Louie, Take a Look at This!

by Luis Fuerte

  Indeed he was rethinking the shot—rearranging or dismissing our previous plan, because he had gotten caught up in whatever new idea had just popped into his head. He’d change what he was going to do on the fly, and I’d get my camera and body ready to follow his moves, open to the possibilities, like a defensive back in a football game. He trusted me to adapt on the spot, and he knew I’d pick up his moves and cover him no matter what he did.

  On one particular shoot in the Bay Area, my ability to be reactive and go with the flow was put to the test. We were doing a show about the Japanese Tea Garden in San Francisco, and Huell was completely unpredictable. He just loved that place, and he was as excited as a kid in a candy factory and zoomed around like a kid would. We’d talk about and set up a shot, and I’d begin to shoot him with his interview subject. Suddenly he’d spot something out of the corner of his eye and say something like, “Oh, look at that bridge!” and I’d have to quickly pan to it so the audience could see it. He wasn’t giving me the usual slight head or foot movements that signaled a new direction; it was just arms and legs flying about and lunges at things that grabbed his attention. That’s how the shoot went all day—yet, the show came out looking pretty good. Talk about a miracle.

  If Huell was interviewing someone and decided to walk and talk with him or her, I’d go along, not questioning him or his actions because that’s how he wanted me to shoot the show. He had the freedom to do something spontaneous, whatever came into his head, and he trusted that I would follow him to capture it, and for the most part, I did. There were times, however, that I’d be totally off in anticipating a move—I’d assume he was going to start walking, for instance, when I saw his feet or his body move, but in fact he had no intention of moving at all. Of course, I would have already started moving the camera in the direction I thought he’d be going. So there I’d be with egg on my face and a shot that was completely unusable. I’d stop the action, apologize, and reset the shot, and then Huell would tell me exactly what he was going to do—or not do—and we’d get a good shot on the next try.

  Huell knew my goal was not only to get the right shot, but also to make him look good. I always checked the light, camera angle, background, and sound—everything that would frame him well, make him sound clear, and bring out the best in his look. He was the driver, the one who made the show and steered it, and the one who shared the unique, folksy personality that viewers loved so much. My job was to capture that, and I believe I did it well.

  Huell’s confidence in my preparation and technical ability allowed him the freedom to really get into telling the story. He didn’t have to worry about any of the technical aspects, because I covered them all. He was then better able to concentrate on getting the best out of an interview subject or singing the praises of a place that impressed him greatly.

  This mutual respect and open communication allowed me to sometimes pull Huell aside after we shot something and say, “Huell, what do you say we do this shot again, this other way?” I’d give him solid reasons that had nothing to do with technical or outside issues. Sure, we often had to stop shooting when we lost video or an airplane flew over or something else made a shot unusable, but in these cases, I’d be talking about a creative issue. I’d explain that, in my opinion, if we did it differently, the new shot would look better and make both him and the editor a heck of a lot happier when they were in the editing room. I’d explain how the story—his story—would flow more smoothly, and that aesthetically, it would look better on the screen. Huell would typically take me up on my suggestion, and we’d do another shot the way I’d suggested. I believe that deep down, he knew I’d parked my ego at the door and put the show first, and that I was truly focused on making him and the show look better. Most importantly, he knew that I looked at the show not only as the cameraman, but also as an editor who had the task of assembling the show.

  For the most part, wherever we went throughout California, it was just the two of us—Huell as the host and me as his technician. A few times, on big shoots, a member of his staff would come along to assist with logistics, but for ninety-nine percent of the shows, Huell and I were the only team members. That close relationship helped me be straightforward with him, and helped him be open to me when I had to ring the bell.

  LEARNING FROM EACH OTHER

  As we did our California’s Gold shoots, I studied Huell’s actions, his mannerisms, the way he moved, his way of talking, and how he got people to relax and get into what they really wanted to talk about—as easily as if he was an old friend hanging out in their kitchen, chatting over a cup of coffee. I marveled at his natural talent.

  Even though much of what Huell did made the shoots flow well, sometimes he’d unintentionally get in his own way. When we first started, for instance, he’d turn to the camera and say, “I like that, I really like that,” as soon as he finished an interview. He might have done that on our shoots for Videolog (I don’t remember), but because the shoots were so short and would be on the air for only a few minutes, it wouldn’t have been an issue. But now we were shooting half-hour shows, and the video needed to have continuity and points at which the editor could cut, to go from one angle to another or perhaps to get us into another scene. When Huell said, “I like that” immediately after an interview, it made it hard for the editor to cut properly.

  After a few shoots with him saying that (and me wincing every time), I finally put my camera down and walked toward Huell, gesturing for him to meet me halfway so his interviewee wouldn’t be in on the conversation. Gently, I said, “Huell, please, when you’re done with your interview, either walk away or just look at the camera and stop; just hold the mic and stop talking while I roll the camera. I’ll know when to stop shooting. If you do that, you’ll give your editor an edit point so he can use as much of the tape as he thinks looks good before he cuts to the next shot. Otherwise, you’re going to drive him crazy, and he’s going to want to kill me for letting you get away with it—and, I tell you, that won’t work for me.” He listened and took my advice well, understanding that I was only trying to make him and the show look better. He never again said how much he liked the shot. It doesn’t take much to make me happy.

  Something else we developed that worked well for us was setting up good lighting. Early on I told him, “Huell, when I’m shooting and I start moving around, watch me out of the corner of your eye. If you see me moving it’s because I want you to move, so the lighting hits you properly.” So if he was in the middle of an interview and saw me moving, maybe circling him a bit, he’d start subtly moving the person around to adjust for the best light, without breaking the flow of the interview at all. We got very good at it—the interviewees had no idea.

  The next time you see a California’s Gold interview with me working the camera, just watch his eyes and see how we both move. I kind of liken it to a classical music performance in which the musicians are playing the music on their stands while also watching the conductor’s moves, keeping to his tempo, seeing where he’s placing his attention, and reacting to him to keep the music moving in concert.

  Huell was ever the showman, and he knew he was a celebrity up and down California. Whenever there was a crowd, even just two or three people, Huell was on. I’d fall back and leave him to the adulation of his fans, and he loved the attention. But there was one situation that came up on a five-day shoot in Yosemite when his celebrity status got to him and pushed him over the top.

  I was setting up my lighting and camera equipment for a shoot inside the majestic Ahwahnee Hotel. Huell and I were talking about what he wanted when a crowd of people walked in and spotted him. They rushed over, shouting, “Huell, Huell, Huell!” As they gathered around him, someone asked what we were doing, and he said we were setting up for an interview. Then, out of the blue, he turned and waved his hand around the big room and with great authority said, “Louie, put a light over here and another over there, and we’ll set up the interview right over here.” I really think he expected me
to follow through with a “Yessir, right away, sir!” and put those lights here and there to his specifications. But I didn’t. I was hot under the collar.

  I walked over, took him by his elbow, and urged him away from the crowd. When we were out of earshot I said firmly, “Huell, you don’t tell me to put a light here and put a light there. I know you got carried away putting on a show for your fans, but you don’t tell me what to do with the lighting. I know how to light correctly. And if you think you do have to give me instructions on lighting, tell me what kind of lighting you want. Character lighting, soft lights, hard lights—whatever you want, I’ll set it up.”

  Huell appeared to think hard about my little speech, about the many possibilities involved in lighting the interview for best effect. Then he looked at me out of the corner of his eye, clicked his tongue in his cheek, and said sheepishly, “Oh, Louie, just do whatever you want.” I said, “Thank you very much, sir,” and he went back to his fans while I set up the lights as close as I could to the spots he had pointed to. I had my responsibilities. But he never again told me how to light a set. We really did learn from each other as we grew into the series, and as we both got better at our craft, it all came together to create the look and feel of California’s Gold that you all know.

  As you’ve seen so many times in the programs, Huell possessed remarkable storytelling abilities, and he had an innate talent for pulling a great story from whomever he was interviewing. We always discussed the story we were going to shoot and what he was looking for as we traveled to our destination, and most of time I had a pretty good handle on what he wanted before we started shooting. But really, the stories were mostly in his head.

  After we’d worked on several shows together, I realized that he was steering and constructing stories as we shot, and then filling in any blanks he thought were needed to make the stories work. That takes a special talent. Think of it—he’s interviewing someone he doesn’t know, has never seen before, and he’s not very familiar with the story they’re going to tell. And yet, on an instinctive level he knew what he wanted in his head, and most of the time he got the story moving exactly where he wanted it to go.

  That doesn’t mean he wasn’t open to discoveries and new directions. If he chanced upon something that seemed to be more interesting than his original concept, we’d go there instead. The things he found interesting were the things he believed his audience would enjoy, and indeed they did. He always had his viewers in mind as we worked, and by observing him, I learned so much about how to build a story. He showed me that all good stories, no matter how long or how short, have a beginning, middle, and end. They follow a sequence as they build and then reconcile themselves in the end. I don’t know if Huell ever really had to think about those things as he told his stories—he was just a marvelous natural storyteller, so the elements fell into place beautifully.

  Huell taught me the art of storytelling, and that made me a better cameraman. He showed me that a story must have a hook at the beginning, something to grab your initial interest, and then deliver that promise as it unfolds. His intro at the top of each show created the interest both visually and verbally by laying out what you were going to experience, and from him, I learned how to build the story from that beginning.

  KEEPING IT PROFESSIONAL

  My relationship with Huell was completely professional. We didn’t socialize outside of work, and we pretty much set that pattern up from the moment we started working together.

  Huell was gregarious—he loved to be around people and schmooze, and after a shoot he’d often meet up for a drink with people who’d been in the show we were shooting. He liked to party—that was his nature, to be with people, talk with them, and have a good time.

  I, on the other hand, am more quiet and reserved, and I wasn’t accustomed to all the attention that came about during our shoots. Perhaps those differences helped make the show work so well—we didn’t have the competing egos that might have harmed the shows as a result of a clash of personalities. It may very well be true that opposites attract, because our personalities and talents dovetailed so well.

  After the first few shoots, we ate together at the end of the day, enjoying a meal and talking about the day’s work and what we were going to do the next day if it was a multi-day shoot. When we finished work, we’d go to our hotel to clean up, and he’d call me in my room and say, “Louie, I’ll be down in ten minutes and we’ll go eat somewhere.” Well, ten minutes would turn into a half hour or an hour. I gave him some rope, but eventually I realized that this wasn’t going to work. I finally said, “Look, once we’re done shooting, why don’t we go our separate ways? I can clean the gear and get set up for the next day, get something to eat, and keep track of my expenses, and you can do what you want.” I knew that while I was waiting for him to be ready to eat dinner, he was working on the show, talking with people on the phone or in person, but I needed to eat and then have time to unload my equipment, label tapes, clean my camera, and prep the gear for the next day’s shooting. So for the rest of our time working together, we’d say a friendly goodbye after a good day’s work and go our separate ways for dinner.

  We were completely dependent on the batteries in the field, so in the evenings I had to make sure they were fresh and fully recharged. I’d have a beer or two while I did my work, after which I’d shower, find a place to have dinner, go back to my room, call my wife to check in and see how things were going, and be in bed by nine o’clock. My routine sounds pretty dull and uneventful as I describe it now, but it worked well for me (and the show) because I’d be rested, prepped, and ready for the next day’s shooting.

  Once in a while, Huell would ask me to go to dinner or a meeting with people who were in the program we were shooting, usually to add my two cents about technical stuff, and of course I’d go and enjoy it. But after that I’d head back to my room and settle into my routine. Most of the time I didn’t know what Huell did after a shoot, or when he eventually went to bed, but a few times I could see that he hadn’t slept much.

  We didn’t talk much when we were on the road. We’d exchange pleasantries and then he’d tell me about the show, the location, and whatever else I might need to know about the upcoming shoot. Usually, I’d just ask questions of a technical nature and then silently run a mental inventory of the gear I’d brought to make sure I had the right stuff to shoot the show the way he envisioned it. Huell liked to drive and was usually at the wheel of the Ford Explorer, so after we got our business talk out of the way, I’d lean back in my seat, shut my eyes, and sleep until we arrived, or until it was time for a pit stop. Most of the time, whether Huell was driving or I was, we didn’t even listen to the radio. On occasion, Huell would listen to talk shows or classical music, but usually it was a quiet time so one of us could catch a nap.

  I got to know his moods and could tell when he was up or down, usually by his tone of voice, and I could always tell when he was preoccupied with something. Depending on what I could read from his manner, I’d either chat with him, or just lie back and keep my mouth shut until he started up a conversation.

  Whenever we traveled by air to get to our shoots, we’d fly on the same plane, but he’d sit up front and I’d be buried somewhere in the back with the big camera (which I did not let out of my sight), so, naturally, we didn’t really talk on the flight. I think he liked being up front, where he could entertain his fellow passengers.

  That was just the way it was. I was the technician and he was the star. The mutual respect we had for each other—and our respective positions—was the backbone of our relationship, and it allowed us to work so well together for so many years. My job was to make him look good and sound good, and I believe that from the technical side, the quality of my work matched his.

  Now, I’m not saying I was the best in my profession—in fact, I guarantee there were better cameramen than me. But something about the fit between the two of us, Huell and me, was just the right combination to make California’s
Gold a lasting and wonderful series.

  Early days shooting in front of the trusty Ford Explorer.

  HOW WE SHOT CALIFORNIA’S GOLD

  You should know that to make California’s Gold, we had neither scripts nor location scouts. Huell and I were the only members of the team, and we were the first ones to walk onto the shoot site every single time. We didn’t have a sheet that told us the best places to set up, or what shots were absolutely must-haves—we decided all that once we saw it for ourselves.

  What we did have were photos, brochures, and newspaper clippings, as well as names and telephone numbers of the people we were going to interview. So we knew the important things about the fair, or the mine, or the island we were visiting, and we knew the basics about why we were there. But beyond that, we didn’t know much, and we were typically hundreds of miles from home. Yet I never worried—I knew Huell could deliver on his end and we’d get a good show.

  When we’d arrive at the production site, we’d start by meeting with the people whom Huell was going to interview. He’d ask some questions based on the information he had in hand, but he did not pre-interview them. He liked to do things on the fly, making it up as we went along to keep the show spontaneous. Sometimes, while talking to the person he was supposed to interview on tape, someone more interesting would pop up, so we’d shoot that person instead—we were always flexible.

  After talking with the interviewees, we’d walk around the area looking for the best places to shoot, and then we’d sit down and plan the shooting script that would best show our viewers why Huell chose to feature the place. He wanted to make the stories so compelling and enchanting that you’d feel bad for the rest of your life if you didn’t go visit the place.