– Renée Robinson – 13/2/97
Lights, camera, action!
The thought of appearing on national television for even a millisecond is enough to excite most of us. Our response is automatic because, like the rest of the world’s population, we’ve been conditioned to believe that the television industry is all glitz and glamour. So when the speakers at a romance writing workshop I attended last week told their listeners that a television crew would be filming us the following day, a ripple of excitement spread across the room. Us? On national TV?
The next day I discovered that the ripple of excitement was apprehension for many people; namely those who had skipped work to attend. The room divided into two sectors: those who wanted to appear on television or were indifferent, and those who under no circumstances wanted their faces splashed across the country (even for a millisecond).
I no longer believe in real life television. I lost track of the amount of times the room was rearranged to become more viewer friendly, and everybody had gone to special pains to appear more presentable than the previous two days. None so much as the ‘star’ of the documentary, Gary McCormick.
The speakers, Daphne Clair and Robyn Donald, were hooked up to microphones, and when the boom operator and cameramen arrived on the scene, our little workshop turned into an all-out production. Discreet? I’m convinced that TV crews don’t know the meaning of the word. With Gary sitting behind me, one cameraman was almost perched on my lap to get the most flattering angle of the journalist. The little I could see of the speakers was soon blocked by a second cameraman standing in front of them. The audience soon realised that the crew didn’t have their best interests or angles at heart, so they resigned themselves to moving.
At least I could hear the lecturers, I consoled myself, as they launched into the final workshop covering climax and resolution for the fictional characters. What was a little neck-craning for the sake of television? I should have realised that journalists are not just somewhere to be seen, they must also be heard.
Obviously Gary had never read a romance book in his life, but his preconceived ideas did provide entertainment for the rest of us. He seemed particularly concerned about the appearance of the heroes in the books, wondering if perhaps Fabio look-a-likes didn’t prepare women for the reality of your average or “follicly challenged” (his words) man. When the speakers assured Gary that women were in fact intelligent enough to differentiate between fantasy and reality, he still seemed sceptical. Perhaps he didn’t realise that he was speaking to two of New Zealand’s biggest selling authors, in any genre. Maybe if Gary heard that the term ‘rakish’ is generally applied to heroes with receding hairlines, he might be somewhat placated.
When he launched into a diatribe about the influence of romance books on impressionable minds, one female member of the audience had had enough. She kindly asked Gary to shut up and save his arguments until after the workshop; “some of us are here to listen and learn”. He took this with the grace of a gentleman worthy of a romance book – or did he simply know when he was outnumbered? Either way, he knew good journalism when he saw it and approached the same lady after the lecture to hear her rather vocal opinions of his conduct.
Despite my first contact with a television crew, I will be tuning into their channel, if only to catch a glimpse of a familiar ear or hand.
