Novelists don’t write alone. The unconscious does the heavy lifting. While conscious, many writers can be like stenographers with a flair for editing.
What we say about ourselves consciously in the life writing or self histories has always to be viewed sceptically. An insight that seemed to me profound hearing it many, many years ago: it’s not what we put in diaries that counts. It’s what we leave out.
Does the unsaid in life writing count for more than the said? Some people are remarkably honest about themselves, but would I consciously leave out things in any life writing? Yes.
Autobiography is too self-aggrandizing. Fiction is more fun to do. Fiction frees up writers to find and tell truths he/she wouldn’t admit to when writing about themselves.
1979, while Safa, my best boss ever, and Noushi were packing up to leave Hong Kong I was busy writing letters to find new work. I had received one offer from NBC’s American office manager in their Hong Kong office. He had seen my work. NBC meant to me prestige, but assembling footage shot by someone else seemed a backward step.
I received a reply to my letter to Radio Television Hong Kong and went out to meet Stuart W., a former UK Nationwide daily editor. He heard me out and liked my experience. I got the job and became the director/producer of a Monday night ten minute aired film for a program called, Here in Hong Kong.
I was over the moon. After meeting an affable freedom-giving executive producer, Chris H., I felt at home. The choice of a film each week was mine, well mostly.
I soon found subjects, some better than others. Most of my early films were reasonable, some quite good. One on an opaque (at least to me) Chinese festival was absolutely awful. Making a ten-minute film every week was a treadmill but I learnt very fast, that as researcher, writer, director and director of my own program I had little room for error. Choice of subject was crucial. Monday and Tuesday initially I would be setting up a film, Wednesday, Thursday I was out filming and if I were lucky Friday after film stock processing I would begin editing the film. Mostly Saturday I was editing, often Sunday, me in an editing cubicle with a film editor, then Monday morning, I would take the film for telecine transfer for the Monday night program at 6.45pm. It was never easy.
To put this in an international television producing perspective, BBC’s Newsnight, Panorama or even Nationwide would assign a researcher and a producer to a subject for three months. Late in the process a director and reporter would come on board. Meanwhile, I did everything alone all inside a week. BBC’s programs were longer, maybe a full hour, which I later did as well, but I never had a luxury of three months – maximum, three weeks.
Ten minutes a week when you are everybody – producer, writer, director, reporter, interviewer side can be hard. Of course, the key is to find a subject in a single location and do it all in one day. I wasn’t so good at that. And I wasn’t a trained reporter. I made films and to do that for me who prized the visuals above all else it meant multiple locations.
Occasionally though I had no say in what I was doing. One such project involved Chinese refugees pouring across border. The Hong Kong Government wanted to tell the world what was happening. With Stuart writing the test to my film, I was sent with my film crew to meet a Colonel in a British army barracks near the Chinese border. During the afternoon we filmed general parade ground organisation, then after dinner with the men in command, including a very affable Colonel of Gurka regiment, we went out to the border.
My crew and I, our job was to document this all at night if we found refugees climbing the wire fence into Hong Kong New Territories, the land that adjoined China. We had one go at this. We sat nervously in the pitch-black night in a gully yards from the fence, where the soldiers said was a major crossing point, watching the motionless Gurkha with his nightscope. Except for the Colonel snoring, we had heard nothing. He was woken when we a spotter began raising finger after finger. A few seconds afterwards we were told to go!
The film crew was brilliant, camera shots sharp as portable lights lit up the night. We filmed of a terrified group of young Chinese, sixteen to mid-twenties, in traditional dark-blue Mao era outfits after having just climbed the wire.
The images of their startled faces that night are etched into my brain. One of two apparently held the fence to an iron pole as they had climbed silently up and down. The fence was at least twenty feet high. Stuart W. wrote the piece and Visnews sent the night’s film of ‘the capture’ around the world. It was my second international news coup.
Swimanög 