American cinematographer (Jan-Dec 1942)

The Indians Had A Word For Us By EDUARD BUCKMAN In technical dependence upon Douglas Sinclair, co-directing cinennatographer. "M USSON-AB-SKI-GA-GOG" was the word the Cree Indians had for us at the time. And we were assured, once we'd left the James Bay area, they'd change it to "Kam-musson-ab-ski-gay," and would thereafter use that imposing Cree mouthful whenever they referred to us. But we weren't worrying about either what they did or would call us. Our worries were much closer to our daily life an^l work. Naturally the Indian title reflected these. We, the "musson-ab-ski-ga-gog," those who take pictures, were faced with so many problems that we wondered if, when we did get back to civilization, we mightn't have nicely qualified for the "Kam-musson-ab-ski-gay" title, which translates: those who have taken pictures! Almost as soon as we reached the North we had some of our most anxious moments — our first and major trial. The camera was running in a cooking pan and made a swishing sound with a metallic echo. The light in the room was coldly pale, as if it reflected the muted gurglings of the Cine-Special. The light was pale because it came through an inch of hoar frost on the window-panes. The room was cold. The cameraman wore his dressing-gown over his clothes as he bent attentively above the pan, watching the clear liquid turn dark as the oil worked out of the camera. "It's just about right now," he commented, much as if the pan contained a cake which had reached baking perfection. "I hope so," I answered. "I don't relish the idea of freezing up here and then having nothing to show for it when we get back to civilization." "Coal-oil is the only thing," the cameraman was saying solemnly, as if I hadn't heard the process explained before. "Just let your camera run in it — with the lenses off, of course. Just let it run until every drop of oil is washed out. Then no temperature will slow it up. You saw how the Eyemo behaved, and I'd treated it with the coal-oil before we got up here. I'll do the same for the Cine-Special now, though I don't much like to — it's a complicated piece of machinery. But what else can I do?" "It wasn't working anyway. You can't make it any worse than that, no matter what you do or don't do to it." "It's done now," the cameraman said. He lifted the camera from the p'an and began to dry it with Kleenex. The coal-oil bath was a direct outcome of the experience we were obtaining in making moving pictures under Arcticconditions. True, we weren't actually in the Ai-ctic Circle — not by almost a thousand miles — but we might as well have been. Temperatures of thirty, forty and fifty-odd below zero are rarely bettered (or lowered) in the Arctic itself. We were working at Moose Factory, second oldest Hudson's Bay Company Post on the continent, two miles across the Moose River from Ontario's northermost railhead at Moosonee, and some ten miles up the river from James Bay. The assignment, given us late in November 1941 by John Grierson, Dominion Film Commissioner, for the National Film Board of Canada, was to make a film in 16mm. Kodachrome on trapping in the North. And in the process the cameraman was to take a number of stock-shots of Northern activities in general on 35mm. film, with an Eyemo. We chose Moose Factory as the most likely fur country closest to our Ottawa Studio base. As far as location went, A'e chose well; but we went North quite unprepared for the difficulties of filming under sub-zero conditions. Everyone m Ottawa who had worked under Airtic conditions had given us advice; and we'd read what there was in the American Cinematographer Handbook. But it took the country itself to really teach us. First, we'll pass on a non-technical maxim which should save a lot of technical misfortunes to him who will heed it: You can control your camera and film, to a large extent, when they're in your hands; but ivhen they're out of them they go to the dogs. Dog-team, of course, is the usual means of winter travel in the North. Dogs are not kind to cameras. They'll gnaw the leather cases, if they get the chance, when the cameras are not on the sleigh. And when the cameras are lashed with the sleigh's load under the tai'paulin cover, the dogs can do far worse! We didn't risk our three 16mm. cameras on our maiden dog-team voyage. I use the phrase advisedly. When we reached Moosonee there was an unexpected thaw in progress, and the river, 350 August, 1942 American Cinematographer