Lights, Camera, Wildlife
by Lily Whiteman
Ever wonder how wildlife filmmakers capture those magic moments? After all, animals are not actors that perform on the director's cue. And most creatures--agile masters of camouflage, equipped with finely tuned senses--are experts at making themselves scarce. "Even if you knew that a mouse ran through your kitchen nightly at eight o'clock, you would probably need weeks just to film your cat chasing it," teases Emmy-winning filmmaker Wolfgang Bayer. How then do wildlife cinematographers continually coax countless hours of footage from wild, elusive creatures?
"Our people do a lot of research,"explains George Page, the producer and narrator of PBS's Nature series. This legwork often involves pumping scientists for ideas about telegenic animal action. Primatologist Christof Boesch, for example, once ended an interview with Peter Jones, executive producer of the Trials of Life series, by casually mentioning recent revelations about how chimpanzee bands hunt colobus monkeys. So began a three-year-long quest for first-ever footage of such ambushes, which repeatedly took Jones and others through West Africa's tangled, sweltering jungles. Filmmakers also commonly tap knowledgeable locals for tips on wildlife whereabouts. Producer Lisa Truitt, for example, set the stage for a recent National Geographic documentary about arctic life by sleuthing out animal haunts with local Inuit hunters, who usually devote their tracking skills to shoots of a more deadly sort.
Many filmmakers conduct reconnaissance missions through the wild that, without targeting specific species, invite serendipitous encounters with ongoing action. Such ventures require a special ability to read subtle cues. It might, for example, be only a telltale mess outside an undersea burrow that marks the entrance of an octopus's lair, or the agitation of rubbernecking giraffes that betrays the presence of nearby lions. And thanks to a variety of innovative technologies, previously inaccessible habitats are currently hosting sweeping surveys. For example, special ultralight planes now lift filmmakers above the prohibitive dangers of unstable, but ecologically rich, shifting arctic ice sheets. "We would just fly, fly, fly and look for things," says Truitt, while describing how she snagged the first footage of feeding bowhead whales.
Other essentials for on-location shoots include good timing, long lenses, and what Page calls "the patience of Job." Such tools certainly helped BBC Executive Producer Mike Salisbury find and film the first spring foray of a polar bear family from its winter den. Methodically combing a Norwegian island, which had previously harbored hibernating bears, the filmmaker searched for "a plug of snow about the size of a manhole cover in the street." In the dim March light, "you could be 20 feet away from one and still miss it," says Salisbury. After six weeks of hunting, the filmmaker, at last, found a den. Though unsure whether this hideaway was still occupied, he nevertheless staked it out--watching, hoping, and shivering behind a concealing snow fortress that afforded telephoto views from a safe distance. After five days, the mother finally poked her head out and then tumbled out with three frisky cubs. "We wanted to jump for joy and throw things into the air to celebrate," Salisbury remembers. "Nevertheless, we had to keep quiet and still to get the sequence."
When closer footage is needed, how do filmmakers approach skittish subjects without disrupting the very behavior they seek to capture? Proving that discretion is the better part of valor, cinematographers commonly condition wildlife to their presence through gradually increased contact. Filmmaker Neil Rettig, for example, taught a family of territorial harpy eagles, which boast six-foot wingspans and huge talons, to ignore him by initially inching up to their treetop nest located 200 feet above the ground. Then, over the next several weeks, he gradually extended his cameo appearances in the canopy into completely tolerated 10-hour-long watches. Similarly, underwater specialist Michael deGruy has "spent weeks on the sea floor without filming, just waiting for populations to acclimate to me."
Not all encounters require such painstaking premeditation. For example, just minutes after commencing a search for Javan rhinos, Bayer stumbled onto a handsome specimen--even though much of the only other footage ever obtained of this furtive creature had required a six-month-long pursuit. "Although my guides thought I could magically charm rhinos from the jungle, I was just fortunate," muses Bayer.
But on occasion, no matter what luck befalls filmmakers or what lengths they go to, choice sequences remain out of reach; some sequences are just too difficult or too dangerous to film as they unfold. Sometimes, nature needs to be nudged before she will hold her secrets up to the camera.
"You simply can't film some scenes without setting up," Page discloses without apology, but with critical qualification: "As long as we are telling the truth about how nature works without either hurting the animals or putting something over on the public, there is nothing wrong with setting up scenes. Although we have to be just as fair and accurate, standards for nature filmmaking are different from those of public affairs programs....We are showing people things they would otherwise never see." Page acknowledges, for example, that burrowing animals and hiving insects must still often be filmed in meticulously landscaped sets that are outfitted with special lighting and a glass panel for the camera.
Various forms of artifice may also be used to locate animals in the wild. Singing the same songs as birdwatchers, Rettig sometimes brings birds from the bush by imitating mating or territorial calls. Others have coaxed big cats from the shadows by planting alluring odors on trees. Marine specialists say that merely their comparatively clumsy swimming strokes can draw curious whales, dolphins, or sea lions into photo opportunities. And strategically positioned animal carcasses can bring down vultures for close-ups.
Filmmakers sometimes also tweak conditions to elicit certain natural behaviors from their wild subjects. For example, in order to encourage a group of chimpanzees to showcase their nut-cracking abilities for the camera, National Geographic filmmakers--guided by researchers--recently supplied the animals with nuts.
But even when the environment is perfectly stoked, herculean efforts may still be required to nail down desired shots. Such was the case when underwater specialist Howard Hall set out to film how horn sharks can literally escape the jaws of death. If swallowed, these feisty creatures win release by plunging their barbed spines into the interior of their captor's mouth. Assured by scientists that his subjects would remain unharmed, Hall tilted the predator/prey equation to the camera's advantage by repeatedly releasing horn sharks into an area teeming with angel sharks lying in wait for passing prey. Nevertheless, it still took five exasperating days before just one of the lurking predators finally as desired snapped up and spit out a horn shark.
Not restricted to the field, the hidden hand of the nature filmmaker is also a force in the editing room. "Making one of these films is like building a Rolls Royce from the ground up," Page declares. "And how the scenes are put together is very important." For one thing, filmmakers often change the order in which events actually occur. A case in point: Bayer wove film shot over five different years into a portrait of winter in Yellowstone National Park, which seamlessly and timelessly floats unanchored to any particular date. Filmmakers also often propel plot lines along by sequencing footage to imply that certain animals crossed paths when, in reality, never the twain did meet.
Body parts can also be mixed and matched on film. One way, for example, to dramatize distant chases is to periodically flash onto the screen close-ups of subjects' eyes or faces. But because obtaining head shots of wild animals on the run is often impossible, those of zoo cousins are sometimes used instead.
Filmmakers may also portray the plight of one particular animal with more than one individual. For example, a sequence that begins by showing an unsuspecting seal swimming below sea ice might end by showing a different seal in the clutches of a polar bear that hunts its prey by reaching through holes in the ice. "As long as the action you are re-creating actually happened, and you are true to nature, it is fine to splice material in order to tell a compelling story. That's called good filmmaking," says Page.
But just what constitutes being "true to nature" is subject to interpretation. In a field that remains unbound by any Hippocratic-type oath, maneuvers that are embraced by some professionals are eschewed by others. Not even the use of lights for night shooting is a black-and-white issue. Purists, such as Tim Cowling, senior vice president of Discovery Channel Pictures, insist that illumination inevitably disturbs animals, and can spotlight prey that would otherwise go unnoticed by predators. In contrast, others contend that gradually increased wattage is harmless, and that night lights are just as likely to warn prey of predators as visa versa.
Despite continuing controversies, reputable filmmakers do follow some unwritten rules. First, cruelty to animals is strictly verboten. Indeed, stunts requiring prey to be tied down or isolated with predators are universally condemned. "Creating situations that would not otherwise occur is lying to the audience," explains deGruy. "Moreover, it really hurts to see prey quivering in fear for their lives before predators. There have been times when I desperately wanted to film something, and if I had just changed something, it would have worked. But you can't do it; its unethical." Nor would reputable filmmakers secretly substitute tame for wild animals or put together species that would never meet in the wild.
Such mores were commonly violated by early nature paparazzi such as Walt Disney and Marlin Perkins, who Bayer rates as "the worst offenders ever." Even Ray Disney has acknowledged that his famous uncle stooped to dropping captured lemmings into a river located over a thousand miles away from the supposed site of the "mass suicide"--even though the featured variety never, as depicted, drown themselves. "Back then, nobody cared how wildlife scenes were obtained," remembers Bayer.
Does the hidden hand of today's wildlife filmmaker ever turn into a helping hand for distressed creatures? Page is often asked questions like: "Would you film orphaned cheetah cubs without saving them?" Page responds that most filmmakers strive to record nature without disturbing it. This approach is particularly important in national parks, where interference is illegal. But Page admits, with a twinkling smile, that he would find it "personally pretty hard to resist helping those cuddly cubs."
Risky Business
Danger is the constant companion of the wildlife filmmaker. Indeed, the hazards faced by these globe-trotting adventurers reflect the varied ways in which Mother Nature vents her wrath: Animal maulings, killer bee attacks, boat sinkings, exotic diseases, accidental falls, hypothermia, arctic strandings, and undersea avalanches account for just some of the near-death experiences recently endured by wildlife filmmakers--most of whom are blessed with a bionic ability to land on their feet.
But even the most resilient filmmaker must, for safety's sake, demonstrate deep respect for animals and an intimate knowledge of their behavior. Why? Because only after filmmakers understand their subjects can they position themselves for good shots without putting themselves in harm's way. And often the most important insights are derived from studious observation.
Filmmaker Michael deGruy, for example, once spent weeks on Patagonia's coast contemplating killer whales hurling their hulks onto the shore, snatching seals, and then--as casually as children kicking cans down the street--flinging their flailing prey out to sea. Eventually, the filmmaker realized that the whales targeted young seals to the exclusion of adults. Accurately predicting that these predators would distinguish between a grown man and a baby seal, deGruy then safely filmed a seals-eye-view of the hunt while swimming near the charging behemoths. "This wasn't about reckless abandon; it was about preparation," says deGruy.
When
filmmakers do overstep their bounds, fluency in the body language
of wildlife can sometimes save the day. For example, recognition
of a shark's "back off" message--conveyed by a nose-up/fins-down
posture--could help forestall an attack. Similarly, swooping
harpy eagles, which are intimidated by eye contact, can be
deflected with head-on stares.
But despite the protective power of knowledge, on-location
fatalities do occasionally occur. Since the early 1970s, one
nature filmmaker was killed by a charging elephant, another
fatally fell from a hot air balloon, a third died in a glider
accident, and a couple specializing in volcanos perished in
a Japanese eruption.
(ZooGoer 25(5) 1996. Copyright 1996 Lily Whiteman. All rights reserved.)
