The Lurking Camera

WILD-LIFE cinematography is a special art, and its experts are a very special breed. First of all they are naturalists. That is, they are familiar by study, experience, and close observation with living nature in one or more of its many grand orders. They are as much at home in the animal kingdom as the animals, birds, reptiles, insects, and other subjects they photograph. They work with acquired knowledge and animal intuition.

I am talking about the successful ones—the men and women whose motion-picture recording of wild-life drama affords us a fresh, new, exciting look at the world we share with an infinitude of creatures.

Their implement, is the lurking camera. They eavesdrop on their quarry in its free, wild state. Usually they are themselves unseen, working from camouflaged blinds and cunning ambuscade.

Dealing with facts and events of the natural world, they approach their job much as the alert newspaper reporter covers a front-page occurrence; they must learn and state the “imperative five” of accurate reporting — the who, what, when, where, and why involved in the story. They seek out and depict nature’s motivations, as well as her fascinating behavior and raw realities.

These are the elements which guide us in approaching and producing our True-Life Adventure series. These features, now in their sixth year of expansion, always present some phase of nature as living drama. The emphasis is on dramatic coherence and progression so that they can be readily comprehended by theater audiences, for they are made primarily for mass entertainment—although they are also automatically informative.

All this has to do very directly with the camera techniques of the wild-life photographer. And if our nature pictures and our field operations are to be understood by the legions of amateur photographers whose interest in nature subjects wre seem to have aroused, the human angles must be stressed along with any pointers on craftsmanship.

Before I cite specific incident and anecdote of field operation, I want to say how greatly I have come to respect the naturalist-photographers who are associated with us, both as scientists and as craftsmen. To observe them in action is an exhilarating lesson in resourcefulness, in patience, in knowledge applied to a particular problem, and in that devotion which few except the insatiably curious naturalist ever bring to a calling.

The Living Desert, first full-length feature in the wild-life series, produced many striking examples of what the nature reporter with the lurking camera may capture — things out of the very heart of perpetual creation. This feature, too, prompted a volume of inquiries as to how the True-Life dramas are made, how the camera operators actually work.

No scene in all the series has caused more coinment and sustained curiosity than the spectacular fight of the red-tailed hawk and the rattlesnake.

Copyright by The Atlantic Monthly Company, Boston 16, Mass. All rights reserved.

Paul Kenworthy, Jr., and Robert H. Crandall share the camera credit. Mach is thoroughly familiar with the desert and its peculiar animal life, through years of close study. From their forays into the wastelands, they thought they could record an actual contest between the two killers. They organized their project very carefully. Basically, they depended on the fact that the desert falcon hunts small snakes as well as lizards, mice, and other little creatures for food. But would a redtailed hawk attack a rattlesnake large enough to give him formidable battle?

Their venture represented an experimental zone in wild-life photography. If successful it would pay oil’ in spectacular fashion. For these are precisely the scenes which audiences of True-Life Adventures seem to appreciate most — the strange and unusual, the moments of decision, in nature’s great melee of passions.

The problem for Crandall and Kenworthy was to get their cameras set up in a place and under conditions which would practically ensure contact between bird and reptile. An ensuing light, of course, would be in the lap of nature, since wild things are never completely predictable. What happened during the next few summer months in tactic and achievement came to us piecemeal from this photographic front in Arizona — a succession of waits and thrills and surprises, culminating in the outstanding scene of our desert drama.

The watchtower of the hawk in the picture was a giant saguaro cactus. From there he could spot anything that moved across the strip of sand on which the cameras were focused. Soon he was accustomed to the presence of the photographers. None of his natural actions were inhibited. A number of times he pounced on small reptiles which he easily dispatched. This not only gave him confidence but whetted his appetite as well. Here was a dependable food supply. And all this time — a period of weeks — Kenworthy and Crandall were recording every action on film.

But it was not until the end of summer, in a temperature well over 110° in the shade, that the thing occurred for which the patient leasers had been hopefully waiting. Then the hawk struck a rattler big enough for fatal battle.

As the photographers recounted it to us, the red-tail was surprised at the size and power of the reptile. But, as is the nature of the fighting bird, once having been committed, he was compelled to carry it through. This now was a feud, not food.

It was strike and parry. Beak and claw against fang and strangling coil. The cameras looked at it very closely. The lenses brought the action to a seeming distance of a few yards, so that every shift in the desperate rhythms was sharp and clear.

The bird’s breast feathers and sparring wings protected it time and again from the striking fangs. And the snake’s evasive reactions likewise kept the vulnerable head with its thin skull from the clasp of the penetrating talons and the neck-breaking twist of t he beak.

Just when the hawk was delivering the decisive attack, the big snake threw a swift coil around his body and began to apply a crushing pressure. Slowly the talons began to lose their grip. But not before they bad indicted the death wound. The hawk had won the light, but even after the head was powerless, the snake’s constricting coils by pure reflex could also have killed the spent bird. So the cameramen, feeling some responsibility for the red-tail, freed him after the scone had been shot.

Two Cine Specials, modified 16 mm. models, were used with Commercial Kodachromo film. The numerous scenes showing the hawk in action, along with the final climactic action, consumed many thousand feet of color film in the total of more than 200,000 feet shot for the entire feature.

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DESERT life by its very nature — elusive, swift, expert at concealment, and largely nocturnal — offers exceptionally difficult challenges to the wild-life cinematographer. It is more fiercely competitive than life elsewhere. It requires a closer approach to the individual subject than most of the other True-Life Adventure films.

One thing the naturalist-photographer can, however, depend on: nature casts her characters to type. A tortoise is always a recognizable tortoise; a bobcat plays a bobcat’s role in the great theme; a kangaroo rat always behaves more or less like all others of his clan. Traits of a species are fixed for ages.

Thus Kenworthy and Crandall, operating as a team again, were able to get those revealing scenes of the kangaroo rats defying the lethal sidewinder and their frantic dance of momentary relief from all perils.

With such small creatures as these, the observing camera reporter patiently makes himself a familiar part of the landscape until all fear of his presence is gone.

The little kangaroo rat was one of the most beguiling characters in The Living Desert. One in particular stood out in the picture — the one that kicked sand into the intruding viper’s eyes, then hastened home to save the babies from another snake. She was photographed at a distance of not over 15 feet in these successive scenes.

The little mother and her fellow rodents completely ignored the cameramen. In the urge of elemental animal concerns, the greater fears transcend the lesser. And in this case the human beings were regarded as comparatively harmless.

The cutaway section of the tunnels, through which the courageous mother carried her week-old babies in flight, was made of two separable sections. One was faced with glass. It was a natural tunnel and was kept dark and undisturbed while the young were born. When the king snake entered the far entrance, the removable section was lifted aside and the action was photographed at close range through the glass to show the exciting escape. Although this was of necessity a controlled scene, the action itself was according to nature’s own dictates, revealing a thrilling example of maternal devotion.

In the kangaroo rat colony, we discovered a highly personalized individual: the one who kicked sand into the sidewinder’s eyes. Not only was she a resourceful sand-flinger; she was a precision artist who turned often to see if she was hitting the mark. No other member of the colony showed these same traits. In many of our TrueLife ventures the camera teams come upon such individuals. Often they are natural comedians — in our eyes at least. They intrigue the photographers and contribute color to the action.

Intelligent anticipation paid oil again in the extraordinary sequence depicting the fight of the burly tarantula and the swift pepsis wasp in The Living Desert. Here too, the photographers knew that any confrontation of these feudal creatures would result in decisive violence. Either the wasp would sting her shaggy adversary into a comatose state as host for her larva, or she would lose her own life in the turn of destiny.

Through all these ambuscades of wild life, nature remains the director. You can often set up your spying camera within a few yards of expected action. But only instinctive promptings, elemental urges, goad wild things to do what comes naturally. The cameraman must be ready for the moment of revelation; often he has to depend on luck as well as advance preparation.

To recognize and be alert to nature’s playful moods and surprising comicalities is an essential for photographers contributing to the True-Life series. This hilarious quality, as the human sees it, may often reside in what to the creature involved is far from funny. But in nature’s balance— in her whole living ferment of passions, strivings, adjustments— everything has its place. And for our nature series we try to recognize these various elements both for their entertainment and for their informative value.

The apparent surprise of the newly married male beaver who found himself suddenly burdened with a dependent stepson, along with his charming bride, in Beaver Valley, appealed to audiences in that way. So did the woebegone yammering of ihe onetime arrogant bull seals driven from their harems by younger monarchs in Seal Island.

Another laugh innocently provided by nature is the wedding dance of the scorpions in The Living Desert, so comically suggestive that it could be perfectly set to the rhythms of a hillbilly square dance. For such scenes the informed wild-life reporter is constantly alert.

All the interesting animal anecdotes have human parallels. They are easily understood out of common human experience and observation -even the greedy toad who gets stung by one of his most inoffensive victims in the desert picture.

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So FAR, I have dwelt mainly on the functions and personal reactions of the men and women who supply the raw material for our projects. They are masters of their craft. Alfred and Elma Milotte are directly assigned from the studio. Others are independent, submitting material to suggest or fit a theme. Sometimes half a dozen will earn top credits with outstanding sequences on a single feature — as in Nature’s Half Acre, Beaver Valley, The Living Desert, and in the forthcoming Vanishing Prairie and The Arctic Wilderness. There were sixteen photographers on Water Birds.

While the camera experts supply the spectacular elements on the screen, the True-Life Adventures are a team operation. Many creative minds have a share in their production.

Before any expedition sets out, near or far, there arc studio conferences which may take weeks of study and decisions. Here we and our staff evaluate the proposed subject. Themes are suggested from preliminary research on the animal life of a given region. Time elements must be considered in line with production costs and exhibition dates. We exchange views and prospects with the naturalists. Science authorities are consulted.

Organization of a project may start with just a broad idea. Such was the case when the Milottes went on the African safari to film the accurate, comprehensive life story of the African lion and the African elephant in equatorial Kenya and Tanganyika. They have now been at it for almost three years. We knew their capabilities as one of America’s foremost teams of wild-life photographers and their resourcefulness in the wilds, for they had filmed the Alaska fur seal on the lonely Pribilof reefs for our initial True-Life Adventure, Seal Island, and had repeated effectively in Beaver Valley and Prowlers of the Everglades. In the Dark Continent they work alone; no porters or couriers on this camera safari; no luxury camp; no hunting with guns. At intervals they come into Nairobi to replenish food and fuel and to air-express their film trophies to the studio.

Generally no more than two lensers work together — usually man and wife. On the bleak Falklands off the tip of South America the Olin Sewell Petlingills have been practically living on the beach in the great penguin colonies for half a year.

In the Arctic, from the slopes of Mount McKinley to the desolate Brooks Range and icy Point Barrow, Herb and Lois Crisler have for two full seasons stalked grizzly bear, caribou, wolves, and lesser animals for The Arctic Wilderness. The Crislers photographed the great elk migration and life cycle for The Olympic Elk and followed the bighorn sheep to the heights of the Rockies for The Vanishing Prairie.

On the Galapagos Islands, off the Ecuador shore, Jack Couffer and Conrad Hall are photographing the huge primitive sea elephants and giant sea turtles — holdovers from ancient times.

Stuart V. Jewell, who made the beautiful floral time-lapse footage and the cracking mud flats for The Living Desert, is just back from an expedition to the breeding lagoons of the gray whale in Mexico’s Baja California. He is also finishing a comprehensive pictorial study of the bees for our forthcoming Secrets of Life,

The time-lapse scenes of floral beauty contributed to The Living Desert by Jewell are to my mind among the most remarkable displays of nature photography. These scenes are a sequence of single exposures spaced at time intervals to capture the unfolding of plant or flower from bud to full bloom. The camera is set in fixed position, with sharp focus on the subject with a lens just wide-angle enough to catch any slight movement of wind or pull of the sun. The timing mechanism is automatic, ranging from exposure intervals of a few seconds to an hour or more apart. The gorgeous scene of the heart of a flower, as it was described, required several hours of successive exposures. The camera was a Cine Special, considerably rebuilt for these subjects.

The delicate beauty of the night-blooming cereus, much admired, needed artificial lighl to augmenl the desert twilight in which it started to open. A small light, not too hot to scald the delicate membranes, was operated in synchronization from a storage battery. Between dusk and dawn the cereus had completed its swift cycle from bud to pollinization by the night moths. Exposures ten seconds apart for ten hours produced two minutes of consecutive showing on the screen.

For the cracked mud flat scene, Jewell watched this section of drying earth with his time-lapse camera for five days.

For Secrets of Life, Robert Crandall is photographing the social life of ants. He is an authority on these fascinating insects. They offer one of the most difficult subjects in all nature to film. Crandall has spent years studying the many kinds of ants. Among some of the species there is relentless warfare. Magnifying cameras must be able to probe closely into their microcosm to record significant action. This in turn demands technical skill of high order as well as a naturalist’s specialized knowledge. Most of Crandall’s filming of ants is done with telephoto lenses outdoors with no disturbance of the insect colonies. Occasionally he exposes sections of the anthills to show the tunnels and underground activities. And for some of the extreme close-ups and bridging of scenes, individuals and groups are photographed on a specially built indoor table which is part of a fixed camera mount. The problem here is to keep the ants within range and focal depth. Sometimes close-ups are so huge that a head or a log may fill the entire screen when projected in Technicolor on the theater screen.

A special lighting device is used to illumine indoor scenes. Crandall uses a stock camera — a Cine Special No. 2 — largely rebuilt and amplified with devices to meet his special requirements.

In photographing some species of ants, notably the harvester tribe, the wild-life cameraman’s colossal patience often needs added endurance. Crandall wryly tells of lying on his stomach for hours with his recording camera beside an anthill while 1 he angry guardians nipped and st ung him unmercifully.

Mrs. Crandall — Francine — shares all his camera adventures, and they operate as a very effective team.

John Ott, Jr., who has no superior in the limelapse field, and whose camera laboratory is the most elaborately equipped in the world, will show his wizardry in the microscopic realm in Secrets of Life. He uses more than a score of cameras in his intriguing work.

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SOME of these leading nature photographers learned their craft in scientific schooling. Some, graduates from the amateur ranks, acquired their working knowledge entirely in the field. Others began photography as a hobby in which they might seek a way out of the trials and tribulations of their daily business grind. All have brought something new and fresh and exciting and meaningful from the haunts of living nature for mass enjoyment as well as educational usefulness.

For convenience and facility in the often difficult terrain they all use 16 mm. Kodachrome cameras. The original negative is then processed to the standard 35 mm. for Technicolor projection in the theater.

Almost all camera equipment has been modified in the with individual experience. So much so, in fact, that we arc now considering making our own cameras for the particular needs of our True-Life photographers. A quick focus-adjustment mechanism, and lenses and emulsions adapted to meet variable conditions of natural light and range and fast enough to catch wild life on hoof and wing, are the essentials.

Many of nature’s finest and most exciting moments of action come with almost no warning. Wilderness creatures don’t pose for their portraits. They cannot be directed. Human presence, especially among the larger ones, is just one more menace in their fear-haunted lives. So the telescopic lens is a necessity in filming the more cautious, shy, or dangerous animals.

In Africa, operating from their specially built armored truck, the Milottes use the Arriflex camera with a 16-inch scope to bring the more savage quarry within safe range. The lioness who stalks and kills the wildebeest for a hungry family, seemingly only a few feet beyond the camera, was actually photographed some 800 yards away. Approached down-wind across the grassy plain by A1 Mi lotto, the great cat with her cubs and stalking aides never suspected a human observer.

The telephoto lens also brings to startling close-up the great African elephants in their family life around wilderness water holes and in the thorn bush pastures. The same lenses also serve for rhinos, hippos, giraffes, baboons, zebra, and other African quarry.

Tom McHugh used a modified Cine Special in approaching the wild buffalo herd in The Vanishing Prairie. He operated in the old Indian fashion by concealing himself and his camera under a buffalo robe and crawling on hands and knees. In that way he got within a lew yards of the shaggy beasts for close shots.

For the prairie feature Dick Borden, using a Bell and Howell on a gunstock mount, shot — at the rate of 128 exposures per second — fine slow-motion scenes of wild fowl in flight and landing. Jim Simon and Lloyd Beebe catch the lithe grace of a leaping, running puma in another excellent example of slow motion, while Tom McHugh records the running antelope in the same technique.

The Crislers, like the Milottes, favor the Arriflex with the 16-inch telephoto scope. In the Alaskan wilds they had moved their camera equipment to within less than 100 yards of a grizzly bear family group — the huge mother and triplet yearlings. The bears were feeding on a fresh caribou kill just below a ridge on which Herb had cautiously started his filming. The Crislers were down-wind of the brutes, and the animals hadn’t sensed them until Crisler stood up boldly to got a bettor focus.

Swiftly then, the mother began climbing toward the ledge, the cubs following at a trot. Soon they were on the same level, coming on determinedly. Crisler kept on operating his camera steadily, the image of the bears looming large in the finder. Mrs. Crisler stood by anxiously — sharing another of many adventures with her husband.

As the grizzlies disappeared momentarily above and behind them on the ledge, the Crislers decided it was time to get out of there — and to move fast. But it was too late. In an instant the huge savage mother, in the rage that comes with alarm, came out right in front of them around a projection. Her neck was arched; her ears were flattened back. The chill wind lifted her hair. She seemed incredibly enormous.

Crisler, who had been filming right, up to this last moment, now snatched up his tripod as the only weapon. His wife thumped, a camera slide and a lens cover together in a futile gesture to make a frightening noise. At that instant the bear got the human scent full in the face, stood a moment in seeming surprise, then whirled to retreat. In her haste she knocked over one of the cubs and bit it in the belly, as if to say, “You clumsy oaf—get out of my way!” They all fled in shambling haste. The Crislers, suddenly spent, sat down weakly, “it was the nearest thing we ever had,” Mrs. Crisler said.

The wild-life photographer who sets out for the unusual, especially among the larger beasts, accepts these self-imposed risks as one of the normal hazards of the profession. Cleveland Grant and his wife Ruth are going deep into the Yukon territory of Canada to film bighorn sheep and other large game.

Few novices may ever be so venturesome or have the means to go so far afield in search of camera trophies. But even short ventures into neighboring regions can provide exciting happenings. Approaching his task with an open mind, alert senses, and proper respect for all of nature, the wild-life photographer is assured not only of interesting exhibits but of exhilarating, enriching personal experience.