Questions 26～30
It was books that first captured my imagination about faraway places. TV travelogues always seemed the poor relation to the classic written accounts, although of course the pictures were rather better. And then there was the issue of authenticity. All those pretentious theatrical types dying of thirst in the desert, as if we didn’t realize there was a camera crew on hand to cater for their every need. These days programme-makers know that the audience is more sophisticated and the presence of the camera is acknowledged. But can a journey with filming equipment ever be anything other than a cleverly constructed fiction
I recently got the chance to find out, when I was asked to present two one-hour programmes for an adventure travel series. The project was the brainchild of the production company Trans-Atlantic Films, which wanted the series presented by writers and adventurers, as well as TV professionals. My sole qualification was as a journalist specialising in "adventure" travel. However, I was thought to have "on-screen" potential.
The first programme was filmed in Costa Rica. Within 24 hours of my arrival, I realized that this was going to be very different from my usual "one man and his laptop" expeditions. For a start, there were five of us—director, cameraman, sound recordist, producer and presenter. And then there was the small matter of ￡100,000 worth of equipment. I soon realized that the director, Peter Macpherson, was a vastly experienced adventure film-maker. In his case, the term "adventure" meant precisely that. "Made a film with X," he would say (normally a famous mountaineer or skier), before describing a death-defying sequence at the top of a glacier in Alaska or hand-gliding off the Angel Falls in Venezuela. Invariably, these reminiscences would end with the words: "Had a great deal of respect for X. Dead now, sadly... "
Part of the brief for the series was to put the presenter in unusual situations and see how he or she coped. One such sequence was the night we spent in the rainforest canopy near the National Park in Guanacaste province. I don’t have a head for heights and would make a poor rock-climber, so my distress is real enough as the camera catches me dangling on a rope some 30 metres up, well short of the canopy platform.
Ironically, it was the presence of the camera, looking down on me from above, that gave me the impetus for the final push to the top. By this time, I’d learnt how "sequences" were cut together and realized that one last effort was required. I had to struggle to stay coherent while the camera swooped within a few millimeters of my face for my reaction In the end, it was a magical experience, hightened all the more by the sounds of the forest—a family of howler monkeys in a nearby tree, amplified through the sound recordist’s headphones.
Learning how to establish a rapport with the camera is vital and it took me a while to think of it as a friend rather than a judge and jury. The most intimidating moments were when Peter strolled up to me, saying that the light would only be right for another 10 minutes, and that he needed a "link" from one sequence to another. The brief was simple. It needed to be 30 seconds long, sum up my feelings, be informative, well-structured and, most important of all, riveting to watch "Ready to go in about five minutes" he would say breezily.
What does the writer say about the last part of the sequence in the National Park ______
A. It taught him a lot about the technical aspects of film-making.
B. He was encouraged to complete it when he looked up at the camera.
C. It changed his whole attitude towards doing dangerous things.
D. He was unable to say anything that made sense at this time.
