Working on a Netflix drama wasn’t part of the plan in early 2020. Neither was Covid. Both these events were absolutely not on my radar when I woke up on January 1st that year. Skip forward six months and I’d lost my consulting job due to the pandemic, the planet was in lockdown turmoil, and a close family member had successfully auditioned for a principal role in a kids’ sci-fi adventure show. The clue’s in the description; ‘kids’, meaning she was not a grownup. And filming away from home for six months, in a professional adult environment, meant she needed a chaperone. Step forward, unemployed Huey.

It was the most fluid, unpredictable, and the most exhilarating working environment I’d ever known. It still is. How could it not be, for an outsider like me. It could also be be mind-numbingly boring (repetitive takes, the same scene shot from a different angle, equipment set-up and coordination etc.).

However, I saw, experienced, and learned more than I could have ever have imagined on that show. It was a privilege. I had no responsibility other than look after my charge; ensure she knew her lines, was safe, happy, fed and watered, and in the right place at the right time. I had a front row seat among a cast and crew of hundreds, on interesting locations and sets, watching a high-end production put together.

I met actors; directors; assistant directors; directors of photography; camera, lighting and sound crew; location and set designers; costume designers; animators and puppeteers, SFX and VFX specialists; producers; exec producers; script editors and; script writers.

I was one of the first people to receive the daily call sheet at the crack of dawn (the sequence of scenes to be filmed that day, and the rollcall of individuals and teams required – and where, when – plus the scripted lines themselves) on behalf of my young actor. Oftentimes the script was subtly changed overnight. The directors, writers and producers having concluded, for whatever reason, edits were necessary. Later that day, I would watch the script editors and directors work with the cast to hone performances, and offer guidance, if the descriptive slug lines weren’t clear, or a performer just wasn’t getting it.

Some actors ‘pantsed’ their scenes, to use a writing term. Others rehearsed beforehand. It was generally a good idea to arrive on set with at least a notion, if you were a performer.

I’d never seen an actual, real script before. Let alone one being used live, right before me. The compact daily A5 (or ‘half letters’ if you’re in the US) call sheets produced fresh each night, codified in a single document, everything each member of the team needed to know. From risk assessments, where to get your daily Covid test (one outbreak on set and we’d be stood down indefinitely; think what the wasted daily burn rate on that would be). All the way to transport movements, drone flights, B-roll filming, security, catering menu. And of course, the aforementioned script.

The thing that strikes you about a script though, is its brevity. Everything is pared down. Especially the actors’ dialogue. With a film or TV show, the visuals and sound do much of the heavy lifting, as indicated by the slug lines (the important information about a scene. Of this there can be plenty) contained within the script. I was able to see original scripts (pre-production) and how much verbiage and superfluous exposition had been removed from the final version clutched by the actors, directors. Everybody. They are a work of art. And you can say that about most, if not all scripts, whatever you might think of the eventual show or film. Folk pour their hearts into them. Reshaping, whittling, polishing. Sometimes even wholesale amputation. And it’s a team effort.

It really struck home how much goes into what we, as consumers of the final product, take onboard when we watch a screen. How we process information. It’s as much about what’s not being said, as what is.

‘Less is more’, or rather, ‘cut, cut, cut!’ was a lesson taught me repeatedly in my early days as a news journalist. It was explained how easy it was to be a broadsheet journalist (think the Times, Daily Telegraph or The Guardian, here in the UK) with all that available column acreage to write a story. Not so the tabloids, or ‘red tops’ as they’re known. Their journalists have a brief moment, and a fraction of the space, to grab attention and tell a story.

In my naivety I thought I could simply ‘lift and shift’ my journalism skills into fiction writing. Besides which, I’d studied creative writing, been a magazine editor and worked as an ad copywriter. All good training. Not at all. They’re so very different – beyond the telling of a story or a message. It was only spending that precious time working on the Netflix show I came to realise the deftness required to convey complex scene action and direction into the smallest, tightest moments. And that starts with the script. I also have to thank my former creative writing tutor at UEA, fifteen years ago, for emphasising the point too. Telling stories through inner lives and outer actions, symbolism and scenery. Tropes and clichés, if we must (efficient shorthand for a longer message). It’s like a magician’s sleight of hand; the illusion of something happening on the right, but the left is where the action is. My former tutor’s words finally came to mean something.

In an idle moment at the catering truck one day, a producer said to me each scene had to either progress the story, develop the character, or provide action, ideally with humour (for this particular show), if not tension. Ideally all three or four. That’s after a scene is set-up (establishing shot; revealing location, time and tone etc). None of this will be news to you writers out there. That’s a big ask for a few lines.

The script editors, when not sat on directors’ chairs in a Zenlike state carefully following the filming, calling out errors, were generous with their time. I asked many questions about those scripts. It was fascinating to hear them say, repeatedly, that clarity in a script was an absolute ‘must’. You cannot have ambiguity; leaving the risk different editors, or directors – heaven forbid the actors! – might misinterpret a scene, thus, at best, killing continuity when the next editor or director picked up the reins (it was a ‘season’ of shows). The message must be clear to everybody, from performer to camera operator.

Finally, the other takeaway for me was the crew’s attitude of, ‘just get the f**king thing done’. A deadline’s a deadline, and if you’ve hired a famous landmark for a week, you better be ready to roll. There’s no second chance, and there’s also the small matter of a budget. The effort, especially by the crew, working through the hardest of Covid times, was simply extraordinary. Late nights and early starts. Snow storms. Car crashes. Power cuts. Stunt failures and injuries. Covid (yes, it did happen. Twice). Not forgetting curious locals, tech and equipment failures, sick actors. Even a large refinery fire. But the crew never batted an eyelid, for the show must go on. It just must. And so it was.

I took the spirit and the learnings from those precious ‘Netflix’ six months and within a year was on my way. I’d given up alcohol too. When a child’s your 24/7 responsibility and you’re on your own, in a strange place far from home for months, and every morning’s an early start, you can’t afford to imbibe. I had more energy and focus and lost most of my anxieties. I even used my time on the show to inform certain scenes for the forthcoming novel.

So, after years of filing away umpteen attempts, I finally knuckled down and just got the ‘f**king book written’. It wasn’t perfect, it was just the start, and I have plenty to learn, but as someone said, if you’re not trying and failing, you’re not learning and progressing. And every experience is a lesson.

Thankyou, Netflix.

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