Picture: Generally good quality…
Audio: Failed, M&E track not fully filled…
Most of us that work in post-production know what an M&E track is. But for those who don’t, here is a brief lesson in Post Production 101. The sound in a movie contains three discreet elements of audio: Dialogue, Music and Sound Effects. Everything you hear in a film comes from those three combined parts. When the Dialogue is dropped out, you are left with the Music and Effects track. This is used when someone wants to place foreign language dubbed dialogue in the film for viewing in another language. This only works correctly when the M&E (Music and Effects tracks combined) is fully filled with all of the sound effects needed to make the show sound normal. Every door slam, footstep and shuffle of papers on a desk. Where would society be without the sound of Indy’s bullwhip, the hair ripping out of a 40-year-old virgin’s chest or the seductive zipper on Angelina Jolie’s bustiere? If any of these effects are missing, the M&E track is not fully filled. The film’s technical quality will be rejected like undercooked pork tenderloin when a diligent Quality Control operator sits in a dark room scrutinizing the show frame by frame. And, according to some mysterious arbiter of all things acceptably viewable on your television somewhere in the world, society will crumble into chaos and anarchy. Simple, right?
So, M&E is the background noise that takes place under the talking. It is what fills the void behind everything we are watching and paying attention to. If it is done well, you usually don’t notice it. But if the M&E were not there, or if it were not fully filled, the overall impact would be that there is something very seriously wrong with this picture.
So it is in life.
Take a moment to think of M&E as the background of your life, the things that go on behind all the talk and chatter and ranting. Think of M&E as the ambience that gives our lives flavor, character and depth. Strip out all the voices in your head and the verbal ballyhoo around you, and simply listen to what is left. Is it fully filled?
I remember the day I decided to go to film school. I was sitting in my truck on a hill somewhere in Glendale overlooking the valley and drinking beer with some friends. This was our favorite pastime back then; and yes, it is a miracle that I eventually found a woman who would marry me. I am pretty sure we were listening to the soundtrack of a John Hughes’ movie on the cassette player, killing my battery once again. John Hughes’ films of the mid 1980’s captured exactly what my generation was feeling right then, somehow making you feel like that movie was made just for you (The Breakfast Club, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, Sixteen Candles… Pretty in Pink). And the music became the backdrop of our lives. So sitting on that hill, I had an epiphany (yes, epiphany) that changed the course of my life. Music is what makes movie reality different from our living reality and wouldn’t it be great if we all walked around with our own theme music or score playing in the background of our daily rituals. John Williams and the Boston Pops following you everywhere, playing music that fit each moment perfectly. You are standing in line at Starbuck’s choosing between a Caffé Vanilla Frappuccino® Light Blended with soy milk and a Half Caf Cinnamon Dolce Crème, and just when you choose the Frappuccino® and the barista hollers the order in, your string section blares with a triumphant chord and the audience knows you’ve won this battle…until next time. That is what separates movies from reality, I thought. Music! I know what you are wondering. And I will tell you. I was drinking Olde English 800.
5 years later I had a degree in film production from the illustrious CSUN film school. I spent the next 6 months unemployed and wondering why no one offered to give me money to make the film I had not yet written, my own Sex, lies and Videotape indie blockbuster. I have a FILM DEGREE for crying out loud! It was another 6 months as a gopher lackey to a so-called producer born and bred in Beverly Hills with a Cartiere platinum and diamond encrusted spoon in her mouth before I started doing anything meaningful with my education. From there I began my career as a servicing manager, and my long education in the world of post-production was underway. That script still isn’t written, but I’ve stopped wondering why no one is knocking down my door to give me money.
I have often wanted to ask people, what would the music behind their daily life be? Classical, Rap, R&B… Calypso? Be careful. Whatever you say hints greatly at how you perceive yourself. Think about it.
Music is obvious. It is easy to think of music in the background of your life. It can be a powerful accent to everything we do, heightening or taming our emotions, adding a sense of poignancy to the events of the day. But if music is the constant structure on which we ride throughout life, effects are the beats, the spice, the sizzle, the nut. Effects are those elements without which life would have no value or interest. Effects are the noises that add texture and substance to everything we do. They are things that give you peace and fulfillment; what you do when you are not behind a computer screen, making a dub, designing a DVD menu, generating a revenue report or trying to fake a laugh at yet another of your client’s off-color jokes over cocktails when you would rather be home with the kids playing Go Fish and wiping Ritz cracker crumbs off your shirt …I digress.
Effects can be anything: books, writing, poetry, painting, riding your bike, cooking, fishing, hiking, playing Xbox, traveling, horseback riding, motorcycle riding, teaching high school kids how to play the drums, paint ball wars, swing dancing, gardening, protesting the Iraq war on a street corner in Atwater Village and trying to get cars to honk in support... the little things that make you you.
I am a book guy. I love learning, love reading, love exploring life, religion, philosophy and the arts. Give me the Bible or poetry by Pablo Neruda, Of Human Bondage or The Sacred Art of Japanese Bondage, the Tao Te Ching, The Tao of Pooh… The Te of Piglet, and I am a happy guy. Get me in the kitchen on a Saturday afternoon, tri-tip roast, a rack of spices and a bottle of fine Napa cab, and you won’t find a more contented man.
For most of us, if our lives were put through a 2 pass, 4 channel master QC, we’d fail. We’d fail not because we don’t work hard and try to put the best picture out there for the world to see. We would fail QC for the smaller things. We’d fail QC because our M&E tracks are not fully filled. We’d fail QC because we didn’t spend enough time listening to the music, reading that book, playing with our kids, molding another ashtray out of clay or standing up for what is just and right and good in this world.
Let’s be honest. Our industry is all illusions. From the make-believe script to the actors pretending they are really saving the world to the flickering light on the screen that makes us believe those images are really moving and talking. All illusions. Perhaps the greatest illusion in our industry is the illusion of importance that is given to the products we turn out. Executives have tirades when something goes wrong and that hysteria trickles down through the ranks until every person along the way knows that during that one scene of “Hannah Montana” her skin tone in that one 5 second shot was just a little too red.
But for those of us in this industry, they are our illusions. It is what we do. We take pride in them as the glass blower does a new vase or the carpenter his cabinets. We make the illusions just a little bit better, doing our job as best we can. They are what motivate us through our daily tasks, and most importantly, what pays our bills. Just don’t forget that it isn’t real. What is real is the M&E.
Enjoy the music. You are free and able to fill your life fully with amazing effects that will make you smile and laugh and cry. Go on. Get outta here. Seriously. Go.
© 2008 Patrick Caneday
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Ice Cream Sodas & Buttermilk Donuts
“Grace like rain falling down on me,” the song goes. And yes, sometimes it is like that. But, being clueless and thickheaded (common side effects of being a man), most often God’s method of choice with me is “grace like a baseball thrown at the back of my head.” Case in point, my almost 100-year-old grandmother. She’s been slowly withering away in the full-time care unit of a convalescent home for a few years now.
I got a message from my mother recently. The head nurse at the home had contacted her. Grandma was losing weight and getting weaker. My mother said she never expected her to last out the year.
Virtually every time my mother has called in the last few years, I have searched the tone of her voice in her first words. The moment she says “hello,” I try to detect whether the next words will be, “honey, your grandmother passed away this morning.” Every time.
So, I did something that I have rarely done on my own as an adult. I went to visit my Gammy.
She is in the Alzheimer’s unit, a locked-down cellblock that prevents the incarcerated from wandering out into the wide-open world of their dementia. I have often wondered whether there is a dual purpose to the security door, whether this was more for their security or ours.
There she sat in her chair, watching a TV she could not see, her eyes cloudy with glaucoma. The nurses obviously turn the TV on so the image of this blind, frail, old woman alone in her room is not quite so depressing. Somehow the flickering lights and sounds made the scene artificially less heartbreaking. An infomercial about home mortgages was on; chatty energetic snake oil sellers trying to convince you how easy it is to consolidate your debt, improve your credit score and pave the way to financial stability. I am sure this was of deep interest to Gammy.
I knelt down in front of her and took her hand gently. I came in close to her ear and screamed, “Hi Grandma! It’s Pat!” She hardly moved, and then mumbled something I took to be a form of greeting. She sounded confused. Her gaze seemed to try to outline my image like a silhouette. Perhaps all she saw was light and dark, and this is how she looked at people now. I hoped she saw light.
Her eyes drifted back to the TV, then not really at it but above it, to the corner of the room. I wondered what it was that she really saw, what images played behind those gray eyes; what show or memory or fantasy was playing on that screen she was watching.
I sat on the couch beside her chair, up close, and simply held her hand. I tried to think of something to say, some casual conversation to make. Weather, kids, work, Lindsay Lohan’s latest brush with the law. But the situation did not seem to call for such serious subjects. Instead of idle words, nothing came to my mind. I did not feel like saying anything. So, that is what I did, and she seemed agreeable to that.
I held her hand then gently patted her back, feeling the bones just beneath her skin. This seemed to please her. As I rubbed, her body seemed to wilt in the chair, as happens when someone unexpectedly massages your shoulders after a long, hard day. I simply felt like touching her.
And as I held her and touched her, a recent sermon came to my mind. I feel so embarrassingly Christian when that happens. I picture Jesus and my pastor high-fiving each other, seeing that something finally sunk in. It is a frustrating feeling for someone that hates to admit when others are right. Just one of my many flaws.
We were exhorted to “comfort the fainthearted, uphold the weak.” Comfort, meaning to “come alongside,” and uphold meaning to physically touch. Such simple instructions, such powerful repercussions.
We sat in silence and I looked into her eyes searching for something, for someone. I wanted to see that person I used to know. What I saw were ice cream sodas and buttermilk donuts.
In my early teens I spent many a Friday night with my grandmother. We got into the habit of going out on Friday nights, usually to a coffee shop for an early-bird dinner and then a movie. After the movie she would take me to an ice cream shop for a soda. She taught me how to order an ice cream soda properly. Chocolate syrup first, then the seltzer water, then one scoop each of vanilla and chocolate ice cream, and a little more seltzer. This made for the perfect combination of chocolate, vanilla, carbonation and sweetness. We sat in the parlor and enjoyed this treat in the mutual silence of pure enjoyment.
I would often stay the night at her apartment. It had a spectacular view overlooking the city. In the morning, we would get buttermilk donuts. To a kid who loves sweets, the buttermilk donut is not the most attractive of pastries. But, I trusted my Gammy’s advise on this topic, and have never regretted it.
In hindsight this all seems quite odd: a 14-year-old kid hanging out with his grandmother on a Friday night. And perhaps it was. But at the time I did not think about it as anything but fun. Peer pressure would soon take me away to hang out with friends. But for these nights, it was just me and my Gammy. Even then I felt such a simple joy in having her to myself. It made me feel special.
I see my mother doing this with my children now, and my nieces and nephews. I wonder if she took this lesson from her mother, or whether this is just some natural desire within us; something that crosses generations, a spiritual tug to connect uniquely with your children’s children. Perhaps it is a way to establish a foundation for this younger generation, to give them solid memories of gracious love from which to call upon in the future. Whatever it is, it is good.
In our family my grandmother will always be remembered as a bit of a surly curmudgeon. She was a cranky and feisty old lady, not someone who will be remembered for her warmth and gregariousness. That legacy of being a loving and tender person will be my mother’s, her daughter. It is odd, or perhaps not, that it turned out this way.
And certainly I saw the testy side of my grandmother also, her acerbic comments, scowling attitude, a general outlook of bitterness upon the world. But, sitting there trying to think of a single example of her crankiness, I could not. When I think of her now, all I think of are those special moments, sodas and donuts. In my time alone with her I saw the witty, darkly humorous side. Her churlish qualities belied and enhanced her more kindly traits. Imagine an old crone, wrinkled skin, bloodshot eyes, menacing, coming towards you, getting in close to your face as if to scold you, only to burst into a crooked smile and tickle you. That is what I saw. I loved that old crone, for I knew it was just a façade.
She had small, thick hands. Those chubby little stubs for fingers were like a vise grip though. No one was able to tickle your knee like she was. Sitting next to her, she would send me into violent fits of laughter with just a squeeze.
And now, I hold that once strong hand and am afraid to squeeze it too hard. This fragile, emaciated body is dying. The skin drapes loosely over her skeleton, her eyes are sunken into her skull, thin wispy gray hair, yellowing fingernails. She was never a large person, but she was never this small. Sitting alongside her, I was struck with the overpowering feeling of how sacred and holy it is to be close to those so near the end. It made me wonder, why?
My faith is not in jeopardy here. Faith must endure tests, and I think God likes us to ask the hard questions. So I do wonder why this happens. Why does the end of life have to come to this? Why would a loving God allow his children to suffer such a state? For certainly, to be in such a condition of dementia or catatonia, to be so removed from the physical world and the loved ones around you is to suffer. Right?
I continued to hold her hand, to stare at her. I studied her face, her frame, her hair. I saw signs of my mother in there. Yes, there in the mouth and a little in the nose and forehead, I see her. I began to feel so sorry for her, the woman in this body, in this chair, in this room, in this facility. I held her hand and did something else I don’t do often enough. I began to pray for her. I asked God to welcome her into his kingdom and to greet her warmly into his arms. I prayed that she would be reunited with my grandfather, the center of her life until he died more than 30 years ago. Had she her way, she probably would have gone with him back then. Maybe that is why she was so bitter: she missed her bus 30 years ago.
I prayed for her and kissed her hand. This too she seemed to like. I stood to leave and kissed her cheeks and her forehead. In a quiet voice I told her that I loved her. She turned her gaze to me, and there I saw it. There, somewhere deep in the wrinkles of her paper-thin skin, was that old crone smile. That smile said to me more than a thousand words. My Gammy was in there, somewhere, smiling. She faintly mumbled something indiscernible that sounded like “you too.” Or maybe it was “Yankee doodle.” Either way, it made me feel special again.
I wondered if this would be the last time I would see her alive. Then, I let go of her hand and left her room.
As I walked down the hall, I felt Jesus and my pastor following me, geeky and excited, just waiting for the ball to hit me in the back of the head. Instead, I accidentally set off the alarm when I opened the security door. The siren blared.
As I waited for an attendant to come help me, I felt vulnerable, scared and exposed. Not to mention embarrassed. Something in me wanted to go back down the hall and hold my Gammy’s hand again, to feel safe.
Smack.
Perhaps God puts these people, in this condition, in our lives to comfort and uphold us, those that are still so vested in this flesh. They are not fainthearted and weak. We are.
(Since I wrote this over a year ago, my Gammy is still with us. Though she is on hospice care, she eats more and is stronger than she has been in years.)
© Patrick Caneday 2008
I got a message from my mother recently. The head nurse at the home had contacted her. Grandma was losing weight and getting weaker. My mother said she never expected her to last out the year.
Virtually every time my mother has called in the last few years, I have searched the tone of her voice in her first words. The moment she says “hello,” I try to detect whether the next words will be, “honey, your grandmother passed away this morning.” Every time.
So, I did something that I have rarely done on my own as an adult. I went to visit my Gammy.
She is in the Alzheimer’s unit, a locked-down cellblock that prevents the incarcerated from wandering out into the wide-open world of their dementia. I have often wondered whether there is a dual purpose to the security door, whether this was more for their security or ours.
There she sat in her chair, watching a TV she could not see, her eyes cloudy with glaucoma. The nurses obviously turn the TV on so the image of this blind, frail, old woman alone in her room is not quite so depressing. Somehow the flickering lights and sounds made the scene artificially less heartbreaking. An infomercial about home mortgages was on; chatty energetic snake oil sellers trying to convince you how easy it is to consolidate your debt, improve your credit score and pave the way to financial stability. I am sure this was of deep interest to Gammy.
I knelt down in front of her and took her hand gently. I came in close to her ear and screamed, “Hi Grandma! It’s Pat!” She hardly moved, and then mumbled something I took to be a form of greeting. She sounded confused. Her gaze seemed to try to outline my image like a silhouette. Perhaps all she saw was light and dark, and this is how she looked at people now. I hoped she saw light.
Her eyes drifted back to the TV, then not really at it but above it, to the corner of the room. I wondered what it was that she really saw, what images played behind those gray eyes; what show or memory or fantasy was playing on that screen she was watching.
I sat on the couch beside her chair, up close, and simply held her hand. I tried to think of something to say, some casual conversation to make. Weather, kids, work, Lindsay Lohan’s latest brush with the law. But the situation did not seem to call for such serious subjects. Instead of idle words, nothing came to my mind. I did not feel like saying anything. So, that is what I did, and she seemed agreeable to that.
I held her hand then gently patted her back, feeling the bones just beneath her skin. This seemed to please her. As I rubbed, her body seemed to wilt in the chair, as happens when someone unexpectedly massages your shoulders after a long, hard day. I simply felt like touching her.
And as I held her and touched her, a recent sermon came to my mind. I feel so embarrassingly Christian when that happens. I picture Jesus and my pastor high-fiving each other, seeing that something finally sunk in. It is a frustrating feeling for someone that hates to admit when others are right. Just one of my many flaws.
We were exhorted to “comfort the fainthearted, uphold the weak.” Comfort, meaning to “come alongside,” and uphold meaning to physically touch. Such simple instructions, such powerful repercussions.
We sat in silence and I looked into her eyes searching for something, for someone. I wanted to see that person I used to know. What I saw were ice cream sodas and buttermilk donuts.
In my early teens I spent many a Friday night with my grandmother. We got into the habit of going out on Friday nights, usually to a coffee shop for an early-bird dinner and then a movie. After the movie she would take me to an ice cream shop for a soda. She taught me how to order an ice cream soda properly. Chocolate syrup first, then the seltzer water, then one scoop each of vanilla and chocolate ice cream, and a little more seltzer. This made for the perfect combination of chocolate, vanilla, carbonation and sweetness. We sat in the parlor and enjoyed this treat in the mutual silence of pure enjoyment.
I would often stay the night at her apartment. It had a spectacular view overlooking the city. In the morning, we would get buttermilk donuts. To a kid who loves sweets, the buttermilk donut is not the most attractive of pastries. But, I trusted my Gammy’s advise on this topic, and have never regretted it.
In hindsight this all seems quite odd: a 14-year-old kid hanging out with his grandmother on a Friday night. And perhaps it was. But at the time I did not think about it as anything but fun. Peer pressure would soon take me away to hang out with friends. But for these nights, it was just me and my Gammy. Even then I felt such a simple joy in having her to myself. It made me feel special.
I see my mother doing this with my children now, and my nieces and nephews. I wonder if she took this lesson from her mother, or whether this is just some natural desire within us; something that crosses generations, a spiritual tug to connect uniquely with your children’s children. Perhaps it is a way to establish a foundation for this younger generation, to give them solid memories of gracious love from which to call upon in the future. Whatever it is, it is good.
In our family my grandmother will always be remembered as a bit of a surly curmudgeon. She was a cranky and feisty old lady, not someone who will be remembered for her warmth and gregariousness. That legacy of being a loving and tender person will be my mother’s, her daughter. It is odd, or perhaps not, that it turned out this way.
And certainly I saw the testy side of my grandmother also, her acerbic comments, scowling attitude, a general outlook of bitterness upon the world. But, sitting there trying to think of a single example of her crankiness, I could not. When I think of her now, all I think of are those special moments, sodas and donuts. In my time alone with her I saw the witty, darkly humorous side. Her churlish qualities belied and enhanced her more kindly traits. Imagine an old crone, wrinkled skin, bloodshot eyes, menacing, coming towards you, getting in close to your face as if to scold you, only to burst into a crooked smile and tickle you. That is what I saw. I loved that old crone, for I knew it was just a façade.
She had small, thick hands. Those chubby little stubs for fingers were like a vise grip though. No one was able to tickle your knee like she was. Sitting next to her, she would send me into violent fits of laughter with just a squeeze.
And now, I hold that once strong hand and am afraid to squeeze it too hard. This fragile, emaciated body is dying. The skin drapes loosely over her skeleton, her eyes are sunken into her skull, thin wispy gray hair, yellowing fingernails. She was never a large person, but she was never this small. Sitting alongside her, I was struck with the overpowering feeling of how sacred and holy it is to be close to those so near the end. It made me wonder, why?
My faith is not in jeopardy here. Faith must endure tests, and I think God likes us to ask the hard questions. So I do wonder why this happens. Why does the end of life have to come to this? Why would a loving God allow his children to suffer such a state? For certainly, to be in such a condition of dementia or catatonia, to be so removed from the physical world and the loved ones around you is to suffer. Right?
I continued to hold her hand, to stare at her. I studied her face, her frame, her hair. I saw signs of my mother in there. Yes, there in the mouth and a little in the nose and forehead, I see her. I began to feel so sorry for her, the woman in this body, in this chair, in this room, in this facility. I held her hand and did something else I don’t do often enough. I began to pray for her. I asked God to welcome her into his kingdom and to greet her warmly into his arms. I prayed that she would be reunited with my grandfather, the center of her life until he died more than 30 years ago. Had she her way, she probably would have gone with him back then. Maybe that is why she was so bitter: she missed her bus 30 years ago.
I prayed for her and kissed her hand. This too she seemed to like. I stood to leave and kissed her cheeks and her forehead. In a quiet voice I told her that I loved her. She turned her gaze to me, and there I saw it. There, somewhere deep in the wrinkles of her paper-thin skin, was that old crone smile. That smile said to me more than a thousand words. My Gammy was in there, somewhere, smiling. She faintly mumbled something indiscernible that sounded like “you too.” Or maybe it was “Yankee doodle.” Either way, it made me feel special again.
I wondered if this would be the last time I would see her alive. Then, I let go of her hand and left her room.
As I walked down the hall, I felt Jesus and my pastor following me, geeky and excited, just waiting for the ball to hit me in the back of the head. Instead, I accidentally set off the alarm when I opened the security door. The siren blared.
As I waited for an attendant to come help me, I felt vulnerable, scared and exposed. Not to mention embarrassed. Something in me wanted to go back down the hall and hold my Gammy’s hand again, to feel safe.
Smack.
Perhaps God puts these people, in this condition, in our lives to comfort and uphold us, those that are still so vested in this flesh. They are not fainthearted and weak. We are.
(Since I wrote this over a year ago, my Gammy is still with us. Though she is on hospice care, she eats more and is stronger than she has been in years.)
© Patrick Caneday 2008
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