Remember your first GF or BF? Of course you do. Mine is Christina McWilliams, a vision of 16-year-old loveliness. She gives me her school pin. I give her mine. We hold hands, kiss and cuddle. I’m taking it slowly and then, poof, it’s over. She wants her school pin back. I cry for a week. I’m through with girls.

For the Love of Mike

Altec 21B Condenser microphone

In 1956 I am working at Radio 2UE. We have a new Altec 21B condenser mic. While her Saarinen curves might break your heart, she is flat from 20 to 15,000 Hz—the perfect blend of form and function. I am in love.

Kicking and screaming, I am conscripted into National Service and taken away for military training. By chance, I see a classified ad for my Altec princess. On my day off, while my Air Force mates are pub crawling, I’m catching a bus to meet the seller, Bill Armstrong. I spend every penny I have buying her. She is my first professional equipment purchase.

When I come home at night, she will be waiting.

She’ll be the truest gal in all this world.

I’d rather have an Altec 21B to call my own,

Than a fickle-minded real live girl.

There Will Be Blood

My love sleeps under my pillow in the Air Force Nissen hut. My fellow conscripts think I’m weird.

One night they try to take her away. I lash out and break the ringleader’s nose. There’s a lot of blood. After that no one dares to touch her or me.

Hey Presto

Presto !C recording head

Out of the Air Force, I buy a Presto 1C cutting head, turntable and lathe and build a mini Abbey Road in my mother’s laundry. I specialize in cutting copies of impossible-to-get LPs.

My biggest hit is The Songs of Tom Lehrer. Lehrer sings of drugs, sexual diseases and poisoning pigeons: all the things that make life worthwhile.

Jazz Me Blues

In 1959, the princess, my friend Robert Parker and I drive to the Cootamundra Jazz Convention. While Robert is recording the jazz using my Altec, I’m filming the event with a new Bolex H16.

A week later I marry wife #1. Big mistake. I should have stayed true to my princess.

Eight Years Later

Wife #1 is gone but I have my loyal techie family: Altec, Presto, Bolex, Éclair and Nagra.

Stefan and Tricia 1968

I make TV spots, pop videos and full-length documentaries. I haven’t dated a girl for six months.

Mike Pearce is a close friend. “Come on, Stefan, you’ve got to start taking girls out again.” Nope, it Hz.

“Snap out of it. Ask the next girl who comes to the door. You can do it.”

On cue, knock knock. I fling open the front door. “My darling! At last I’ve found you. I know I sound crazy but I’d like to ask you out.”

“Oh dear, no. I’m here to meet my daughter, Tricia. She wants some modeling work. You should ask her out.”

Love Me, Love My Nagra

Two months later, Tricia and I are in London. I’m shooting TV interviews, Tricia is recording the sound.

We meet Aussie friends. “Have you got a sound studio? We want to record The Bee Gees Story.” “No, but I can build one. I have a great microphone, an Altec 21B.”

Robert, Tricia and I build Molinare. Twelve years later we have 40,000 sq. ft. and 100+ employees, but my darling Altec has vanished, gone forever.

Princess, thank you: thank you for showing me that there would come a time when I could eventually let you go.

Now she’s got another job for me and it’s brilliant. All is forgiven. A guest lodge in the Sierra Nevada mountains: spectacular scenery, hiking trails, horse riding, hot springs, tall red fir trees, snow-topped mountains and a decent-sized budget to boot. In short, a perfect subject for me and my Phantom Quadcopter.

I bill her for 50 percent up front. She pays quickly. I’m rich. Time to upgrade my Phantom.

Did Gyre and Gimble in the Wabe

I want a DJI Zenmuse H3-2D gimbal for my Phantom. The demo video is a knockout.

First test of the Zenmuse for GoPro from DJI Innovations on Vimeo.

After a full day, we crack it. If the Phantom wobbles, the gimbal keeps the GoPro HERO3 dead stable. Pure magic.

First-Person View

We in the RC biz call it FPV. “Got FPV?”“You bet, it’s an RC Logger.” Jargon for saying you’re transmitting air-to-ground video from your GoPro.

The GoPro’s video signal comes out of the Zenmuse board packed way inside the Phantom. Undo 16 screws and find the board. Plug in the video out wire and push it through a hole in the Phantom shell. Do up 16 screws.

Now I need 5 volts for the FPV transmitter. Gulp. Undo 16 screws. Cut ’n solder. Do up 16 screws. It doesn’t work. So 16 out—rewire—15 back. Where’s that missing screw?

Geronimo, I have FPV. But the idgy-widgy monitor is impossible to see in daylight. Nothing but the best for Mary; I lash out more of my 50 percent upfront and buy an OLED 7.7” monitor and sunshade.

There’s Something About Mary

Zenmuse gimbal holding the GoPro HERO3—FPV transmitter mounted with Velcro

And that something is called Jane. Mary has given her the job of producing me.

I need a producer like a hole in the head.

Now the e-mails start flowing. Jane wants a script, a shot list, a budget—all the usual film school crap. She drones on and on, excuse the pun.

Then suddenly it’s off. Bad weather. Delayed for two months. Hey, it rained for a day. Two months! Summer will be over.

My Beamish Boy

While I’m waiting, I discover Sam. He flies my Phantom like a real pro; sheer artistry to watch. I hire Sam and his brother, Jack, to help me with the shoot. Mary will be pleased.

Then another e-mail from Jane, ONE DAY BEFORE THE SHOOT …

Phantom of the Off Now

Stephan (she can’t even get my name right!), would you absolutely kill me if we needed to reschedule the shoot? I am terribly ill with a nasty flu and just not getting better. I might rally but wanted to take your temperature regarding a possible switch to September or June of next season—2014.

Sam, Jack and I are packed, ready to go—and she pulls the plug. Zap!

Bitter? No, just sad. I really wanted that job.

Miracle at the BBC

I am making a VidiWall about the first 50 years of British television. I am in the office of the head of the BBC’s library.

It’s 1986 and I say, “I used to work at BBC Ealing Studios in 1965. I editedThe Wars of the Roses.”

She replies, “Oh yes, I know that program. The film cans would be downstairs with ten million films and tapes.”

We go down to the vaults. It’s vast; row after row of racks stretching into infinity. Our librarian leads us to the royal vault, a locked cage. “This is where all the films about the royal family are stored.”

She turns and looks at me and goes white. “Where did you get that from?” I look down. I’m holding a 35mm film can labeled The Wars of the Roses—Part 1. I have no recollection of picking it up. Now it’s my colleague Bob Auger’s turn. “That’s impossible,” and he too goes into shock. I’m the only one looking normal. “My party trick,” I jest.

Friends, this is 100 percent true. Out of 10 million films and videotapes, I wind up with my 21-year-old film can mysteriously in my hand.

Strangers on A Train

I’m on a train from Calais to Toulon. It’s a couchette carriage, meaning that the seats are also bed bunks—four to each compartment. Normally there are couchettes for guys and separate ones for ladies. Someone has screwed up and I’m with two middle-aged ladies. They tell me to stay.

The older woman is an actress, Jean Anderson; she is in a BBC TV series,Tenko, and going to Le Lavandou to stay with her friend Betty Franks. “I know Betty.” The other lady is surprised that I should know the person she’s staying with.

She is a dignified, well spoken lady. “You wouldn’t know any of my friends or contacts.” “Let me guess: you live in London, in Hampstead.” “You saw my passport.” “No, of course not. I just guessed.” “Good guess, but where in Hampstead?” Hmmm—it’s like picking a street name in San Jose or Boise or Culver City.

We lived in Gayton Road, Hampstead, so I say, “You live in Gayton Road.” OMG, now she’s turning pale and fidgeting. “What number?” We lived in 56. Our next door neighbor rents out his basement apartment. “You live in 58 Gayton Road.”

Bulls eye!

Next time you’re in a train or on a plane, try guessing where the person sitting next to you lives. You know that’s impossible, but I did it.

Le Chien Miracle

I’m in France shooting for Esso. I’ve written a script where a dog lies down in front of a car. The driver tries to reverse out but the dog runs round to the back of the car.

It’s a five-day shoot. My French Esso client keeps asking me, “Stefan, mon ami, when are we doing the dog scene?” I tell him that it was a silly idea. Nope, he wants the dog.

Now it’s the last day of the shoot.“Stefan, you naughty man, the dog scene, s’il te plaît?” We are in a nondescript suburb—lawns, houses, trees. I look across the road and there in the distance is a man walking a dog. I run over.

“Excusé-moi, je fais un film…” “I speak English, what do you want?” “I’m making a little film over there, I need a dog for a shot.” “But how did you know we were here? This is Radar, the Wonder Dog. We have a show on French television: Radar, Le Chien Miracle.”

That’s three miracles. I have more …

“Wait ’til I tell my wife that I met you. We loooove your stuff. Our favorite story is ‘Dead in Denver.’”

“Thanks,but I didn’t write that. Perhaps you mean ‘Death of A Filmmaker?’”

“No, you’re dead in Denver. I’m sure. It’s our all-time favorite. Do you have a favorite?”

“Let’s find a place to sit down and I’ll tell you my favorite…”

Clickerty Clack

It’s 1976, we’re on an early train to Port Talbot, Wales, where British Steel has its enormous steelworks.

I’m making a 25-minute corporate film for Acrow Engineering with the catchy title, “The Steel Stockholder’s Strongest Supporter.”

I need an opening sequence. It’s a 15-second shot of Michael Barratt, a well known TV presenter, standing in front of a cauldron pouring molten steel. He’ll say something like, “This is where it all starts…”

Who needs a tripod? Not me. I can shoulder-hold without a quiver. Who needs lights? Not us. Hey, there will be plenty of factory lights. So, no lights.

I have a small Éclair ACL 16mm camera with one fixed 12mm lens, just fine for to-camera pieces. Tricia has a Sony ECM77 lavalier mic and a tiny Nagra SN recorder.

Tea and Biscuits

We taxi from the railway station. Michael has driven there and we meet up in the British Steel PR office. The PR man is delighted to chat with a celebrity like Michael. We have morning tea. “When is the crew going to arrive?”

“We’re all here,” I reply.

“Where’s your equipment?”

“Here’s the camera and Tricia has the tape recorder in her pocket.”

“But you will need lights. Last week we had the BBC here and they had three trucks with lights and generators. It’s dark in there.”

Be Afraid, Be Very Afraid

He takes us inside the foundry and he’s right; just pitch blackness. I have screwed up.

I find a good spot for Michael where I can see the steel being poured. His face is in silhouette. I am panicking. The PR man senses my pain and smiles. I hate him.

I see a collection of cardboard boxes, even a newspaper. The guardian angel of filmmakers is with me.

I stack up the boxes between Michael and the camera. Tricia runs the tape recorder. I watch the cauldron as it moves into place.

I borrow a lighter from the PR man. Light the newspaper. It catches fire. The boxes start to burn. The cauldron is about to tip, molten iron about to pour. Roll film.

“Action, Michael.”

Flames Are Growing Higher

“Here at British Steel is where our story starts.” Michael is now behind a wall of fire. The distant cauldron is pouring. Sparks are flying. “The molten steel behind me will find its way into the buildings and bridges of tomorrow.” The flames get lower. His face is lit by a red flicker. “But will this precious asset be stored properly or will it be left to rust on the ground?” Crump. The boxes collapse. The fire dies out.

“I’ve never seen anything like that in my life,” gasps the British Steel man.

On the return trip to London, the three of us are killing ourselves with laughter.

“If this doesn’t come out, we can never go back.”

Firelight Becomes You

The film comes back from the lab and it’s perfect. The flames and firelight are amazing; who needs three lighting trucks?

Michael tells everyone. My exploits go viral. In ’76, I’m known as the guy who lit the fire at British Steel.

**********

“That, Chuck, is the best of my stuff.”

“Wow, great story. You were so cool. How did you lose it?”