by Luis Fuerte
Boy Scout days.
Boot camp was a breeze for me, because I already knew all the stuff that the drill instructors were trying to cram into our hard, teenage heads. I did my tour of duty on a destroyer as a radarscope jockey, looking for planes and ships that could endanger our ship, and I’m happy to say I didn’t spot a single hostile invader. It was just my luck that I was stationed in Hawaii—I mean, someone had to do it.
After two years, I left the Navy and enrolled at San Bernardino Valley College with the idea of becoming an electrical engineer. I also worked part-time at the nearby Lockheed plant to supplement my G.I. Bill benefits.
Has something ever come into your life out of the blue? Something that changed your life’s direction and propelled you into unimagined opportunities—and you didn’t have a speck of an idea about what it might be or when it would happen?
Well, that’s exactly what happened to me.
I was on campus between classes with a friend who worked at the college television station. She said she’d like to take me on a tour to see the technical operations that went on behind television productions. We went into the studio, and I saw several television cameras parked across the floor.
In the Navy.
I walked up to one and stood behind it, and from the very moment I touched it, I knew this was what I really wanted to do—I fell instantly in love with the camera. I wasted no time and changed my major to television engineering, learning each and every thing I could about the camera and the other engineering positions.
After college, I worked full-time at the Lockheed plant to pay for my schooling and to get the first-class licenses that were required in those days to do engineering work at radio and television stations. I got married in 1967, and in 1969, my daughter, Felicia, was born. My son, Michael, was born in 1974, and then I knew I had to head to LA to get a better-paying job.
Getting my first job in television was tough. For a year and a half, I made phone calls and drove all over Los Angeles and Hollywood for interviews. I got turned down or, even worse, heard what I thought were sincere, encouraging words that didn’t result in a single callback.
Back then, getting a job in television had a lot to do with family relationships. There were a lot of father-son teams and uncles getting their nephews into the industry. (Yes, it was very male then.) But finally I got a call from a friend who worked as a cameraman at KCOP-TV (Channel 13) in Los Angeles. He said they needed a cameraman immediately, and he’d back me up with his boss. So I went over, got interviewed, and was hired on the spot. I probably wouldn’t have heard about the job if my friend hadn’t been there for me. Do I feel guilty that someone on the inside helped me? Not on your life. I look at it as a chance meeting with opportunity. Besides, we weren’t related. The year was 1969, and my thirty- five-year career in television had begun.
Luis in the early television days.
In those days, KCOP was doing a lot of programs on location that we shot out of a wildly colored van, crammed to the roof with all kinds of gear. Guys from other stations would see us coming and they’d shout, “Here comes the circus truck!”
We shot boxing at the Olympic Auditorium and should have gotten hazardous-duty pay for doing camera work there. At the end of matches that featured a popular local boxer, we’d pay close attention to the ring announcer’s reading of the fight scorecards. If the crowd favorite came out on the short end, we’d have to duck behind our cameras to avoid getting hit by flying objects. One thing’s for sure: There was never a dull moment at the Olympic.
We also televised the Los Angeles Thunderbirds roller derby, which was memorable—not to mention fun. There was lots of action as guys and gals elbowed one another and sometimes tossed one another over the rail and into the audience. I learned how to move the camera on close-up action, with the skaters coming at my camera, and then following them as they sped away on the rink—all the while staying in focus on the skaters.
We also shot live commercials with Cal Worthington, the famous car salesman who would come onto the set riding a camel, or perhaps a long-horned bull. He’d look into the camera and, with a straight face, tell the viewers very seriously that he’d like them to meet his dog, Spot. You’d never know what he’d come in with, and sometimes, the animals he brought were truly quite frightening. He’d tug in a tiger or a bear on a chain, and it would raise the hair on the back of my neck.
After three years at KCOP, I got into KABC (Channel 7) as a tape operator setting up videotapes for the programs. I quickly found out that I’d probably be stuck doing that same task for a long, long time before there was any chance to move up and become a cameraman. I didn’t like the situation, but I had a family, and it was a job in television, so I did it.
But then, only a few days after I was hired, I got a call from KCET (Channel 28, LA’s public TV station) asking if I was available. I’d nearly forgotten that I had applied to work there. I almost bit my tongue saying, “Yes, yes, I’m available.” I quit KABC, and the next day I started working at KCET—the station that eventually would become Huell Howser’s home base. The year was 1972. I didn’t know it at the time, but my life was about to change in ways I never could have imagined.
The KCET campus in Los Feliz (photo by D. Converse).
KCET’S GOLDEN AGE OF TELEVISION
I arrived at KCET at the beginning of its golden age of television production. I was lucky enough to have the opportunity to not only hone my craft but also to participate in creating some of the most innovative programs of the time. We all felt the excitement of being a part of the grand experiment.
Management at KCET wasn’t afraid to experiment with productions, and they encouraged producers and writers to create shows that the commercial stations either wouldn’t or couldn’t touch. Hollywood Television Theater fit that description to a tee.
The Broadway and stage shows that comprised Hollywood Television Theater were often edgy and sometimes controversial, but they were always interesting to watch. I think that’s what attracted a lot of great actors who wanted to work in television but also wanted to do something different. We were lucky that most of the talent was already working in Hollywood, so we had access to such remarkable actors as Keir Dullea and Richard Chamberlain. We shot a controversial show called Steambath, with Bill Bixby and Valerie Perrine, in which she briefly appeared nude. The towel she wore kept slipping off until some brain came up with the idea to duct-tape it to her body—much to the disappointment of the engineers.
KCET also produced Carl Sagan’s Cosmos, which featured a futuristic spaceship designed by art director John Retsek, and Steve Allen’s Meeting of Minds, in which actors playing historical figures discussed and debated ideas and events. Allen’s wife, Jayne Meadows, appeared as Marie Antoinette and Marie Curie, among many other historical characters.
We also shot a ton of remote productions that were unique to both KCET and to the television landscape at that time. From LA’s Dorothy Chandler Pavilion one Sunday afternoon, we celebrated the arrival of Italy’s Carlo Maria Giulini (the new conductor and music director of the Los Angeles Philharmonic) with a live broadcast of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. Taylor Hackford, who later directed the blockbuster movie An Officer and a Gentleman, shot a marvelous opening segment in which the soft-spoken Maestro Giulini was introduced to his orchestra and began rehearsing. Those of us in the crew even wore tuxedos so we’d fit in with the crowd, and I think we looked pretty spiffy.
The Greek Theater in Griffith Park was one of our favorite places to shoot. It was a small venue with an intimate feel, and I think that came across on camera. Of the many programs we shot there, two of the most memorable were the Gipsy Kings and a marvelous retrospective of Agnes de Mille’s innovative dance creations.
But KCET’S golden age might not have happened if it hadn’t been a community-based station that got a little help from our union. Compared to the commercial stations, the technical staff was small, so the engineers’ union allowed KCET’s engin
eers to work in different jobs as needed on different productions—unlike commercial stations, which largely pigeonholed engineers into doing just one job. We could work lighting on one show, run camera on the next, and do other production jobs as they came up. This unique cross-training gave me opportunities to learn my favored craft as cameraman, but I also learned how to light both sets and people properly, and how to edit videotape and work sound. I was grateful for all of these learning opportunities, especially when doing camera work in the field, where I felt most comfortable and useful.
However, the learning at KCET wasn’t all positive; it did come with some pain now and then as I was coming up through the ranks. For example, there were a few times that I did something wrong, and I really heard about it. The blunder that stands out the most is when we shot one of my favorite operas, La Gioconda, at San Francisco’s famous opera house.
My camera sat high up in the balcony so I could get a full shot of the stage, and the audience was seated all around me. The great television director Kirk Browning led the shoot, and I was having a ball listening to him sing and hum along with the opera through the headphones. He sang me into the shots, setting me up and leading me to the next, following the beautiful music and voices as the opera unfolded. The act ended, the curtain closed, and I sat back from the camera, taking a break from the production. People came over to talk, curious about what I was doing. One man walked in the front of the camera and peered right into the lens. What I didn’t know was that my camera was still hot—meaning it was recording and its picture going out live on the air.
To make matters worse, I had taken off my headset and couldn’t hear the screaming and cursing in the control room ordering me to get that man’s face out of the camera. Let me tell you, I heard an earful about that, and I felt bad for a long, long time. That was what I like to call the lesson from hell, but from then on, I made sure my camera was secured.
That mistake did not get in the way of the show, however, and all the engineers (including me) received a national Emmy for our work. Whew! To this day, it’s sitting proudly on my fireplace mantel.
It was during this time that I started working on Videolog, which was the key for my eventual work on California’s Gold. Taped on location, the very short shows were shot by the host, a cameraman, and a sound man, who was tethered to the cameraman and had to both carry a tape recorder and hold the microphone on a boom. It was an awkward way to shoot, with the three of us dancing around, trying to get the job done while staying out of each other’s way. A big break came when an audio recorder was miniaturized and fitted into the camera, eliminating the sound man altogether and allowing for a more compact production unit. The team was now only two people: a host like Huell in front of the camera, and a cameraman like me behind it. It was the beginning of a new style of production that gave Huell the freedom to shoot all kinds of situations he couldn’t before, and I believe it opened up almost limitless possibilities for his creativity.
Working with Huell as a two-man team on Videolog allowed me to combine all the technical experience I’d gotten at KCET in camera work, lighting, sound, and editing. From the moment Huell asked me to be his cameraman on California’s Gold, I felt I was prepared to shoot for him, and would do a good job in recording the vision he had for the program. All of these disciplines came together with Huell’s original and inimitable style to create the look and feel of California’s Gold that so many love to this day.
NITA & THE GENESIS OF CALIFORNIA’S GOLD
Perhaps the most famous (and touching) Videolog story was from early 1989, a story we fondly referred to as “The Elephant Man.” The segment was about a frail, eighty-year-old gentleman named Charlie Franks, who had been an elephant trainer in the circus. One of the elephants he’d trained and worked with became his favorite. He had acquired her in 1955 when she was only five years old and named her Nita. He traveled and performed with Nita all over the world and treated her with great care, affection, and admiration.
After he retired, Charlie arranged for Nita to go to the San Diego Wild Animal Park. Huell found out about Nita, recognized a story when he heard one, and he thought the best way to shoot it was to ask Charlie to accompany him to the park and interview him there. Charlie had not seen Nita for fifteen years. We drove down to the park and set up our gear so Huell could interview Charlie just outside the elephant enclosure. Huell sat and talked with Charlie, asking him questions about his career as a trainer and his years with Nita.
Huell then asked Charlie if he thought Nita would recognize him after not having seen him for more than fifteen years. Charlie got up slowly and, using his cane, ambled over to the edge of the elephant enclosure. He paused and looked at Huell, and then he turned and called to a group of elephants some twenty-five yards away. In a playful voice, he said, “Nita, what are you doing out there? Nita, come here. Nita, you better get over here!” One of the elephants picked up its head, stepped back, and began looking around, searching for the source of the familiar voice. Charlie continued coaxing her to come over to him—even telling her he had a surprise for her—and at last, Nita left the herd and lumbered over. She stopped at the edge of the enclosure and extended her trunk. Charlie took it in his hand and caressed it, reassuring her that, indeed, it was he who had come to visit her after so much time apart. He fed her some jelly beans (one of her favorite treats, according to Charlie), and you could just see how fond these two were of each other. Their reunion touched me deeply, and I felt a lump in my throat as I ran the camera to capture this tender scene.
Huell, Charlie, and Nita.
Huell also wanted to know if Nita would remember the old circus routines, and I think Charlie was just as curious. So he took charge, as if he were in the center ring once again. He instructed Nita through her act, and she performed each and every trick. She had not forgotten her routine, nor had she forgotten the man who had taught her. Toward the end of the show Huell asked about their special relationship, and with damp eyes, Charlie said, “You get attached to them… you just don’t know when it happens.”
When Huell asked if he thought he’d ever see Nita again, Charlie said that this was the last time; he felt that he was in such poor health that he wouldn’t be able to make another trip. The emotional piece ended with Charlie saying his last goodbye to Nita. The gentle old man walked to the edge of the enclosure and, once again, reached his hand out to Nita. She extended her trunk and appeared to not just feel his hand, but to explore it for a while. As he walked away, she waved goodbye with her trunk. Charlie died less than a year later.
Looking back, I can only say that the story was told lovingly and with undeniable tenderness. It was hard to watch it unfold with dry eyes, and I believe that only Huell could have told it so well for television. It was at that shoot that I recognized his talent for reaching into people’s hearts so they’d tell their stories with joy, wonder, and, at times, sadness. His disarming friendliness and genuine interest in people, coupled with his talent for asking the right questions, were the keys to getting people to open up and talk. These qualities would result in the artful construction of his future shows, which made them more than just interesting—they were unforgettable. At this early Videolog shoot, I got an early look at how Huell was becoming a master storyteller.
Nita and Charlie’s emotional reunion captured on camera by Luis.
Although “The Elephant Man” was not a California’s Gold show, it still ranks as one of my favorite shoots with Huell. Not only did the video come out well, but Huell told the heartwarming story with great simplicity and care. He had captured a moment that could not be repeated, the final parting of two old friends. And I was proud to be a part of it.
Getting the Nita story had been a stroke of luck; my name just happened to come up on the schedule for that day, and the scheduler teamed me up with Huell and the sound man (at that time, we worked old-style, in three-person shoots). We ended up creating a memorable piece of television that continues to stand out as a
marker of how to tell a great story.
After that show, I worked with Huell many times on Videolog shoots, as did numerous other KCET staff cameramen. Beyond the professional relationship of producer and cameraman, we were easy and comfortable with each other, and we always had fun working together. Seeing Huell’s shoots next to my name on the schedule assignment made me happy because I knew we’d be doing something interesting—and I knew I could give him the footage he wanted.
About a year after “The Elephant Man” show, Huell and I were out on a two-man Videolog shoot. We had wrapped up and were headed back to the KCET studio. Huell was behind the wheel, where he liked to be, but he wasn’t talking much about the shoot like we usually did. He seemed preoccupied. Finally, he turned to me and said he was thinking about doing a new show. He had an idea of doing a program using a two-man crew, just a cameraman and himself, like we did on Videolog.
I recall tentatively saying, “Yeah…?” He said the hook was that he and the cameraman would travel throughout California, visiting interesting places, meeting interesting people, and getting into California history. That angle appealed to me, as I’m a bit of a history buff.
He envisioned the program as a series of thirteen half-hour shows annually, shot over a period of ten years. That seemed to me to be one heck of a schedule projection. But Huell already had ten years in his head, and when he put his mind to something, you just knew it was going to work out—talk about confidence and vision. I was already impressed with the way he produced his stories, and the project seemed to be a natural fit for him, so I said it sounded like a great idea. He said he’d begun to make presentations to get funding for the series, and he thought he had a good shot at getting the money.
Then he told me he’d talked to another cameraman at KHJ-TV about doing the show, but nothing had been finalized. I didn’t ask, but I assumed their deal had been put on hold because Huell didn’t have funding yet, and the show was going to air on a non-commercial station, so money might be tight. The cameraman would have to quit his job and take a chance on Huell’s idea becoming a success on public television.