The Director Shouts

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I am standing in a short, dark tunnel at the MGM Grand Garden Arena, Las Vegas, Nevada, with a television camera on my shoulder. Six feet in front of me, a world champion boxer is shuffling his feet and tapping his gloved fists together as he waits for the deafening music to dip and an announcer to complete a ludicrously extended recital of his name. Above and behind me, seventeen thousand people are screaming in anticipation of the battle to come.

In a few seconds, a red light will blink on above my small black and white viewfinder, indicating that the image is being beamed live to tens of millions of television sets across the globe, perhaps in high definition, perhaps just in standard def colour, but almost certainly in much better quality than I, its composer, am experiencing. The boxer will be cued to move forward, at which point I will begin to walk backwards, attempting to match the fighter's pace. Someone will have a hand tucked through the back of my trouser belt, and I will attempt to differentiate between his purposeful tugging and accidental hand movements as he guides me between two rows of steel barriers and the huge security guards that line the narrow walkway. I will try to make the shot interesting by varying the focal length, zooming into a tight shot of the fighter's face whilst attempting to keep him pin sharp in the wildly fluctuating light, then widening to capture the entire entourage in the standard 4:3 aspect ratio while remaining vigilant that the widescreen viewer also has a pleasing composition to regard. I will be straining to concentrate on what the director is saying through my headphones, waiting to take in the few relevant words he will send my way amongst the general stream directed at others. Unfortunately, the headphones will be sliding down my sweaty head, threatening to lose their grip entirely and flap about under my feet, creating a new tripping hazard. A spotlight circles the boxer. This is largely for show. The small LED light attached to the top of my camera is providing the illumination necessary for television.

For its last pay-per-view fight three weeks ago, the TV channel for which I am currently working sold two million subscriptions at sixty dollars a pop. They have sold more for tonight's bout. So why, when my senses are already at overload, do I have to worry about the fifty dollar plastic arm that is supposed to hold my LED light in a steady, upright position, but is it in fact sagging against the gaffer tape that I wrapped around its joints as a desperate and failed temporary fix? Just like I did last time. And the time before. It becomes my main concern as the tension builds and the seconds tick down, and I am forced to remove my left hand from the focus ring and hold the light steady instead.

Everything happens in a one-hour stress and adrenaline explosion. Up until this point I have been hanging around backstage outside the dressing rooms, listening to my cable bashers' stories of the LA students who fly to Las Vegas for the weekend to turn tricks to pay their way through college. “Better than the jaded old local hags,” apparently. “And cheaper.”

Every now and then I have to force my way into the dressing rooms to get live shots of the fighters wrapping their hands or shadow boxing. This is usually a last-minute, panicked order over the headphones, requiring immediate action. Earlier this year I forced an old man out of Ricky Hatton's dressing room doorway with a curt “excuse me,” before he spun around and I realised that I had just manhandled Tom Jones. “Sir Tom,” I added with a nod, before moving on.

But mostly we sit and get ready to get ready. Someone else is on 'Celeb Cam' tonight and I am grateful. It is Jason's job to scramble over people with ten thousand dollar tickets to get close ups of the famous who probably got in for nothing. The only time the producer made the mistake of assigning me that position turned out less than favourably, as I was unable to recognise the majority of the American sports stars. When asked to get a shot of Manny Ramirez I was utterly at a loss, and ended up zooming into random strangers surrounding him. With American footballers, I would guess by shooting the biggest men in the general area, invariably choosing their bodyguards and receiving tired reprimands from people in charge. It would be the same, I presume, as someone in Britain failing to recognise Ronnie O' Sullivan or Eric Bristow.

As I take my place for the ring walk, my LED light already sagging against the gaffer tape, I ask my cable bashers for a practice walk. As we start to move backwards, an unsuspecting Arnold Schwarzenegger strides into the tunnel, surrounded by a massive entourage. Spying the shining light and the moving camera crew, he is momentarily surprised, then immediately adopts his politician's smile and waves into my lens as I inadvertently lead him to his seat by the ring. No one in the control room notices that I practice my ring walk on the most famous man in the building.

Just before the fight begins, the director suddenly decides to have me permanently stationed in front of one of the boxer's family. I hold my camera in the air and stumble over the front row's feet to the far corner, kneeling between the photographers and Nevada's Finest and training my camera on what I am told is the relevant party. The bell sounds for round one and immediately a security guard taps me on the shoulder. I ignore him, as though he will go away. These people never go away.

“Sir,” he says. “You cannot stay here.”

I still ignore him.

“Sir,” he says again. “Don't make me angry.” He reaches for his radio.

“I'm with the telly,” I tell him. “We're running this fucking thing.”

He starts to mumble into his radio so I get to my feet and push my way out of the corner, sweating through my shirt and onto my viewfinder. Flustered, clasping my camera, I trip over someone's feet and fall into another's lap, unable to break my fall with my hands. I am pushed upright and I'm staring into Mickey Rourke's mangled face. He is looking at me as though... well, as though I've just fallen in his lap at the start of the biggest fight of the year.

I apologise and hurry on, treading on famous feet. Jeremy Piven pushes me out of the way and his co-star, Turtle, tells me to 'fuck off'.

“You didn't make the celeb montage,” I respond, before clambering out of the posh seats and crawling around the arena towards the fighter's family.

I arrive just in time, getting a great shot of them just before the director looks at my camera. “Excellent, Daniel,” he says. “I'm coming to you at the end of the round.”

I maintain my position, my arms already trembling with the effort of holding my heavy camera pointing upwards from a kneeling position. The family are reacting to the action with cartoon enthusiasm; perfect for TV.

But the fire marshal has already found me blocking the aisle and is ordering me to move. A moment's hesitation and he is threatening to shut the event down. I have to interrupt the director to inform him that he can no longer use my shot. He seems disappointed; angry even.

“How am I a fire hazard?” I ask the miserable marshal. “If there's a fire I'm not going to stay on the floor blocking people. I shall be up and moving towards the exit like everyone else.”

“Move,” is all he says.

Suddenly the fight is over and I am caught in a mad scramble of excitement as I race to get to my post-match position. I literally fight past everyone in my way, accidentally shoving Garry Shandling into the slutty one from Desperate Housewives.

And finally, just in time, I make it to my roped-off corner section with a tripod where no one can move me on or shout at me. I regain my composure and wipe the sweat from my face. I am calm and focused. The presenter faces my camera, smiling. My red light blinks on. The presenter begins to talk to the American audience. I maintain a steady shot. And then the gaffer tape I applied earlier to the dodgy leg on my tripod gives way and my camera slowly but surely begins to sink to the left.

The director shouts.