Comedy Central, 181 Bloody Minded, 344 Comedy screenplay, see Screenplay Karen app, 380–386 Communication, 23, 37, 43, 77, 154, Boden, Margaret A., 3, 7, 270, 274 185, 187, 189, 196, 234, 258, 259, Box office, 35, 337, 341, 342 262, 263, 267, 275, 282–288, The Brisbane Line, 355 306–309, 311, 317, 372, 375, 376, Business, 33, 88, 89, 97, 157, 282, 382, 383, 390, 392, 395, 417, 418, 311–312, 348, 349, 355, 358–360, 433, 450, 453, 467, 469 423, 427, 430, 433, 435, 437, 438, Computer-generated imagery (CGI), 460 106, 108, 260, 270 Constraints, xxxiii, 4, 7, 9, 12, 13, 19, 20, 25, 28, 41, 42, 85, 125, 126, C 324, 356, 376, 403–413, 420, 463 Camera angles, 338, 409 Convergence, 87–89, 360, 365, 372, Camera operator, 12, 274, 298, 299, 383, 422, 427, 436 343, 344 Coppola, Francis Ford, 343 Camera technique(s), 338, 383 Co-presence/co-present, 117–127, 336, Cardboard Crash, 447, 449, 452 343, 382, 390–394, 396, 398 Cardiff, Janet, 375, 379–380, 383, 386 Corporeal themes, 132 Careers, 12, 34, 44, 52, 184–188, 197, Craft, xxxi, 7, 9, 11, 12, 33–37, 39, 40, 222, 328, 409, 422, 430–432, 434, 42, 44, 50, 61, 62, 66, 67, 73, 78, 435, 437–438, 459, 464, 470 89, 158–160, 162, 167, 215, 217, training for, 470 222, 268, 274, 404, 405, 413, 431, Cinecasts, 337 432, 437, 459, 467, 468 Cinema Novo Movement, 330 Creative, 3–15, 33, 34 Cinematic narratives, 131 constraints, xxxiii, 407, 408 Cinematic Virtual Reality (CVR), 443, Creative choices, xxxi, 324, 325, 327, 444, 446–453, 456 329, 332, 387, 394 Cinematographer, 3, 6, 9–10, 15, 176, Creative collaborations, xxxi, 35 274–276, 372, 404, 409, 432 Creative control, 188, 269, 276, 278 Cinematography, 9, 10, 15, 52, 53, 59, Creative documentary filmmaking, 243 106, 257, 259, 272, 275, 371, 412, Creative entrepreneur, 183, 184 423 Creative limits, 408–412 Cinéma vérité, 21 Creative practice research, xxix, 3, The City of Forking Paths, 375, 378–380, 118–121, 126, 364 382, 383, 386, 387 Creative practices, xxix–xxxiii, 3–6, 9, ClickView, 350 12–15, 33, 34, 42, 61, 68, 115, Clouds Over Sidra, 446, 451, 454 118–120, 147, 209–218, 258, 277, Co-creating, 193–205, 235 324, 325, 327, 328, 340, 354, 355, Cognitive, 7, 11, 42, 119, 131, 132, 211 431, 436, 460 INDEX 475

collaborative, xxxiii, 258 298, 305, 308, 313, 315, 316, 326, Creative practitioner, 9, 214, 260 339, 351, 363, 366, 404, 409, 432 Creative systems model, 12 Director of photography, see Creative teams, 29, 113, 184, 281, 283, Cinematography 284, 288, 290, 312, 313, 315, 316, Dispositif, 363–373 466 Distant Vision, 343 Creative writing, xxx–xxxii, 6, 40, 87, Distribution, xxx–xxxiii, 5, 14, 49, 104, 404–407, 413, 419, 460 127, 181, 182, 184, 188, 189, 197, Creativity, 3–8, 11–15, 33, 34, 36, 37, 215, 217, 276, 321, 325, 328, 335, 39–45, 113, 145, 146, 151, 154, 342, 347–361, 375, 381, 433 158–160, 209, 211–214, 225, 245, Docudrama, 352 269–271, 273–278, 308, 403–413, Documentary 420, 431, 433, 468 authorship, 231 theory, 3, 4, 15 drama-documentary, 19, 24, 25 Crime genre, 282 observational documentary, 19, 24, Critical animal studies, 170, 171, 176 196, 249 Critical thinking, 33, 37, 204, 205 participatory, 193–205 Cross-disciplinary, 34, 170, 257, 262, personal essay, 145–154 264 poetic essay, 169 documentary production, 257 studies, 231, 232 Cross-platform, 88, 90–93 voice, 21, 22, 231–240 Cross-platform media content, 354 Documentary creative practice, see Crowdfunded, 185 Documentary Csikszentmihalyi, Mihaly, 3, 4, 12, 15, Documentary films, 29, 78, 196, 210, 40, 159, 160, 166, 212, 213, 403 215, 243–255, 391 Cultural identity, 20 Baxter and Me, 169–179, 351 cultural-national identity, 62, 63 Colours of the Alphabet, 243–246, 248, Cultural studies, 171, 278, 417, 418 252, 254, 351 The Crossing, 257–267 The Silences, 145–154 D Documentation, 88, 135, 366, 367 Digital audio workstation (DAW), 222, Dogme, 409 224, 225, 229 Doxa, 33 Digital disruption, 347–361, 429, 438 Drone filming, 259 Digital distribution, 347–349, 352, 355–358, 360, 361 Digital natives, 359 E Digital platforms, 350, 357, 431, 450 Editing, 10, 11, 15, 21, 22, 28, 29, Digital sound, 222 52, 53, 59, 106, 147, 149, 152, Digital surround sound (DSS), 221, 222 166, 173, 198, 222–225, 229, Directing, 7–9, 15, 142, 299, 371, 423, 230, 243–255, 258, 262–264, 447–449 269–271, 297, 300, 301, 316, 356, Director, 3, 6, 7, 10, 12–15, 21–28, 57, 371, 382, 393, 396, 412, 418, 432, 67, 90, 91, 97, 132, 142, 171, 172, 437, 443, 445–447, 449, 452, 453, 194, 196, 210, 212, 226, 244, 247, 461 248, 257–259, 261, 263, 264, 266, process, 176, 229, 243–247, 249, 251, 267, 274, 281, 285–287, 289, 290, 254 476 INDEX

Editor, xxxi, xxxiii, 3, 6, 10–11, 13–15, Filmic, 3, 4, 11, 12, 14, 15, 22, 63, 20, 91, 147, 161, 172, 176, 178, 65, 66, 243, 365, 391, 394, 446, 179, 184, 221, 222, 224, 226, 229, 449 244–246, 248, 250, 250n3, 252, Filmic agency, see Filmic 254, 263, 264, 274, 283, 300, 301, Film Live, 343 343, 432, 444, 460, 461, 463, 469 Filmmaker, xxx, xxxiii, 3–6, 9, 11–15, EduTV, 350 19–23, 25, 28, 53–56, 64, 67, 133, Enhanced cinema, 340 147, 149, 152, 158, 160, 169, 175, EnhanceTV Direct, 350 179, 187, 195–197, 199–202, 204, Ephemerality, 336, 345 212–214, 222, 232, 235–237, 240, Epistemology, 118 243, 245–248, 251–254, 257, 259, Western, 75 276, 277, 298, 315, 323–328, 347, Ethics, 170, 177, 233, 234 350, 351, 355, 358, 390–398, 404, Ethnographic exoticism, 326 406, 448, 468 Ethnography, 6, 245n2 student, 51, 52, 55, 59 Ethnolandscape, 330 Filmmaking, 3–6, 12–15, 29, 34, 36, 59, European art cinema, 328 77, 117, 118, 120, 121, 172, 196, European co-productions, 108, 282 198, 201, 211, 213, 217, 218, 229, Evaluation phase, 243 244–247, 260, 267, 327–332, Event Cinema, 337–339 347–361, 390, 391, 406, 409, 411, Everybody’s Gone to the Rapture, 344 437, 449, 460 Exhibition, xxxi–xxxiii, 14, 195, 217, process, 3–15, 214, 226, 246, 257–259, 263n1, 266, 267, 257–268, 277, 397 335–345, 347, 348, 350, 356, Filmmaking Research Network (FRN), 364–366, 373, 376, 390–398 347, 351, 355, 357 Experience economy, 336 The Five Obstructions, 409–410 Experiential film, 335 Flâneur, 118 Free-to-air television, 349 Fuata, Brian, 363, 366–368, 372, 373 F Funding, xxix, 55, 89, 91, 93, 98, 108, Facebook, 98, 124, 126, 308, 313, 348, 146, 147, 166, 167, 169–173, 175, 359, 360, 389, 392, 446 176, 179, 181–186, 189, 195, 198, Factualization, 297, 301, 303 201, 232, 250, 323n2, 324, Fairfax Media, 355 326–328, 328n3, 355, 356, 464, Fan fiction,see User-generated content 469 Feature film(s) Irréversible, 131 The Maltese Falcon, 411–413 G The Piano, 131 Gaelic-language, 19 Snowtown, 131 Games, 36, 43, 58, 88–99, 95n2, 122, Travelling Light, 169 123, 125, 153, 214, 295, 344, 345, Under the Skin, 131 368, 380, 410, 429, 446, 450, 451, Feature filmmaker,see Filmmaker 470 Female-centred, 6 Gender, 34, 111, 203, 217, 288, 331 Festival audience(s), 324, 325, 328, 331, Gender performances, 331 332 Genre, 5, 19–21, 29, 50, 55, 63, 65, 66, Festival fund, 323–332 68, 72, 103–105, 108–109, 114, Festivals, 57, 170, 179, 182, 217, 244, 125, 145, 282, 293, 295, 297, 302, 323–332, 342, 350–352, 360, 390 337, 339, 360, 379–381, 387, 412, web series, 186 418, 436, 466 Fictionalization, 300, 301 documentary, 214, 295, 453 INDEX 477

Geo-located, 379 382–385, 387, 390, 391, 417, 420, German television, 297 451, 456 Global South, 323n2, 324, 325, Interactive, xxix, 6, 87, 89, 91–99, 327–329, 331, 332 183, 339, 341, 344, 368, 380, Google Play Store, 380, 381 382, 386, 390, 395, 397, 420, 433, Granular media forms, 390 435, 443, 446, 447, 450–453, Granularity, 393–395 455 Interactive narrative, 87, 88, 93, 99 Interdisciplinary, 5, 33, 37, 104, 197, H 259, 344, 345, 356 Haptic visuality, 132–134, 136, 141, 142 International co-production, 281–291 Heidegger, Martin, 117 Intersex, 209, 210, 212, 213, 215 Higher education, xxx, xxxi, 33–36, 39, Interview, 363, 367 42, 44, 357, 403–413, 444 Intimacy, 79, 171, 173, 175, 178, 179, Hollywood, xxx, 50, 82n2, 157, 159, 211, 247, 266, 377, 381 272, 281, 282, 342, 347–349, Intimate personal screens, 379 357–360, 428 Intuition, 11, 12, 146, 151, 154, 247, Houdini, Harry, 262 363, 373 Hubert Bals Fund (HBF), 323–328, Intuitive, see Intuition 328n3, 332 Iteration, 11, 91, 92, 99, 195, 198, 200, Hulu, 348, 360 201, 367, 396, 397, 444, 451, 455, Human-created content, 274 456, 464 iTunes, 49, 348, 359

I Ibermedia, 328, 328n3 J Icelandic Television, 281, 283, 286 Jancic, Biljana, 363, 369–371, 373 Immersion, 40, 95, 96, 99, 162–166, Japanese aesthetics, 80, 81 224, 289, 341, 345, 379, 380, 382, Jenkins, Henry, 88, 91, 93, 215, 231, 386, 387, 449 233, 307, 308, 354 Immersive, 85, 88, 90, 93, 98, 196, 221, 222, 224–226, 229, 230, 257–268, 336, 340, 341, 372, 373, 379, 443, K 444, 446–448, 450, 453, 455, 456 Kanopy, 350, 351, 357, 358 Immersive experience, 93–94, 99, 257, Karen app, 380–386 258, 264, 267, 448 Key moments, 134, 136, 137, 151, 233, Immersive soundtrack, 224, 230 261, 447–449, 451–455 Indigenous community, 201 K-film, 393, 394, 396–398 Lower Murray Nungas Club, 201, 202 Korsakow, 390, 393, 395–398 Innovation, 33, 34, 36, 37, 172, 196, Kuleshov, 382, 386 199, 201, 211, 270, 335–345, Kureishi, Hanif, 404–406, 413 347–361, 403, 404, 411, 428, 432, 469 Instagram, 98, 124, 126, 359, 389–398 L Installation, xxxii, 109–111, 175, 257, Landscape, 22, 25, 27, 29, 89, 99, 314, 351, 363–366, 368–373, 438, 104, 111, 112, 114, 117, 121, 124, 448 127, 161, 164, 185, 189, 213, 250, Interaction, xxxi, 9, 90, 93–96, 212–214, 282, 286, 330, 331, 347, 349, 217, 232, 240, 293, 295, 299–301, 352–355, 357, 360, 303, 341, 345, 368, 376, 377, 377, 422, 437, 443, 445 478 INDEX

Language, 19–29, 50, 63, 65, 67, 68, Media and communication, 417, 419 72, 73, 76, 132, 134, 135, 137, Media art, 124, 125, 375, 387, 404, 142, 146, 149, 152, 198, 199, 434–436, 453 244–246, 249, 253, 254, 259, 261, Media degree, 415, 416, 419–424, 269, 285, 371, 372, 375, 376, 382, 435 405, 445, 468 Media studies, 270, 276, 338, 417, 418, Gaelic (see Gaelic-language) 423, 424, 438 Leitch, Andrew, 450 Mesiti, Angelica, 363, 372, 373 Live action, 83, 221, 226, 259, 260, Methodology, 5, 6, 8, 34, 92, 118, 119, 262, 271, 272, 276, 339, 341, 344, 125, 126, 158, 198, 204, 244, 273, 446, 447 444, 451, 452, 455 Live cinema Microsoft, 88, 359 broadcast, 335, 337–339, 342, 344, Miller, George Bures, 375, 379–380, 345 383, 386 exhibition, xxxiii, 335, 339–342, 344, Mise-en-scène, 167, 276, 412 345 Mitchell, Katie, 343, 344 paradox, 335–345 Mobile production, 335, 342–344 device(s), xxxiii, 77, 79, 91, 356, 359, Live hosting packages, 337 375–377, 380, 382, 383, 386, Live scores, 340, 341 391 Local content producers (LCP), media, 104, 117, 118, 120, 121, 127, 193–205 376, 377, 379, 382–387, 391, Locations, 25–27, 50, 52, 53, 55, 56, 394 59, 63, 65, 67, 68, 70, 75, 84, 90, media art, 117–119, 387 95, 103–115, 166, 167, 198, 222, phone(s), 79, 339, 377, 378, 380, 431 225, 247, 259, 260, 270, 276, 283, screens, 375–379, 383 287, 295, 297, 298, 311, 316, 331, Mode of address, 324, 328, 332, 377 339, 341, 354, 371, 373, 379, 380, Moving image artworks, 364, 366, 368, 382, 385–387, 392, 408, 409, 411, 372, 373 412, 417, 428, 455, 463, 466 Multiplatform, 89, 95, 118, 187 Location studies, 103–108, 114, 115 Multi-platform screen productions, 87 Locative, 104–106, 109, 111, 123–125, Multi-platform storytelling, 87, 92 375, 377, 379, 380, 382, 383 Murch, Walter, 244, 342 Logic of lulz, the, 393–395, 398 My One Demand, 339 Long takes, 124, 329–331 Lost in London, 339 Love in the Post: From Plato to Derrida, N 351 Narrative, xxix, xxxiv, 297, 299–301, 303, 308, 326, 329, 331, 332, 336, 339, 341, 344, 378, 379, 382, 383, M 393, 395, 418, 428, 430, 443–457, Magic realism, 386 461 The Malady of Death, 344 Narrative structure, 14, 176, 178, 254, Marketing, 21, 35, 89, 91, 110, 183, 294, 296, 298, 393 187–189, 306, 336, 338, 340, 341, National Digital Learning Resources 345, 416, 418, 433 Network, 349 Materiality, 79, 83, 117, 126, 127, 134, National Theatre (NT), 337 225, 375–387 Neon Bull, 323–332 Maya, 112, 261 Netflix, xxix, 36, 49, 183, 348, 357, 359, McCurley, Vincent, 449, 450 360, 427, 429 INDEX 479

Network, 34, 87, 185, 186, 203, 204, Post-production, 5, 51, 91, 186, 202, 288, 343, 344 217, 222, 226, 229, 250, 260, 263, Networked television, 43, 339, 349 264, 269–279, 283–288, 290, The New York Times, 355 316–317, 371–373, 409, 429, 443 Nichols, Bill, 19–22, 29, 171, 175, Power relations, 127, 203, 231, 233, 231–233, 325, 421n3 240 NoirScapes, 354–356 Practice, xxiv, 3, 21, 33, 53, 61, 81, 107, Non-representational theory, 118–120, 117, 132, 145, 157, 179, 194, 126 207–209, 221, 232, 243, 258, 274, Nordic Noir, 103, 104, 106, 283, 285, 298, 321, 327, 340, 348, 364, 376, 290 390, 401, 412, 415, 427, 433, 445, Notes on Blindness, 447, 451 459, 489 NT Live, 337, 344 Practice as research, 6, 142 Practice based research, xxxii, 6, 7, 118, 119, 127, 352, 355 O Practitioner based enquiry, 6 Observational filmmaking, 243 Praxis, 9, 10 Off-screen, 75–85, 104, 106, 107, Principal photography, 259–260 112–114, 225, 229, 270 Principal production, 269, 270, 273, factors, 104, 106, 107, 112–114 275–279 Online Printing, 270, 341 distribution, 348, 352, 353, 357, 359 3D, 79 video, 355, 359 Producer, xxxi, xxxiii, 12, 13, 15, 21–23, On-screen, 104, 106, 109–112, 224, 28, 29, 35, 44, 88–92, 95, 97, 98, 225, 228, 253, 272, 339, 343, 112, 113, 169–172, 176, 178, 179, 344 181–189, 193–205, 210, 244, 248, feature, 104, 106 274, 281, 282, 284, 294, 296, 298, Ontology, 83–85, 104 308, 315, 316, 328n3, 336, 347, Opera studies, 338 349, 350, 352, 358, 372, 386, 423, Orchids: My Intersex Adventure, 209, 429, 430, 432, 433, 436, 450, 461, 210, 351 463–465, 468 Production documentary, 12, 13, 19, 21 P process-oriented, 196 Panoramic, 372 product-oriented, 196 Participation, xxxiii, 45, 92, 183, 194, sites of, 107 195, 197–200, 233–240, 336, 341, studies, 103, 106, 114, 232, 234, 270, 345, 356, 368 433, 463 Participatory, 193–205, 233, 239, 336, Production crew, 115, 298, 343 340, 341, 344, 393, 434, 436 Production design, 52, 53, 59, 108, 110, Participatory cinema, 340, 341 112, 113, 343, 371 Pedagogy Production processes, 8, 28, 29, 36, 88, screen and media, 415–424, 436 112, 193, 216, 226, 229, 238, 245, studio-based, 415–424, 436 257, 271–276, 278, 279, 281, 295, Performance style, 382, 383, 409 297–302, 316, 343, 390, 393 Personalisation, 381 scripted reality, 293–304 Phenomenological, 77, 133 Production team, 14, 209, 215, 259, Photographs, 6, 9, 28, 117, 122, 127, 341 148–153, 198, 200, 202, 214, Production techniques, 303, 343, 383 259–260, 272, 275, 365, 370, 409, Promotion, 354 410 Promotional, 182, 340–342, 345 480 INDEX

Protagonist(s), 7, 38, 64, 68, 70, 95, research, 5–6, 239 153, 173, 179, 259, 294, 299–301, teaching, xxxiii, 403–413, 434, 436 303, 329, 378, 416 Screen production industry, 33, 278, 428, 431–433 Screen production process, 269, 270, Q 273, 274, 277, 278, 398 Queensland Parliament House:The Screenrights, 350 People’s House, 353–355 Screenworks, 351 Screenwriter, xxx, 142, 163, 165, 167 screenwriters, 3, 6, 7, 13–15, 33–39, R 41–45, 61, 62, 67, 68, 72, 73, Realism, 68, 72, 82n2, 261, 266, 328, 89, 92, 153, 183, 184, 281, 283, 330, 394 460, 461, 470, 471 Realist style, 328 screenwriters framework, 61, 66 Reality television/reality TV screenwriter’s voice, 61, 62, 66, 73 Berlin–Tag & Nacht, 293 Screenwriting, xxxiv, 3, 4, 6–7, 13–15, Köln 50667, 293 33–39, 41–44, 59, 61, 62, 66–68, mieten, kaufen, wohnen, 293, 294, 72, 73, 87, 89, 132, 134, 142, 151, 296–301, 303, 304 153, 154, 157–160, 162, 167, scripted, 293–304, 359, 430 183–185, 281, 283, 326, 413, 423, Reception studies, 338 435, 459–471 Reflective practice, 6, 8, 12, 132, 445 practice (see practice) Renov, Michael, 25, 29, 145, 146, 151, Screenwriting Research Network, 153 216 Script, xxxi, xxxiii, xxxiv, 6, 7, 50, 57, 91, Representation of poverty, 330 92, 127, 129, 131, 132, 134, 135, Re-recording mixer, 221, 222, 224, 229 137, 142, 147, 149, 150, 154, 157, Research-based filmmaking, 347–361 158, 160, 161, 164–167, 169–176, Research film, 350–357, 360, 361 179, 183–186, 258, 263, 266, Research-led, 33 283–285, 289, 290, 296–301, 303, Revenue, 35, 89, 90, 337, 349, 350, 314, 325, 402, 411, 450, 459–471 358, 359, 430 documentary, 171 Rough cut(s), 11, 150, 244, 250, 254, Script development 390 definitions, 157 RVK Studios, 281–283, 285, 290 documentary, 172, 175, 462, 469 effective processes, 465–467 goals, 463–465 S teaching, 467–470 Sawyer, Keith, 3, 4, 8 Scripted reality, 293–304 Scheduling, 162, 263, 286, 287, 294, faction, 294, 297, 300, 302 297, 348, 380, 383–385, 418, 466 Secret Cinema, 341, 342, 342n2 Screen Australia, 89–91, 158, 159, 169, Self-distribution, 347, 350–352 170, 172–174, 181, 186, 187, 189, Short film, xxx, 49–59, 91, 142, 189, 349, 351, 359, 427, 430 354, 356, 409, 420, 432 Signature Documentary Fund, 169 categories, 54–58, 324, 326 Screenplay, xxxii, xxxiii Showrunner, 284, 285 feature film, 131–143, 147, 167, 407 Sightlines Screen production, 275, 278, 305, 356, festival, 351 372, 376, 389, 393, 395, 398, journal, 351 403–413, 422, 427–429, 431, 432 6x9, 447, 454 INDEX 481

Smartphone, 117–127, 354, 376, 377, Summer of live, 336 380, 381, 389–398, 429, 430 Systems view of creative practice, see cameras, 117, 118, 124 Creative practices Snapchat, 389 Sneaky Experience, 342 Social media T platforms, xxxiii, 89, 353, 359, 361, Tacit, see Tacit knowledge 393, 394, 397, 453 Tacit knowledge, 12 video, 359 Technical production, 174, 274 Social networks, 119, 288, 390, 398 Television, 12, 20, 22, 36, 43, 49, 77, Sonic palette, 264 89, 91, 103–106, 108, 109, 112, Sound 114, 115, 172, 176, 182, 186, 187, design, 133, 222, 228, 257, 258, 189, 238, 239, 281–283, 287–290, 262–267, 270, 274, 371, 412 293–295, 298, 305, 306, 336, 339, designer, 221, 222, 224, 229, 250, 343, 344, 347–349, 351, 355, 258, 262–267, 372 358–360, 368, 394, 419, 420, editor, 221, 222, 224, 229, 263 422, 429, 430, 434–436, 460, 461, effects, 58, 134, 222, 225, 226, 229, 463 230, 343 drama production, 103–115 recordist, 24, 343 Television series supervisor, 221 Arvingerne/The Legacy, 103, 108–114 Soundtrack, 52, 53, 57, 59, 127, Bleak, 186–188 221–230, 270, 283, 301, 377, 410, Broadchurch, 283, 285 453 Bron/The Bridge, 104–107, 282, 283 Spatiality, xxxiv, 106, 275, 364, 367, Downton Abbey, 109 443–457 1864, 108, 114 Spatial relationships, 449–450, 452–455 Get Krack!n, 186 Special effects (SFX), 269–273, 278, Hævnen/In a Better World, 114 343, 409 Homecoming Queens, 189 Spectating, 4, 9 Homeland, 105 Spectatorship, 213, 216, 373 Tjockare än vatten/Thicker Than theories, 132 Water, 109 Staging, 293–295, 300, 303, 343 Trapped (Ófærð), 281–291 parasocial interactions, 299 Ved stillebækken/Quiet Waters, 109 Storyworld, 63, 65, 66, 68, 72, 87–99 Theatre studies, 338 Streamed, 336, 339, 344 360-degree, 443, 446–450, 452–454 Streaming, xxix, 49, 103, 181, 182, 335, video, 443, 446–447, 453 348, 349, 355, 357, 359, 360, 389 Threshold concepts, 444–450, 452, 456 Students, xxx–xxxiv, 12, 34–37, 39, 42, Tosca, 339 44, 49–53, 55, 56, 59, 96, 98, 182, Tourism, 104, 108, 114, 326 244, 253, 253n4, 254, 357, 371, screen tourism, 107, 114 381, 405–407, 410–413, 416, Training, 33, 34, 36, 37, 39–40, 42, 43, 418–424, 421n3, 422n6, 430–438, 81, 91, 171, 173, 175, 202, 323, 443–457, 459, 461, 463, 464, 466, 407, 417, 418, 422, 423, 433, 460, 468, 470 461, 467–470 Studio-based pedagogy, 415, 416, Transmedia, 87–93, 193, 197, 215, 307, 419–421 308, 314, 317, 433 Subjectivity, 20, 21, 28, 83, 145, 146, Transmedia projects, 89 213, 445 Big Stories, Small Towns, 193–205 Sullivan, G., 118 Trollish/trolls, 215, 389–398 Sullivan, L., 307 Twitter, 127, 313, 359, 389 482 INDEX

U Wayfaring, 117–127 University, xxxi, xxxii, 37, 49, 57, 147, digital, 118, 120–127 350, 351, 355–357, 360, 404–406, Web series, 432 409, 410, 413, 415–418, 422n6, High Maintenance, 188 427, 428, 431, 433–438, 444, 459, The Katering Show, 187–189 460, 463, 468 Leftovers, 189 User experience, 89, 93–95, 99, 433, low budget, independent, 182 450–452 Method, 185 testing, 87, 88, 93, 94 Wells, Paul, 76 User-generated content, 87–99, 360 Western expectations, 324, 328 User testing, 87–99, 451 White cube, 364–367, 370–373 UX design, 93 Wireframe, 89, 90, 92, 93, 451–455 Workflow, 202, 259, 261–264, 267, 271, 276–278, 293 V Writer/director, 57, 281 Value creation phase, 243, 245, 253 Writers, 7, 12, 14, 35–38, 40–45, 50, 51, van Gelder, Pia, 363, 368, 369, 373 57, 58, 61–73, 87, 92, 109, 112, Venice Film Festival, 327, 330 134, 159–163, 165, 167, 173n1, Vice Media, 355 181–189, 274, 282, 284, 405–408, Video art, 363, 368, 369 413, 432, 436, 459–470 Video artists, 363 screenwriters, 3, 6, 7, 13–15, 33–39, Video-on-demand (VOD), 183, 349, 41–45, 61, 62, 67, 68, 72, 73, 351 89, 92, 142, 149, 163, 165, 167, Vimeo, 149, 188, 351 183, 184, 281, 283, 460, 461, Virtual reality (VR), xxxiv, 88, 89, 225, 470, 471 443–457 Writers’ room, 284, 289, 459, 463 Visual effects (VFX), xxxiii, 108, 226, 257, 258, 260, 269, 271–278, 434, 437 Y Visualisation, 80, 134, 452–455 Yahoo, 359, 360, 430 Voice-over, 19, 22, 25, 28, 317, 390, YouTube, xxx, 50, 88, 93, 142, 181, 395–397 186, 187, 308, 309, 348–351, 359, VR Noir, 447, 452 360, 429, 430, 432

W Z Wallworth, Lynette, 448, 452 Zambia, 244, 246, 247, 253, 254, 352