He was then in the middle of an extraordinary career as a camera operator, having worked with directors out of the mists of the past, like Henry Hathaway and Fred Zinnemann.īut I didn't know that. I first met Mike Roberts on the set of The Company Of Wolves. He is survived by his wife Eileen, his two daughters, Danielle and Georgina, and his mother and sister. That a camera technician should have had this effect - not a movie star, director or producer, but an unpretentious, self-effacing brilliant man, who was never once known to raise his voice - is testament to the respect everyone had for Mike. In many cases, filming literally stopped in Britain and abroad because crews were just too shocked and devastated to be able to work. The sad news of his passing was attached to the call-sheets of the films in production. Last week in the bars of Pinewood and Shepperton studios, the conversations were all about Mike, touching, as he had, the lives of three generations of film people. His gentle manner and unselfish technique (he never needed to ask for repeat takes because of the camera's imperfections, such was his skill) put great actors at ease, allowing them the freedom to be of their best. He also had an extraordinary rapport with actors - being, as he was very often, the closest person to them on a film set. The producer, David Puttnam, remarked: "If ever there was proof that film is a collaborative art form, then Mike is it." On every shot, he would interact with almost every member of the crew, and always with grace and calm professionalism. Receiving his Balcon award, he generously thanked his long-time camera grip, Colin Manning, who, he said, "has probably pushed me halfway round the world to get me here tonight." And all around the world was where Mike filmed, as he relentlessly and passionately worked on one film after another, often without a break, first choice as he was of directors worldwide. No matter if he was filming a Khmer Rouge explosion in The Killing Fields, hanging from a tank on Empire Of The Sun, braving the Iguazú falls on a raft on The Mission, or facing the collapsing walls of a burning church in Mississippi Burning, he never moved away from the camera eyepiece for one second. It's as if the camera is an extension of his body." Liam Neeson once said: "It's incredible to see him at work, bent over the camera, be it 60ft high or racing along a track. As the camera swooped and dipped across a set, balanced on a small platform, Mike would twist and pivot, gently shifting his balance from one leg to the next, his face glued to the eyepiece. One day when the camera operator had flu, he moved up to the seat on the dolly, which he occupied for 65 films.Ī wiry, slender man, his face craggy and leathery from the wind and sun of a thousand locations, he had a gracefulness and agility that made him the acknowledged master of his craft. He moved to ABPC Elstree studios as a central camera loader, and after six years went freelance, working his way up from clapper loader on films like School For Scoundrels to focus puller on A Man For All Seasons. Although he had no formal arts training, his perception of composition and light was instinctive and intuitive, as was his mastery of how subtle and artful camera movement could add power and energy to a shot.īorn in Woking, Surrey, Mike started out as a runner in Fleet Street, catching the bug for film at Southall studios while working for Pearl and Dean. He was our eyes his understanding and "know- ingness" of a scene were consummate. Like many directors, I will miss him terribly. As a director, I made eight films with Mike as my camera operator, and the thought of filming without him, frankly, fills me with dread.
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