Let's Roll

Neil Gordon, or Neil 'Balls' as he's known to his friends - on account of his long standing involvement in Big Balls Films - is the undisputed heavyweight champion of the video 'making of'. In slightly aggrandizing fashion he often refers to the 'making of' as the 'B roll', meaning the 'B' or second unit camera. This is what they call them in America.

Here he is in action on the video for Alesha Dixon's forthcoming single 'To Love Again'.


There's nothing new about the 'making of'. Ever since the inception of the music video there has been an appetite for watching the film making process unfold from behind the scenes. MTV were of course the pioneers of the 'making of', and for a long time the exclusive 'MTV making of' was something coveted by both artists and labels alike - a sign of approbation, a recognition of hitting the big time baby. 'Yo MTV, welcome to the making of my video. Represent. Yeah, yeah.'

In many ways the lowly 'making of' formed the blueprint for much of MTV's more recent long form programming - 'Cribs', 'Pimp My Ride', 'Meet The Osbournes' - facile, music celebrity led, reality entertainment.

The big change for 'making ofs' occurred in the mid noughties. Like the dot com boom in the nineties, the content gold rush that started in 2004 was just as frenzied, misjudged and unsustainable. The explosion of YouTube meant that suddenly every label had to have 'content'. No one really knew what that meant, but they knew that they had to have it.

And obviously one of the easiest ways for labels to aggregate 'content' was to start commissioning their own 'making ofs'. In an era of relentless promo schedules, the video shoot affords you unparalleled access to an artist. In between takes they are basically loafing in a chair, moaning about being bored or cold, drinking tea and eating Nurofen. So fuck it, you might as well film the shit out of them.

A whole generation of young, opportunistic film makers emerged to meet the demand. Neil, and his colleagues at Big Balls, were among the founding fathers. In those days the going rate to shoot, edit and deliver a 4 minute 'making of' was £1500. Getting set up was relatively cheap - all you needed was a Sony EX 1, a computer with Final Cut, a hard drive and a tinternet connection. The main outgoings were tape stock and taxi fares to shoots, although at the time it was relatively easy to blag the commissioner into getting you cabs on their corporate account. I can attest to this: all our 'making of' guys had the Atlantic marketing department Addison Lee password.


So most of the £1500 was profit and if the film maker was a reasonably adept editor, it was possible it churn out a couple of 'making ofs' a week. In busy periods that could amount to a healthy turnover of 12 grand a month.

Simultaneously a young music video director struggling to launch their career in 2005 was getting sent bullshit tracks with 20 grand budgets attached. Their 10 per cent take home should have been two grand; but once their over ambitious idea came in over budget, they were invariably forced to drop their fee in order to get the video commissioned. A vicious cycle developed: the only way for a new director to get sent any of the dwindling number of bigger budget projects was to build and expand their showreel by taking a solid whack in the measures. Four weeks work for a grand or less. And they were lucky if they got to do this four times a year. Her Majesty's Customs and Sexcise don't even bother charging you income tax on earnings of four grand a year. You make more on the job seekers national handbag.


While up coming video directors scratched around, trying to make nickels meet, the 'making of' cartel were rinsing it. This begs the obvious question: why didn't more people get on the b-roll gravy train?

Who knows.

Maybe the answer was slight snobbery? Perhaps directors feared that 'making ofs' were somehow demeaning, that crew members wouldn't take them seriously as 'proper' film makers if they saw them on set in that capacity?

Or maybe they just didn't have the contacts to hustle the work?

Or maybe being ghetto-ass-broke-as-a-joke had a limited romantic appeal? The suffering artist in his wretched Hackney garret. But eventually not being able to afford to leave the house just becomes depressing.

Regardless, these concerns don't seem to trouble Neil as he cheerfully interviews Alesha, who sits in her splitter, arranged over the front seat like a luxurious puddle of Westwood, weave, lashes, liner and gloss. Her glamour squad cackle in the back - no more than folkloric crones squabbling over a shared eye.

Neil has got 'making ofs' down to a fine art. He boasts that recently he cut a 5 minute b-roll out of 19 minutes of rushes - a four to one bang bang shooting ratio. The formula is simple: intro with the artist - 'Hi, it's 7 in the morning and I just got to my video shoot. I'm a bit tired, but really looking forward to it'; a brief montage of each set up, including a shot of the monitor and the clapper board; a longer interview with the artist during the lunch break where they attempt to describe the concept without revealing the fact that they haven't actually read the treatment - 'It's really about my emotional journey from dark to light'; more montage; the 'wrap' call (you can bribe some ADs to do this as a cut away earlier in the day if you want to fuck off before the end); outro with the artist - 'So we've finished. It's been a long day, but I've really enjoyed it. Thanks for watching. I'm going back to the hotel to have a bath'.

Bosh.

Neil's method is leaner than a tuna steak cooked on a George Foreman grill. He knows what we want and always delivers. No extended interviews with the director or the DOP or the SFX boffin. Fans don't wanna watch that shit.


Neil and I laugh about rookie 'making of' filmers who shoot every set up continuously and end up having to capture and then wade through 4 hours of bullshit to find the 4 minutes of gold. It's always jokes to hang out with him on set. We've been on countless shoots together across the globe - Lisbon, Las Vegas, Havana. In the often lonely world of video commissioning, your 'making of' filmer is both an ally and confidant, someone to disappear off to the boozer with when the shit hits the fan on set, someone with whom you can bitch about the artist, and someone who'll tell you honestly whether the footage on the monitor is actually any good.

Without wanting to sound too elegiac, the 'making of' industry is not what it used to be. Budgets have plummeted and, if YouTube viewing figures are anything to go by, public interest seems to have waned. Content has become more sophisticated and increasingly interactive. Kids constantly crave new digital experiences with their favourite artists, and sadly the 'making of' feels like something of an anachronism these days.

I have to leave the Alesha shoot early. I say goodbye to Neil and jump into an Addison Lee - a cash car that I'll have to pay for and then claim back through a hideously convoluted reimbursement process. It'd be easier to fucking walk.

I'm not a big fan of nostalgia, but sometimes it's hard.