Issue link: https://digital.copcomm.com/i/1538125
'GODZILLA' PLUS ONE SEE PAGE 46 By Ricky Kreitman W hen I was in fourth grade, my teacher, Mrs. Rose, didn't know how to operate the 16mm pro- jector. Educational films spilled out like spaghetti, so I stepped in and proudly be- came the class projectionist. I would even splice broken segments with Scotch tape. I know that "projector boy" sounds like the coolest kid in school, and I wore that badge proudly. I knew how to work a projector be- cause I used to make Super 8 movies with my friends. We hijacked the family GAF camera meant for vacations and staged epic productions in the backyard. I'd buy 50-foot rolls of film from the grocery store, shoot them, wait a week for processing, then project our 3½-minute masterpieces onto a white sheet in the garage, holding my breath to see if my grand vision made it onto film. I d a b b l e d i n c l ay m a t i o n , wa r f i l m s (complete with pyrotechnics), and slapstick comedies — a Spielberg wannabe. We edit- ed in-camera. I didn't understand the power of editing yet — not until the day we decided our monster movie needed a cameo from the real Godzilla. We checked out an actual "Godzilla" film from the library, "borrowed" a few frames, and spliced them into our epic. That's what made the movie work. I turned our garage into a makeshift movie theater, invited the neighborhood kids, charged a quarter, made popcorn, and ran double features: first a cartoon from the library, then "my" feature. It wasn't just HOW A SUPER 8 HOBBY LED TO A FILMMAKING CAREER about making movies; it was about creat- ing an experience. Watching an audience respond — laugh in the right places, gasp at the "special effects" — was addictive. Years later, I started college at the University of Texas at Austin as a busi- ness major, but my hear t wasn't in it. I grew up in Texas, so a film career felt like something distant and impossible. But the Austin scene was beginning to bloom. "Slacker" and "El Mariachi" had just put the UT Radio-Television-Film program on the map. So I switched majors and dis- covered the editing bay. We trained on old episodes of "Knott's Landing" and "Gunsmoke," and eventually we cut our own student projects. It was the first time I got to move scenes around, shape rhythm, and build story and emotion. That's when I realized that this was the magic I'd stumbled onto with "Godzilla." Editing wasn't just cutting — it was author- ship. It was the invisible hand that made everything work. I spent my summers working at a sleep- away camp in Bruceville, Texas. I know that "A/V Specialist" sounds like the coolest kid in camp, and I owned it. I shot footage of activities, interviewed campers, and cut together a summer video yearbook using two VHS decks and a controller. That's where I learned to carve a narrative from hours of raw footage — to find an emotional arc, even in color wars and talent shows. My goal was always the same: make them laugh and make them cry. After graduation, I knew that if I wanted to give the industry a real shot, I had to move to Los Angeles. Just before I left, I saw a flyer at camp seeking volunteers to help interview Holocaust survivors for a new foundation started by Steven Spielberg. I signed up immediately. Spielberg had launched the Survivors of the Shoah Visual History Foundation after "Schindler's List." It was a massive effort to document over 50,000 survivor testimonies worldwide. The day after I arrived in LA, I had a drive-on pass to the Universal lot. I was 23 and about to work for the guy I'd been emulating with a Super 8 camera. 23 F A L L Q 3 I S S U E U N I O N M A D E Ricky Kreitman.