Jimmy always had a thing about film photography. As a young lad in Manchester, he watched old movies at the Withington Scala, not for their story, action or dialogue, but for the cinematography. He drooled over John Ford's depiction of the rugged Utah-Arizona landscape filmed through a barn door in 'The Searchers', and Carol Reed's quirky steep-angle shots of post-war Vienna's rain-soaked cobbled streets in 'The Third Man'. They were film director gods, and Jimmy idolised them.
He hankered to be a director himself, but it was a job requiring a high level of man (and woman) management skill, whereas zoom factors, aperture settings, soft focus, tripod alignment and chromatic aberration were technical issues which he could chat about with consummate ease. Chat, however, not liable to procure him many girlfriends.
After graduating with a photography degree, Jimmy freelanced doing stills and video for weddings and similar functions. Ironically, his innovative talents were not always totally appreciated. Several brides had been disappointed with his unconventional style, preferring a more traditional wedding album, with people posing formally in-a-row-smiling, rather than being shot from behind looking back over their shoulder, and the like.
He also managed to get work for an advertising agency, and at one point excitedly submitted footage for a toothpaste commercial. It featured his synchronisation of the glint in a hunky would-be suitor's eye with the sparkle of a warm ray of sunlight falling upon the open mouth of the girl with the perfect teeth, who supposedly used the toilet product in question.
The shot, never aired, was consigned to the cutting-room floor. And Jimmy's proud mum had sat in vain through several episodes of Coronation Street just to catch the ad.
But America was where it was at, so Jimmy packed his bags. Well, bag... and camera case. His eventual ambition was Hollywood, but for the moment, his finances stretched only to a temporary work permit, and a flight to the Big Apple.
Jimmy soon knew he had made the right decision. After just a few days in town, at a bar in Greenwich Village, a tall black man of Rastafarian persuasion eyed him up and down through dilated pupils, approached, and addressed him.
"Youz dat limey dude wid da fancy Nikon?"
Jimmy figured obviously he had been spotted out and about Manhattan with his camera, capturing the stark contrast between the uncompromising downtown scrapers and the laid-back sprawl of the 'Village'. And his new-found friend clearly recognised his brand of equipment.
"Yes. Hi. James Woodbridge. You must have seen me photographing these wonderful streets. Can I buy you a drink?" Jimmy hoped it wouldn't amount to anything too expensive.
"Be allowin me, dude," offered Bruno, the man with the dreadlocks. He signalled to the barman, who duly delivered a concoction Jimmy didn't recognise, but swigged to be polite with a grateful Mancunian 'Cheers!'
"Be lettin me cut to da quick, Jimbo. You handle a Pee Em Dubya Tree Hunderd?" The New Yorker was hardly talking the Queen's English, but it was Jimmy's language.
"The PMW-300?" Jimmy enthused. "The new Sony XDCAM with the EX mount lens system? Sure thing. Best cam around for HD!" Jimmy had never used one -- it was way out of his price range. But he was confident he could handle one, given half a chance.
"Hmm..." Bruno deliberated. "Be lettin me see... Jimbo, if youz lookin to hit da movie scene big time, I be knowin a certain top dude... be excusin me while I make a call." Jimmy couldn't believe his luck.
Bruno was a fixer. He had a million contacts in New York, and was able to supply anybody with almost anything, including TVs, automobiles, cameras, cell phones, and Bob Marley memorabilia. And girls. And various substances. And in Jimmy's case, an expert cameraman familiar with the particular model of movie camera Bruno had recently 'acquired' for Luigi, his 'top dude' regular client.
They walked the couple of blocks to a backroom studio in a seedy apartment building owned and managed by Luigi's dubious organisation.
"Mr. Luigi, sir, this here's Jimbo the limey I wuz bein tellin you bout. He one of Yeurop's finest camera monkeys. What he done know bout video shit aint worth shit. And he can handle this here Pee Em Dubya Tree Hunderd like he wuz shellin peas."
Luigi was broad shouldered, shaven-headed, and looked like he was made of granite. And according to Bruno, as Jimmy learnt during the short journey from the bar, no one messed with Luigi. No one. Bruno didn't mention what happened to Luigi's previous lens-man who had absconded with the last camera.
Luigi eyed both Jimmy and Bruno with suspicion. "You fucken with me, Bruno? This kid looks wet behind the ears."
Jimmy's resolve was beginning to falter.
As if to clarify, Luigi added: "I ain't splashing a thousand fucken bucks a week on some mutherfucken amateur."
Jimmy's resolve perked back up. He wondered if he had heard right. Did Luigi say 'a thousand... a week'?
The big man reluctantly summoned his assistant. "Dolores!" Then, turning to Jimmy, warned: "And kid, fuck up and I'll spread your limey ass all over the fucken street." No pressure then.
