Zumbrunnen's 5 Stages of Editing

I stumbled across an article earlier this month that's titled "How Spike Jonze's Films Come Together in Editing." When seeing the link, I thought to myself, "How convenient! I love Spike Jonze and I tolerate editing! Let's take a look." So I did. While much of the article discusses the happenings at the most recent American Cinema Editor's EditFest LA at Disney's Frank G. Wells Theatre, there was a small piece of the article which I wasn't expecting.

Eric Zumbrunnen—whose collaboration with Spike Jonze began with editing in the music video industry—joked at EditFest that there are pretty much five main steps in the editing process for any project. Whether he was actually joking or not, he hit the nail right on the head.

It's going to be amazing.

This is the first stage of the editing process. Now, it doesn't actually involve any physical editing, but more visualizing than anything. More often than not, editors are never on set when the projects are being shot; therefore, we never see what mistakes (usually continuity errors) are being made during production. This stage involves a whole lot of naïvety (Yes, that's a word. I checked.). Editors usually sign onto projects that they're excited to work on and that they have a lot of faith in. We have to. We're looking at the same film for weeks, even months on end. At this point in the process, we have the utmost confidence in the crew's ability to hand us something spectacular to get working on.

I don't know what I can do with this.

After having the mentality that he's about to help create one of the greatest films of all time, the editor is handed the first batch of footage. "What is this shit? You've got to be joking." This is when the work really begins. The footage never—I repeat—NEVER turns out the way you had imagined it in your mind. All those hours of visualizing the perfect scene, the most perfectly timed cuts an editor has ever made, gone straight down the drain with what looks to be the most horrible shots ever taken on a camera. "What were they thinking? What am I supposed to do with this garbage?" Now, it's never anywhere close to as bad as it is in your mind, but it's nothing like you imagined and it's terrifying. Sometimes you're just handed shit. It's the sad truth.

What if everyone finds out I'm a fraud?

It's getting to the point when you've been making the first cuts on the same 2-minute scene for twelve hours and there seems like there's no way out of that one horrible, horrible continuity error. There's nothing you could ever dream of doing to get around it. Jesus himself couldn't fix it. "Who would ever think I could cut this together?" This stage is pretty much the same as the previous one, but after the stress and frustration really set in. Up to this point in your career, you've been fairly confident in your skills as an editor. You started out small, but have worked your way up to some pretty notable projects. This is, however, the moment all editors have during every editing job where they feel their career is over. If this problem isn't taken care of, you're done. Finished. You'll "never work in this town again." Basically, you're screwed.

Damn the deadline.

"Is it even possible? Could anyone do this?" Where'd the time go? Well, while you were slaving away at your computer for the past few weeks, everyone else on the crew was celebrating the fact that they wrapped the film. Sure, your work probably extends over a fraction of the amount of time that the rest of the crew had to work on the project, but—as everyone believes is the case for themselves—your job is significantly more difficult than everyone else's. It's a couple days before you have to hand over your newest cut of the film to the director and you have nothing to show for it. After the endless hours of blood (not really), sweat (of course), and tears (you betcha) it seems like it's impossible for you to ever turn it in on time.

I'm a genius.

"Damn, I'm good. Like I'm really good." You just finished your nth cut of the film and it looks damn good. It probably won't be the last one, but you now have some serious proof of your skills. You're bragging to the director. "You see right here? Where he does this? Well, he actually kept doing this, so I used this to cover up that and now he does this." You can't stop smiling and basking in the glory that is this new work of art. No one will ever truly comprehend what you had to do to make the final product, but it's fine. It's totally ok. Because you'll tell each and every friend and family member about it in extreme detail after the premiere.

We Are Interesting! Hey! Look!

Okay, now that I have your attention: No, llama! NO!

That's a llama driving. And no, I didn't draw that.

Progress with the group's Very Special Project is going smoothly. We've shot quite a good amount of footage, and Monday seemed to start off well in terms of knocking off scenes. Soon (and by soon I mean now) we'll start working on some post-production material, such as text and experimenting with color. Alex has a 3D title in the works. Everything so far is going according to plan, so there's no reason yet to worry.

Also, if any of you guys are taking Thesis next semester, I would suggest utilizing the Actor's Workshop Of Ithaca. The actress that we used did a great job on Monday and always responded to emails, so if you're looking for a dedicated actress for your projects, look up Elissa Klie. I'm sure that she'll be happy to help. She might want money, though. (Reminder to self: Pay actors/actresses in money and/or soul.)

And now a note that only applies to Parkies: If you guys need to extend a reservation, don't try to do it at the counter. The PPECS employees won't do it. If they do, they'll get fired. Instead, you need to talk to both Arturo and Ellen and have a really good excuse for why you need to extend. It's inconvenient, but if you plan well enough, you'll be able to pull it off. This is just a reminder so that you don't get your Park cards taken away.

Good work so far, guys. To play me out, here's a new animation.

FIRE

This happened at our shoot yesterday.

We were in the process of filming a scene in the basement of 505 East Seneca. It's an old basement with archaic fire sensors and cobwebs everywhere. Trying to light the damn room, therefore, proved to be a safety challenge as well as a technical one.

We were in the process of trying to figure out why the damn camera wasn't letting enough light through the lens -- ND filter, of all the things -- when CRACK! Something above a light broke, which set off an alarm throughout the house.

The tenants started panicking. We started panicking. None of the equipment broke. Thank Bajeezus, because if I died $13,000 in debt someone else was coming to Hell with me. Paige -- a friend not working on our shoot -- ran downstairs with the fire department on the phone. That was the last thing we needed. We were losing time and money. Yes, I know that we aren't getting paid for this, but... well... shut up!

Twenty minutes later, three fire trucks -- THREE FIRE TRUCKS -- showed up in front of the house. Firemen and firewomen thundered down the stairs in full uniform looking for something to spray. I should have taken a picture of the disappointment on their faces when they saw the alarm going off. It was priceless.

About half an hour later, they all left. So here we were: An hour behind schedule, shaky from a fire that never happened, ears bleeding from the alarm, afraid that our location hosts were pissed at us, and still needing to shoot an entire scene.

Short version: There was no fire, and I'm tired. Is the coffee done yet?