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An Origin Story: “It’s OK. We Know That You Don’t Know What You’re Doing”

  • Writer: Kevin Huffman
    Kevin Huffman
  • Sep 11
  • 12 min read

I’ve probably told you a part oF this story.  But here’s the rest. 


This is Bob Oliver, and he taught me the absolute best lesson in television and film production.  And in life. 


It seemed like everyone called him Bobby Oliver – the full name. It just flowed together in that very Bostonian way.  “Hey Bobby Oliver.”  
It seemed like everyone called him Bobby Oliver – the full name. It just flowed together in that very Bostonian way.  “Hey Bobby Oliver.”  

He was a very accomplished cameraman for WCVB-TV, an ABC affiliate in Boston.   Just solid.  Capable of hardcore news gathering.  Dead bodies, pressers and racing through the streets of Boston to get to the scene.  Hardworking and quiet.  A cameraman.  A shooter. No one called him an operator or a DP.    


He was occasionally loaned out to the longform unit at the station – for the newsmagazine, Chronicle and other TV specials.   WCVB was one of the few local stations willing to produce longform video.  Maybe they don’t anymore, but they did back then.   

 

Some background... and that makes this a longer read

Sorry, but it’s a better story this way.

    

I was a late bloomer.  A few years before my illustrious (ha!) documentary career took off, I was an arts administrator.   My last gig in that world was in the early 1990s.  I was the Public Relations and Marketing Director at the Institute of Contemporary Art in Boston.  It was a very cool place.  Edgy. Provocative. Exhibitions, music, film, performance art.   I worked closely with its director, David A. Ross and curator Elisabeth Sussman.  They were cool then and I’m sure they are cooler now.



I was good at getting people to buy tickets.  Not just poor art students.  Civilians. People who just liked to check out the arts.  [Shout out to Shelly Lippman, my partner in crime in that shitty little office we shared.  She is a force of nature and now an author].    We wrote press releases about complex artists, launched innovative marketing campaigns, wrote cool newsletters and produced artsy-fartsy public service television and radio spots.  


And I got to meet groundbreaking (and somewhat frightening artists) like Chris Burden.  I spent the day driving Yoko Ono around town for interviews, learned all about The Situationists .



But I was growing restless, feeling like I was selling the story, not telling it.  I had no agency.  No authorship.  Everybody else – the artists, the newspaper critics -- they seemed to be having more fun.    


In 1990 The ICA was in the national spotlight.  Boston was the last stop of the late Robert Mapplethorpe’s exhibit “The Perfect Moment.”   Mapplethorpe died of AIDS.  You can argue that the Mapplethorpe exhibit was ground zero in the culture wars to come.   It was a retrospective photography exhibition – featuring a handful of stark images of gay culture and nudes.  People forget there were other gorgeous photos of lilies. 


Self image of Robert Mapplethorpe
Self image of Robert Mapplethorpe

One section, the X Portfolio, featured graphic images of gay men – some of them black.  These pictures simply caused conservatives to spit fire.  I suppose they were already reeling because of another art installation from artist, Andres Serrano, whose “Piss Christ” sculpture placed a crucifix in a clear container filled with urine.  It was time to dismantle the National Endowment for the Arts.   Sound familiar???


Piss Christ
Piss Christ

North Carolina Senator Jesse Helms (lunatic) said “There is widespread resentment to the American taxpayers’ money being wasted on crude, blasphemous and childish ‘works of art’ by people to whom nothing is sacred.”  If you want to go down the rabbit hole, check out this article about the exhibit.    

For David Ross this controversy was tailor made.  He was and, I’m sure, still is, a radical.  The best kind.  It was time to man the barricades“Leadership is standing up for the American artistic community,” he said, “not capitulating to those who hope to see American art and creative expression hobbled.”   


It was a great time to say “fuck you” to the uptight, right-wing nut jobs who, while fighting moral decay, were doing more to damage civil discourse than any artist ever did. This was, arguably, the beginning of a coarsening of our culture.     


A bit of a radical myself, I found this whole thing exciting -- a social justice fight.   I had never been in the middle of something with such high stakes.  Reporters were popping up everywhere and asking for catalogs.  An editor from the Boston Globe took me out to lunch to try and pry some inside info out of me for a story. 


It was a story that I tried to control (with the help of a political strategist). But I couldn’t tell the story myself.   I was there to spin.  I didn’t want to be a hack.  Fuck PR.


When the fire died down – we never closed down or softened our stance -- I started sneaking out of the office on job interviews.  I wanted to be a producer.  I thought it was cool.  I wanted to have agency (although no one ever said that at the time).  I got close on a couple of gigs.  One producer at WGBH asked me if I knew what time code was.  I think I said it had something to do with the time of day in various countries.  Like time zones.   It’s true, I said that.


Here is where the circle begins to close and the story turns to TV. 


Luckily there was an ICA board member who was sympathetic.  His name is Richard “Bink” Garrison.  His wife’s name was Weezie.  Bink and Weezie   I always liked the sound  of that.  Very Brahmin Bostonian.   Bink was the CEO of Ingalls Quinn and Johnson – the city’s most prestigious ad firm and he put his firm at the museum’s disposal. 

 

Bink was cool.   He handed me a book about finding my rainbow or whatever and it asked me to list the things I wanted most in life.  I wrote,


  1. Be a TV Producer

  2. Travel to Europe,

  3. Have Kids

  4. Grow taller.

   

Another story, but all of these things came true in the span of a couple of weeks. 


Bink recommended I speak to his friend, Paul La Camera, the President of WCVB-TV.


 I know it sounds like I’m wearing rose-colored glasses, but Paul is another wonderful person.   He’s in the broadcasting Hall of Fame and is the epitome of a public servant.  To me (and I’m sure others) he was among the nicest humans in an otherwise shitty business.  He wore a suit. Had a great office.  Was naturally cool.  I could never be like him.  
 I know it sounds like I’m wearing rose-colored glasses, but Paul is another wonderful person.   He’s in the broadcasting Hall of Fame and is the epitome of a public servant.  To me (and I’m sure others) he was among the nicest humans in an otherwise shitty business.  He wore a suit. Had a great office.  Was naturally cool.  I could never be like him.  

Paul convinced me to enroll at Emerson College. 


Long story short – I quit my job, enrolled in grad school, worked full time and made a master’s thesis doc on the cultural expressions of recently arrived immigrants. It’s called “From Kindred Blood.” You can watch if you want.  I produced, directed, shot and edited the film.  I can see all the flaws, but there are some very “Kev-ish” touches in the film that echo in all of my work since. 

   

I also scored an internship at The American Experience at GBH and worked with Judy Chrichton (an absolute legend – terrifying, but brilliant). I drank it all up. 



By the time I graduated in 1993 I just knew was going to be a documentary filmmaker. I had 2 kids, a mountain of debt and no job.  
By the time I graduated in 1993 I just knew was going to be a documentary filmmaker. I had 2 kids, a mountain of debt and no job.  

The first person to take a chance on me was Paul LaCamera.  He had encouraged me to make my doc at Emerson and so I sent him a VHS tape.  He actually watched it and said he could air it overnight on a show that featured student work.  He even took some time to meet with me again.  This guy was the President of the company.  Who does this anymore?


Paul told me the station was going to make its own documentary about the latest wave of immigration hitting Boston.  Immigrants from Asia and Central America, as well as refugees from Bosnia, were transforming nasty old Boston overnight


An Oath of Citizenship Ceremony at Faneuil Hall.  If you've never seen one, you should try to go.  It will make you proud to be an American.  You may cry.
An Oath of Citizenship Ceremony at Faneuil Hall.  If you've never seen one, you should try to go. It will make you proud to be an American. You may cry.

Does any of this sound familiar?  Public opinion polls showed growing anxiety about both legal and unauthorized immigration.  NAFTA was just signed into law.  Thousands of Haitian boat people were fleeing political violence and washing up on beaches in Florida.  Schools were opening and shutting down bi-lingual education.  President Clinton ramped up border control. 


Paul said he remembered working on a story a long time ago about a triple decker that housed successive waves of immigrant families.  Germans, Irish, Italians, Portuguese.   He said he would like to find a house that was home to these new immigrants.   And he wanted to know if I would be interested in finding that needle in a haystack house.  I could be an AP.   I think the pay was $800 a week.   


It was a very happy day. 


When I got to the station, I was told the executive producer of the documentary, we'll call him Barney, was away for a few days.   I was on my own.  I had a phone and a pencil.  There was no internet in sight.   I do recall that there was a standalone terminal that ran MS-DOS.  Control+Shift+F7 and just shoot me in the face. 


I froze – I tried to make some calls to immigration experts and write down some ideas.  I went to the station’s library (they had them back then) and I printed a bunch of articles from the microfiche machine. I still love microfilm.    


 

By Wednesday Barney walked into my sad little office and asked me what I had for him.  “We have a camera crew waiting,” he said.  This was news to me.  I didn’t have squat.  Then he said, “Get me some heads.  We leave in 10 minutes.” 


Getting heads?  I didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about. Are we going to hurt some people? Is this a gay thing?   We got in the crew van.  He said he was going to drop me off at Boston Common.  My job was to do man on the street interviews (MOS) with Boston’s fine citizens and learn about their salty opinions on immigration.  


Barney said he was “going to the library.”  I thought, wow, what a thoughtful guy. 

 

The cameraman said, “let’s get those heads” and we just grabbed people walking down the path over the Garden bridge, and I stammered out a few questions.  “How do you feel about immigration? ,”  “What is your heritage?’  “Should we have an open door?”   I wasn’t terrible and we managed to get something useful.  It was a blur. 


Anyway, it was getting to be lunchtime, so we headed to the car.  Barney was back from the library and in the front seat.  He was passed out.  Drunk.  I think it was vodka because that didn’t smell as bad.  Poor guy.  The cameraman rolled his eyes.   Barney then remembered a guy who was an immigration attorney.  We dropped by his office and got our first talking head.   I was learning.  


I had made some connections with the immigration refugee community for my masters’ thesis doc.  They had helped me to find a Hmong immigrant named Ya Xiong who made story quilts and sold them. 




These are beautiful and tragic folk art – depicting rural life in Laos mountain villages alongside disturbing images of soldiers gunning people down.   I remember filming scenes of Ya and her sister sewing and singing songs. They are true survivors of horror.  But they were happy to be here.  


So, with that experience behind me producing this new “special” was going to be very meaningful.  I felt like I was a “documentary filmmaker” and I was going to make lots of these kinds of films. 


I found a house in Lowell, MA.  It was occupied by a large and somewhat unruly family from Cambodia.  Lowell has a long and complicated immigrant and urban history, so it seemed like the perfect place to set the story.   And, amazingly, there was a pattern of other waves of immigrants living in that house from Germany, Ireland and Italy.  And some old photos. 


I was assigned a camera crew (with audio – which they never do now) and given the opportunity to field produce this section of the story.  I look back now and realize how lucky I was to get this– or maybe Barney didn’t want to do this shoot.  I didn’t care.  I was in the deep end. 


ree

Bobby Oliver was my DP.  


As we drove up to Lowell in the morning, I filled him in on the story.  He seemed interested, but he wasn’t saying much.  He wasn’t passionate like me, I thought.  What is wrong with this guy?  The sound guy (whose name I cannot remember) didn’t seem to give a flying fuck. 


But I wanted them to know that I definitely knew what I was doing.  

A typical triple decker in Lowell
A typical triple decker in Lowell

It was a rundown triple decker. 

The apartment was on the 3rd floor.  The crew wasn’t happy about that.  They didn’t have a lot of gear, but they were going to have to lug it up the steps.  I reached for a case and was quickly told to not touch anything – union rules.   


Weirdly, that made me feel like I was the boss.  The producer doesn’t carry gear!  

He’s important.  The crew was there to do what I want, get the shots I need. 


They work for me. 


As they were getting ready to haul up the gear, I stopped them and told Bobby I wanted an exterior.   “I really like the light we’re getting now.”   It’s worth reminding you that this was a local news special. 


So, I did a thing.  I framed the shot with my hands.  You know, the typical director’s viewfinder with the hands move.  


This isn't me, but that is what I did.  We've all done that, right?
This isn't me, but that is what I did. We've all done that, right?

They looked at each other and said, “Ok, it’s your story, but we could get it later.”  I insisted.  Bobby set up the tripod and started rolling.  I had no idea what he was getting so I asked him to let me see the shot through the viewfinder.  He looked at me kind of funny and said, “Ok, here you go.  Have a look.”  I made another frame with my hands and said I wanted it “wider.”  That was the word I used. 


Then we got inside.  It was chaos.  Kids everywhere.  Old grandparents had suddenly materialized out of thin air.  English was in very short supply.  


I decided to herd everyone on the couch and try to talk to the one person who could speak English – ask her what they are doing there in Lowell?  How did they get here?  Were they happy? It was a colorful scene.  And I wanted to capture it all.  



I did the hands framing the shot thing again for Bobby to know my "vision."    It was hot and stuffy.  I suddenly thought it might be better to reverse the angle and re-set the lights.  I don’t know why.  I wanted pictures of everything – the bowls of rice; the tea cups, the toys on the floor.  


I was “Mr. Director Guy, Mr. Producer Guy.”   


Mr. Director Guy, Mr. Producer Guy.
Mr. Director Guy, Mr. Producer Guy.
Then Bobby looked at me and asked me if we were done.  I said, "I guess we can be done."   He said he would just pop off a few shots.  I wanted to know what and why and how.  He wasn’t talking to me.  We said goodbyes and we humped down the stairs and out to the car.  
 
Bobby was putting the gear away. I don’t know what the sound guy was doing.  Smoking a butt, probably.
 

Bobby stopped packing up the car.   

He looked at me and said; “It’s OK.” 


I was confused. I thought he had done something wrong.  “Sure. it’s OK. What’s OK?


“It’s OK that you don’t know what you’re doing.”


“What do you mean?”  


“Well, we know what we’re doing.  But you were ordering us to do this and that and making that thing with your hands.   We’re here to help you.  If you just tell us that you don’t know what you’re doing, we’ll help you.


we would definitely help you get what you want, and more.  It’s better that way


People back then didn’t say “You don’t want to be THAT guy.”  But that’s what he was saying. He didn’t outright say I was being an ass, but I was. Maybe he was just trying in his own way to cut down on the number of future assholes in the business.  

THEN He said, “Well, just so you know, we didn’t have any cutaways.  That’s what I was getting at the end there.  We have to be sure to come back to the station with usable footage.  If not, they’ll ream me out, not you.” 

I’m not good at being humble.  My pride has fucked me up plenty of times in my career.  I can still be Mr. Producer Guy when I need to. Occupational hazard.   But I try not to be an asshole.   


The older I get (and I am a long way from that parking lot) I continue to use that advice. 

I like to think that I’m smart enough to know when I don’t know anything and I pass this advice along to anyone who will listen.   


I can’t stand being around no it all’s -- unless they truly know it all.  Those people I love.

You know, Barney turned out to be a kind of genius in his way.  He managed to get this “special” on the air in record time.  I think it was called “The Golden Door” or something like that. I may have a copy somewhere.  It’s probably on ¾ inch.   


Bobby and I worked together a few more times. I always liked him. I've lost touch. He’s probably retired with a house down at the shore and some grandkids. He was never one to talk much.   Just enough. 

  

So, if you’re out there reading this, Bobby, I just want to say thanks.  


And no more of the hand framey thing.  Ever. Promise.     



I'd love your feedback on this story. Write to me at kevinhuffman123@gmail.com.

  

 
 
 

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