The Other Side Of The Camera

Most people feel uncomfortable in the harsh glare of the spotlight. They prefer retreating into the shadows rather than striding to the front of the stage. I’ve certainly never been ready for my close-up, Mr DeMille. Or my medium shot for that matter.

Like most bald, very pale men with British teeth, I belong behind the scenes. About twenty miles behind the scenes. Faraway from the cameras and concealed in the back of the grip truck wearing a fedora and dark sunglasses. And possibly an invisibility cloak, just to make absolutely sure I can’t be seen. Yep, now I’m ready to face the world.

Consequently, having my ugly mug beamed around town on pre-pro Zoom calls or Microsoft Teams has been a decidedly mixed blessing for me. On the one hand, it offers invaluable client face time. On the other hand, it’s my face the clients are forced to look at.

I’ve tried keying myself over a very distracting background. But it doesn’t help. Uncharitable critics might suggest my on-screen presence exudes a veritable Dr Evil vibe. Except I’m merely asking for my day rate, not demanding a million dollars (although I guess that depends on how many revisions there are).

Whenever I receive a virtual meeting invite, my Self-Esteem seriously proposes investment in a Queer Eye For The Straight Guy type makeover. Fake tan, luxurious blonde toupee, dazzlingly white dental veneers. Imagine the bronzed and beached star of a toothpaste advertisement filmed in the Caribbean. That would be me. Everybody else on the Zoom would need to turn their monitor brightnesses down, just to accommodate my blindingly charismatic aura. Although I’d need to quadruple my meagre day rate to afford that much radical remaking and remodeling. So it’s not happening any time soon.

Honestly, after color grading for many years I’d still quit in frustration if required to add warmth and life to my own flesh tones. It’s an impossible job that no amount of FX Face Refinement, Beauty LUT, soft focus, eye-light, forehead shine removal, or saturation boost can fix.

And HD-quality laptop webcams conspire make me appear even more anemic than usual. I was much happier just listening to disembodied voices on old-fashioned, non-visual conference calls. And I didn’t have to pretend to pay attention to the Audio Guy’s nonsense, either. Great days indeed.

So to avoid Zoom personal appearances, I make a point of asking “Could this be an email?” Unfortunately people love sharing sample images and reference videos on their screens, so their reply is more often than not a resounding “No.”

Of course, the resulting video chat is never just me and my client. My client’s client is often invited also. And my client’s client’s friends and family. And anyone at the agency who’s at loose end that day. And so on. Suddenly there are about twenty participant faces staring back at me from the Zoom gallery. Many of them don’t know what color grading even means. And they’re all wondering who the pasty-faced dork mumbling about gamma curves is, and why the host doesn’t mute his microphone already.

Matters came to a head in mid-March. In addition to all my regular physiognomical insecurities, I endured an entire day of invasive oral surgery that restructured my entire mouth. With the perpetual cold and unseasonal snow flurries outside, it felt like being tortured and interrogated by a ruthless, drill-toting KGB dentist: “Who is your periodontal contact in Moscow? Rinse. Where is your dental insurance? Spit. That will be three thousand of your capitalist dollars. Rinse. I’ll see you again in about three months.” But the surgery went well. I told the dentist nothing except my name, rank, and number, and a sorry excuse for not flossing enough.

There was, however, there was a great deal of unpleasant and unsightly swelling around my lips and gums. As if I’d gone overboard with industrial-strength Botox injections. Or fallen victim to some vengeful Tooth Fairy’s terrible curse.

I was still the spitting image of Dr Evil. But a Dr Evil sucking two lemons, extra bitter, one wedged in each cheek. Not a good look, not even for someone who didn’t look good to begin with.

Nevertheless, I could easily conceal my hideous disfigurement behind an old Covid mask if absolutely had to go outside. Or a motorcycle helmet with a very dark visor. Or a black wool bank-robber’s balaclava. Perhaps an ornate, long-nosed Venetian carnival mask, if inspired by a whimsical mood. Or just a proverbial paper bag over my head on the dull days. Covering up my lower jaw wasn’t the problem.

No, far more concerning than that was the spontaneous speech impediment it all caused. Thanks to residual numbing effects from the KGB dentist’s novocain needle, I was “thawking thike thith” all the time. And that was a huge problem.

You see, I was inconveniently booked on an important Zoom call with wealthy new clients. They wanted to hear my thoughts about color palettes and workflow. But all I could think about right then was prescription painkillers and antibiotics. And whether hot packs or ice packs were better for reducing swelling.

Talk about scheduling conflicts (something I was obviously unable to do, at least in any coherent fashion). “Thwow me a fwicken’ bone here!” as Dr Evil might say. If only I employed an efficient secretary to organize my daily calendar. Alas, I can’t afford staff with my current massive dental bills. In fact, I can barely afford Google Calendar now. And that’s free.

I’d need a big bowl of Chicken Soup For The Soul to survive this latest, double-whammy Zoom ordeal, which was lucky since chicken broth and yogurt were all I was allowed to eat for the next two weeks.

When life gives you lemons, make lemonade, as the saying goes. Or, in my particular case: when life gives you lemons, make lemon-flavored antibacterial mouthwash.

One such upbeat strategy is to ‘just have fun with it.’ Be the wild and crazy guy on the call. Crack a series of side-splitting, self-deprecating jokes about my mangled mouth and inability to talk properly. But that entails delivering a punchline without spitting all over my keyboard and mouse. So not a viable option in the circumstances. At least not in the initial stages of the pre-pro, anyway.

I could blame everything on the infamous inefficiencies of whatever meetings app the client uses. ‘I prefer to use the latest open source software you guys don’t have yet.’ But I don’t want the clients to think I’m a snobby whiner and troublemaker who’s difficult to work with. So scrap the finger-pointing plan.

When all is said and done, I guess I should just own it. Explain that I’m a long-suffering casualty of primitive British dentistry paying for the sins of his periodontal past. Maybe I’d be awarded the job as a philanthropic donation from the client to an obviously needy case. ‘Give it to the Phantom of the Opera guy. He looks like he could use some Red Cross humanitarian aid.’

But there was no time for such gambits and gimmicks. I just had to suck it up. Log-on, smear a little grease on my webcam lens to soften the focus, and roll with whatever sledgehammer punches came at me.

Ultimately, the clients did most if not all of the talking on the call. They were busy creatives, preoccupied with poring over style sheets and referencing last year’s video. They barely noticed me amongst all the streams of information. So could I achieve this look they wanted? I said I could. They told me they’d get back to me in a week or so.

Now that wasn’t so bad, was it? Short and sweet. In fact, surprisingly, it all seemed to go rather well. I didn’t even need to repeat everything I said six times with a bag over my head. Score. All that anxiety and self-doubt was for no reason. And my gums will be healed next time I virtually meet with them, so I will be able to speak with authority, confidence and clarity. Bring it on.

However, as you might expect, it’s been over a month now and there’s been nothing except a brief email about the schedule being pushed back until June. Or possibly July or August. Typical. I swear to God, trying to organize a work schedule these days is like pulling teeth.