There’s something undeniably ironic about watching 16mm footage of people scrolling through their smartphones on a computer or television screen, digitized and color-graded to perfection. Or am I being too cynical? I don’t think so.
But let’s step back for a second. My critique comes from looking at the larger picture of surf films as a genre. Because, in a lot of ways, surf films are like horror movies in that they often lack an in-depth plot, solid screenwriting, and any sort of meaningful character development. Yet somehow, both remain as popular as every other genre out there. They’re on what, the seventh Paranormal Activity now? (And yes, it did get horrible reviews like the rest of the series, but that didn’t stop them!) At the end of the day, the consumer is always right: let’s stream more horror movies and surf films, even without plots or memorable monologues. I’m being honest when I say I’m eagerly awaiting a Snapt 6!
But the problem is that while the Paranormal franchise can be discarded, never to be screened again, we can’t do away with surf cinema. And, unlike horror movies, surf films address real, lived experiences. They have the potential to be beautiful, to document people and stories, to unite people around the world by tapping into shared emotions. But right now, the majority of surf films, especially surf edits, are just… lacking.
Don’t just take my opinion on it. The idea that surf movies are not meeting the mark these days is furthered (nay, cemented) by surf historian Matt Warshaw, who theorizes that The Endless Summer was the exception and not the rule, even creating a standard that could not be topped.
In an article for The Surfer’s Journal, he wrote, “remove Endless Summer and a half-dozen smaller films, and the question hangs there: Why is it so hard to make a good surfing movie? If the sport is so photogenic, and so full of interesting characters, how come it’s something like natural law that the enormous majority of surf-related cinema ends up as repetitive, derivative, cliché, trite or boring?”
I echo Matt’s pessimism towards surf films, but I have a theory to add as to why they often seem lacking. Among the plethora of issues facing surf films, one particular issue is the prevalence – no, shoved-down-your-throat presence – of 16mm (or 8mm) film in surf movies. So ubiquitous, in fact, it seems as though surf filmmakers are trying to cut corners in terms of originality and creativity by cramming a few segments of flickering analog frames between the wave riding and call it a day. Directors like Kai Neville get a pass. But not everyone can get one.
I want to be fair here. Sixteen millimeter film has its benefits: it often feels more authentic, it is easier to use than other analog formats (meaning it can travel with you), and it has a nice visual texture you don’t get using digital formats. It’s also designed for non-commercial use (lower budget pictures) which can be perfect for surf filmmakers looking to make something beautiful without breaking the bank.
But the problem is that it feels even modern filmmakers are leaning maybe a little too much on analog styles. It’s photography 101 to experiment with different formats to achieve a unique look. Shooting film does provide added grit and grain and texture, but once everyone starts filming with grit and grain and texture, it becomes the new normal and we’ve kind of lost the whole idea. Even in rudimentary high school photography classes, students are encouraged to push the limits using pinhole cameras, DIY digital setups, webcams, and even paper laid out in the sun to produce an image in a new way.
Even the best and most beautiful surfing can be monotonous to watch as it is; surely we can think of other ways to capture the act of riding a wave. But before you say, “16mm film isn’t just for style points! It’s the heart and soul of surf cinema!” I would like to say that while many people believe that by shooting film, and spending hundreds of dollars for every couple of minutes (yes, this is really the cost of analog filmmaking) there is a soul to their film that would otherwise not be there. And it’s almost true: The Endless Summer, arguably the most influential surf movie in all of history, was shot on film, and its 16mm premiere tour across the United States exposed surfing to the country in a way that changed people’s perceptions of the activity forever. Morning of the Earth, too, has been remastered from its analog beginnings and has stood the test of time.
But here’s the thing: the fact that these movies were groundbreaking and successful and remembered today had nothing to do with being shot on film. It was the people making them, and the people watching them. Surf movies used to be a real event, and kids would line up outside of auditoriums and theaters to see the hottest surfers riding waves. These events would be rowdy, communal, rebellious, and fun, in the spirit of surfing.
Warshaw adds that “the all-time greatest surf movie star wasn’t Cape St. Francis or Waimea Bay or Gerry Lopez or Shaun Tomson. It was the audience. Ask an older surfer to name his three favorite surf movies, and the titles will be duly produced in a few moments. Now ask what it was like to be there when those movies played, and images charge out of the memory-storing temporal lobes like stampeding cattle: the spinning bottle caps, the BAs, the flaming paper airplanes, the haze of pot fumes, and always the lusty screams, hoots, howls and whistles in the pre-launch darkness just before the opening frames.” Even movies recorded on analog cameras are likely not going to be screened on projectors. So, using older techniques to record modern surfing is not going to make the surf movie “old” again.
The other reason these older movies have stood the test of time is the people behind the screen. For example, take Bruce Brown, someone I imagine those shooting 16mm film today are aiming to emulate. Warshaw writes in Bruce Brown’s Encyclopedia of Surfing entry that, “Brown himself made his first surf movie, an 8-millimeter short, in 1955; two years later, surfboard-maker Dale Velzy bought Brown a new 16-millimeter movie camera and paid his way to Hawaii to shoot Slippery When Wet, Brown’s first feature-length surf film. Slippery was easygoing, colorful, neatly edited, and scored by West Coast jazz favorite Bud Shank – but the movie was in large part defined by Brown’s smooth and casual narration.”
That’s the other thing: the movie was defined by Brown’s smooth and casual narration. Not the use of 16mm film. It is a key component, sure, but not the defining factor. The key to the success and beauty of Endless Summer lies in the filming, the scoring, the narration, the location… an elite combination of elements people today can either copy (which you shouldn’t) or forget about trying to emulate at all because you’re not Bruce Brown.
And then there’s the fact that these filming techniques were actually quite modern for their time. So, if filmmakers today want to be the next Bruce Brown or John Severson or whoever, maybe they’d better whip out the Red Camera instead of the Bolex.
Innovation is a key marker for any good film. Shooting a surf movie with bits of film footage sprinkled in does not a creative film make. Analog footage can be beautiful, but it cannot be the crutch that filmmakers lean on, forfeiting a storyline or quality cinematography or even good waves for.
I’m not saying everyone needs to go out and buy the most expensive, most modern camera out there to be innovative. Often, the best creative expressions are small but mighty. Once, a freesurfer named Hugo was showing me one of his edits, and he said, “everyone’s edits look the same now. And that’s why I dance.” His video cut back and forth to shots of him doing airs, and shots of him running around in a koala costume. Other videos show him and his filmer synchronized dancing. To his credit, it was fun, different, and memorable!
The music behind surf edits can make a world of difference, too. Make your own music, like Dane Gudauskas did in his West Oz edit, or Tom Curren playing piano in the Lost Files of the Search, and you’ve stepped it up a lot. And when the originality of multiple people come together, like with Morgan Maassen’s profile of Ryan Lovelace shaping and surfing his own board, it’s more than a surf film… it’s art.
I’m only critical because I believe surf films can achieve so much more than the pigeon-hole they’ve crawled themselves into. Surf films can be inspiring, beautiful, and expressive. Sixteen mm film is a wonderful tool, and it has its place in surf cinema. But, like Tudor’s analogy for choosing equipment based on wave size: if it’s under three feet, why are you on a shortboard? The same applies here, to filmers. If it’s 2023, why are you still (only) filming the way people did in the ‘60s?
