Set Up, Stand Up...

Ahhh, the Solo Stand-Up. If you're not careful, they can be as painful to watch as they are to shoot. But Stephanie Stillwell has the process down cold. She should. Everyday the News 14 reporter goes it alone: shooting, writing, editing and FRONTING news stories from across the broadcast spectrum. It must get old. In fact, doing it ALL is a recipe for Burn-Out: that feckless feeling you get when the weight of one more assignment feels like more than you can bear. Yet Stephanie soldiers on - often with a better attitude than that wordy, furry photog she runs into so much. Hey, I may consider myself the King of Most Media, but at least I haven't got to cap off each grueling shoot with a star turn in front of the lens. Been there. Got the sweaty dress-shirt.

Perhaps that's why I have such mad love for all the one-(wo)man-bands out there. News crew purists will balk at that assertion; they'll claim the solo news-gatherer produces substandard work, that their pictures are less cinematic, their coverage less complete. Meh. You can't judge one journalist's output by the egregious sins of another. Neither can you convince me that someone willing to schlep hardware across the shifting landscape of news deserves to be there less than some overly-perfumed princess who tweets and primps and poses in the car while her photog slays the dragon of the day. Granted, Stephanie would welcome the help, but she's not letting her lack of a partner stop her from getting the job done and earning MY respect in the process. Guess I should tell her that one day...

Perhaps I just did.

Rick's Epiphany

Rick Portier is many things. Subtle ain't one of 'em. Instead, the Louisiana lenslinger is known for his vicious wit, bedevilling stare and glaring lack of fructose syrup. Which makes his latest findings all the more landmark, for a guy who calls himself Turdpolisher isn't about to rent his mouth out. I knew he'd had a change of heart recently over working solo. Now it seems he's wrapped his head around it as well and - like your humble author - concluded there is indeed a future for broadcast journalists as long as they're willing to work outside their comfort zone...

"TRAITOR"

There it was, big as day. A friendly comment on my Facebook status. To be sure, Alfonzo Beta meant it as a joke. Hell, the mustachioed video tape is known cut-up in the photog world, but he hit the conflict I've been feeling right on the head.

Ya see, when ABC sent lots of sore shoulders (and stackers) packing last month, it caused lots of other guys with a permanent half-wink to reconsider their lot in this business. Sure, we all saw the change on the horizon. In true photog fashion, we bitched and moaned, and did little to stem the tide of change, but the bean-counters and their new BFF, Satan Rosenblum, would not be deterred. The dawn of the new age in journalism is on us, and last week I -- gasp -- crossed over to the dark side.

Actually, it was more like three weeks ago. It started with a lot of soul searching. Okay, it started with a six-pack of Bud Light. But however I sliced it, there was no denying the fact that in the evolving landscape of this leaner business we all love to complain about, a talented photog can be king. The only thing stopping us is us.

Think about it. Who logically can make the seamless switch to one of Rosey's minions, and your penny-pinching Adult-in-the-Room's favorite, a fresh face from the halls of academia who's studied all about prepositional phrases, double negatives, and polished their telegenic grin, or a unshaven, scruffy-haired shooter who's learned the hard way when to ask the tough question and when to blend into the background? Sure, said bobble-head might look better doing it, but when the pictures from the point-and-shoot come back blue, out of focus, and over exposed, there ain't much that Avid can do to improve it.

Now if the same an experienced photog goes out, shoots the story, asks the questions, and can -- gasp again -- even write it as well or better than the starry-eyed intern, who's more valuable?

And who can make the transition to a one-stop-shop for all the Adult-in-the-Room's needs? The easy answer is the experienced photog. Simply because we already got two-and-a-half of the three parts to storytelling down cold. Any photog worth his salt is gonna bring back better pictures than a reporter pressed into shooter duty. Any shooter around long enough to develop his hundred-yard stare understands storytelling and all the tools at his disposal, and they already have an idea of how to write. Hell, I'd even argue that you can't shoot a story without being able to write it.

So we should be, hands-down the logical choice when it comes to transitioning the newsroom to the new, sleeker model. But as everybody with an electronic lump on their shoulder knows, newsrooms are anything but logical. Bean-counters would rather hand a pretty face a point-and-shoot babycam that Uncle Fred used to shoot his son's wedding than foist a photog on their precious viewers. So I decided it was time to move myself one step up the food chain. I've been doing my best Lenslinger for three weeks now. Sure, I'd rather it be nat packs for the B-block, but I've written a couple for the pretty boys to voice and made it into the A-block a time or two.

Last week when the face was late, my lack of vocal talent was pressed into service. It still ain't what I'd prefer to do, but I've got a feeling that as the business gets leaner, we'll all be doing whatever we gotta do to stay on top. In the land of the bean-counters, the guy with the most to offer usually keeps his job. Build a life raft with the talents you have. Where else are the suits gonna find a camera monkey that can shoot, edit, run every live truck, run the satellite truck, write and occasionally report the news?

Bash in Sight

I may be forced to watch the NCAA National Championship Game tonight, but in seven short days I'll be prowling the sausage party that is the B-Roll Bash. But I won't be alone, for Team Lenslinger has grown considerably. There's The Mighty Weave, Adam "I used to sleep in my news unit" Krolfifer, the artist occasionally known as Turdpolisher, the prodigal photog Brad Ingram, archivist extraordinaire Amanda Emily and the very kewell Kathy Newell. Once on-scene we're sure to chat up b-roll.net founder Kevin Johnson - along with a room of friendly pros and heavy hors d'oeuvres that makes the Harley-Davidson Cafe such a cocktail friendly environment.

But as fun as the bash may be, it's only part of the NAB experience and this year we here at Lenslinger Labs hope to bring more of it to you than ever before. Look for tweets, quick videos and a myriad of goofy photos to flood this page once we set foot on the convention floor. That's the plan anyway; things kinda get loopy in the rarefied air of indoor Vegas. Just know we'll do our best to document every turn of our journey, if for no other reason that it's kind of what we do. And if by some chance you find YOURSELF surfing the floor of the world's largest electronic media show, do get with. I'd feel awful if I didn't give you each and every one of you an opportunity to buy me a drink...

If It Pleases the Court...

As a standing rule, I'd rather watch the Slap-Chop guy's audition tape than endure too much college basketball. Call it a quirk, but I get littel joy from the roundball. Still, it IS religion down here, so I feign allegiance- lest I get Gillooly'd in some hallway scrum (worst place to get Gillooly'd). Which is why I'd yet to form an opinion on the NCAA Championship currently winding up - other than to embrace the 'underdogma' inherent in Butler's unlikely rise. That is until the station called. Now I'm pulling for those Nancy Boys at Duke thoroughly disembowel those scaborous Bulldogs, for reasons I'll detail in a minute. First though I'd like to share with you a favorite pastime of mine for matchups as big as this:

I call it Name That Photog!

Yes, few things annoy my teenage daughters more than my little version of Where's Waldo - a staggered round of Dad-like gestures in which I spend the entire game giving couch-side shout-outs to cameramen and sports shooters I recognize on the sidelines. Look - there's my buddy Bill Welch - all pleated pants and poker face as Coach Whats-His-Nuts soaks in the adulation of a sweat-shirted throng. Last time I saw Bill, he was picking his way through an ocean of broken lumber in a tornado-ravaged neighborhood. Or was it a sea of sixth graders at a middle school science fair? Tell, the truth they both had the same vibe... At any rate, I had no idea he was anywhere near Indianapolis, let alone on the edge of where so many sports fans would love to be. Ya know, Greg Pell is right - that Bill Welch fella has a real future in this business! I'll be sure to look for him during tonight's coverage - though for all I know the NCAA only allows logo'd robots to hover on the hardwood during such a sacredly commercial event. Still, a 'slinger can dream - which is why I'll keep my eyes peeled into the wee hours, for nothing makes me chuckle like catching a glimpse of a buddy scratching his ass in Hi-Def. Hey, we ALL got hobbies...

Oh and why am I pulling for that dark blue blight known as Duke? Simple, if the Blue Devils win, I roll out of bed early and head straight for a Rockingham County bunker - where dozens of hopped-up screen printers will be cranking out Duke Champ t-shirts by the pallet. There's easy tee-vee to be had in those piles of nylon, and perhaps a friendly biscuit for my troubles. If Duke loses, no t0-shirts will be made and I'll be forced to attend the morning editorial meeting - a tepid enough summit that could very likely end in my being dispatched to cover a urinal cake taste-test or some other such unpleasantry....

Go Duke.

Remembering Roy Hardee

Roy Hardee, a journalist who chronicled the news of eastern North Carolina for more than 50 years through words, pictures and film, died in his wife's arms Thursday. He was 79... From his early stint as a one-man news operation to his storied career managing newsrooms, Hardee was a local television pioneer who always called his shot. In the beginning, Roy photographed, filmed, wrote, edited and anchored countless newscasts. After a successful sojourn into print, he returned to his broadcasting roots as WNCT-TV News Director and helped launch a thousand careers. One notable protege is CBS Chief National Correspondent Byron Pitts - who remembers Roy fondly in his recent book Step Out On Nothing.

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If WNCT-TV was my college, then Roy Hardee was its Professor Emeritus. Legendary, gruff and unapologetically old school, he probably didn't think much of the new production punk with the goofy 'do. But then fate intervened in the form of an unlikely hostage stand-off and I found myself manning the lead camera on the Story of the Year. This apparently impressed Roy, for a few days later he whisked me into the General Manager's office and offered me a job I didn't yet know I was applying for.

"I'll hire you as a news photog, " he said with a huff, "IF you cut that hair."

The fact that I did proves how seriously I took his offer, and in making me get a haircut, Roy Hardee added to his already long list of accomplishments: He mercy-killed a very bad mullet.

From there, my training began - all of it on the clock. A photographer at heart with scanner codes embedded in his DNA, Roy encouraged my burgeoning spot news skills. He also insisted I 'act like I had some sense', a new found skill which enabled me to fill my new Rolodex with the phone numbers of cops, politicians and crackpots. I didn't know it then, but I was being taught by The Master - for Roy Hardee seemed to know everyone important (or notorious) in the state and they him. For the first few years of my career, I found his name alone could get me into places my camera couldn't. When after a few months of shooting for reporters filled me with an urge to try it myself, Roy flatly challenged me to prove I could do it. Then he put me On-Air, long before I had any business darkening local TV sets around dinner time. Though never one to shower his people with praise, I got the distinct feeling Roy liked me. Once he arranged for me and my lens to ride along on a CH-53 SuperStallion attack helicopter - then teased me all week that I'd have a great story IF I made back down alive. Well, I did and no one made a bigger deal over the footage I brought back than my suddenly avuncular boss. Looking back I realize it wasn't so much me; Roy just loved the art of the grab.

I was 22 and full of myself. He was pushing 60 and had documented more of life than I'd yet to experience. Still, he treated me with begrudging respect - especially as I proved news was in my blood as well. I can still picture him sidling up to me in the newsroom. He'd jam his hands in his pockets and jingle his change, grumble something under his breath, clear his throat and apply some more ChapStick. I learned to read his mood by the condition of that ever present black and white tube. Not that he ever got too upset. In fact, I remember being regularly dumbfounded by his implacable demeanor. My home phone would ring in the middle of the night and a dead calm voice would intone, "There's a bunch of folks trapped in a burning warehouse downtown. Need you to go check it out." If he told me Martians had landed on the Town Commons and were demanding to be interviewed, I'd head there without question - figuring the aliens were like everyone else in town - somehow indebted to Roy Hardee.

It should be noted that I eventually quit my job at WNCT. Angry that others were getting better shifts than me, I left Roy a pissy note one night and walked out never to return. It was a punk move and I sure did regret it the next day. But Roy never held it against me - even when I showed up on the competition's newscast a few months later. I didn't yet know that equity was hard to come by in a newsroom and that constantly working nights and weekends were the price of admission. Roy surely did, but he never used his considerable influence to punish me for my youthful insolence. When I caught up with him at an alumni luncheon a few years back we had a laugh and it felt good almost being his equal.

You know, chasing the news of the day - and catching it - was the first thing I was ever good at and Roy Hardee told me so. Of course, he never pulled me into his office and raved about my latest collection of close-ups and cliches. But he did keep his eye on me and subtly let me know whenever I managed to do something right. Early one one summer evening around nine o clock, the scanners erupted with talk of a small plane crash on the Wayne-Greene County line. Having grown up not very far from there, I knew the remote location well - so I grabbed reporter Amy Burkette and jumped into whatever white Chevy Blazer I'd finagled the keys for that day. To make a short journey even shorter, let's just say I beat some of the firefighters there. Amy and I grabbed just enough sight and sound to tell the sad story before jumping back into our news unit and racing back to the station. That night, our story of the still smoking plane crash led the 11 o clock news.

The next day, Roy passed me in the hallway and just as he drew beside me he looked over and said two words I can still hear today: "Nice hustle." ...Understand I was a bit of a buffoon back then, often ignoring sound advice for fear I'd miss whatever smart-ass remark was about to burble up from my own lips. But Roy's brief praise left me thunderstruck, for something in his voice told me he KNEW what the word "Hustle" really meant.

So thanks, Roy. Thanks for granting me the chance to prove myself. Thanks for not firing me when I found exciting new ways to mess up. Thanks for all the tips on composition, glass and decorum. Thanks for not holding it against me when I let my young man's anger get the better of me. Thanks for giving me the best four years of my professional life. I've been using what you taught me ever since...

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A 'Press Conference' celebrating the life of Roy Hardee will be held at 2:00 pm on Saturday April 24th at the Hilton Hotel in Greenville, North Carolina. See you there...