EXCERPTS
From The Cameraman in Clogs - Always Rolling
Three short chapters from the book. Each takes a few minutes to read.
• MAY THE SCHWARTZ BE WITH YOU • FREE AND FAIR ELECTIONS, HAITI STYLE
• YOU’RE UNDER ARREST
May The Schwartz Be With You
-A moment with Mel Brooks I’ll never forget-
Before I became the cameraman in clogs, I would walk through a door, and someone would call out, “May the Schwartz be with you,” from the classic comedy Spaceballs. The line followed me everywhere. On sets. Sidewalks. Inside stores. Sometimes it was shouted from across the room. It was my punchline and personal greeting, rolled into one.
Then one day, I met the man who created it. Mr. Mel Brooks.
I was shooting behind-the-scenes on the 2005 remake of his movie, The Producers. The interview took place in a quiet midtown office, steps from the real Broadway. We weren’t sure what mood we’d find him in, since his wife, actress Anne Bancroft, had recently passed away.
We rode the elevator up, knocked, and waited. The door slowly creaked open.
No assistants. No security. No entourage.
Standing there alone was the unmistakable, mythical Mel Brooks himself.
In his raspy Brooklyn accent, he welcomed us. My producer and soundman introduced themselves first. My heart was hammering. How would he react when he heard my name? Would he laugh? Ignore it? I had no clue.
I stepped toward him. Placed my camera on the floor. Extended my hand and said, “Hi, I’m Jeff Schwartz.” My Queens accent, unmistakable.
He looked straight at me and said nothing.
Then he stepped closer.
Reaching out, he took my hand in both of his, holding it tight.
Our eyes locked, as if it was written into the script.
Several long seconds passed.
His hands slipped from mine. His gaze stayed.
Then, with perfect theatrical flair, he stepped back, bowed his head, raised his hands like a rabbi giving a blessing, and said in that oh-so-familiar voice,
“May the Schwartz be with youuuuuu.”
My jaw dropped. The biggest smile spread across my face.
I relived that moment every time someone called my name. The line I'd heard a thousand times no longer felt the same. It carried the creator's blessing.
I wasn't just the guy with the camera anymore. I belonged on that set.
Mel lit up the room telling stories from The Producers, Blazing Saddles, and Young Frankenstein. He was brilliant, animated, grieving, and gracious, all at once.
Mel Brooks is one of the many legends I’ve filmed, but this isn’t a book about icons.
It’s about the places a camera can carry you. How holding one gave me a front-row seat to the unexpected, pulling me into stories I never saw coming. Stories that would define me.
Those videos live forever in a digital universe.
But the stories behind them live right here.
More excerpt from behind the camera ↓
Free And Fair Elections, Haiti Style
-We tried shooting the journey of a market woman in Haiti. What happened next still haunts me-
We met Rosa in the Port-au-Prince market. She sold limes from a sliver of a stall and smiled often, even when it seemed there wasn’t much to smile about.
She lived deep in the countryside, about ninety minutes away by car. She didn’t have one, so she took tap-taps, colorful pickup trucks packed with passengers. The commute took most of a day each way.
She would stay at the market for several nights, selling fruit until every lime was gone. Then she’d head home with a few dollars. Two, if she was lucky.
Our producer Martin bought out her stall and asked if she’d let us film her story, a small video portrait to include in our broader coverage of Haiti’s first democratic election.
She agreed.
Driving into the countryside, the poverty was impossible to ignore. Houses made of mud, tarp, and scraps of metal sagged beside the road. Canals overflowed with fecal sludge. The smell kept me breathing through my mouth.
Rosa’s home was a two-room hut she shared with her husband, children, and extended family. No electricity. No plumbing. They cooked over a fire pit, used a hole in the ground as a toilet, bathed in the river, and drew drinking water from a communal hand pump.
Her children stared at Joanne, my sound person, fascinated by her pale skin and strawberry-blond hair. One little girl reached out and gently touched it.
“Bel,” she said, smiling. Beautiful in Creole.
Joanne smiled back and snipped off a few strands for them to keep.
“I hope it brings them luck,” I said.
I thought about my own kids at home, their clean sheets and school lunches.
We came to Haiti to cover a story. For Rosa and these kids, this story was their life.
She took us to the fields where she picked limes. Filling a burlap sack, she hoisted it onto her shoulder and strained under its weight. It had to be forty pounds.
We decided to film a reenactment of her trip to the market.
She climbed onto a tap-tap. I joined her briefly in the back of the truck with the other passengers, camera rolling. At the next stop I jumped off and got into our jeep so I could shoot the truck approaching from another angle.
She started to climb down to follow me.
I waved her back.
“Stay there. We’ll catch up.”
She nodded, but I wasn’t sure she understood.
Our jeep pulled ahead so I could set up the next shot.
When the tap-tap arrived, Rosa wasn’t on it.
We drove down the road and saw a crowd gathering.
Fruit was scattered across the dirt road.
Rosa lay on the ground, bleeding and unconscious.
My stomach dropped.
There were no phones. No medics.
We lifted her into the back seat of the jeep. Joanne held her head in her lap while Martin drove. Ninety silent minutes over rocky roads back to Port-au-Prince. Every pothole sent another jolt through Rosa and through us.
I kept replaying the last shot in my mind.
Had our filming contributed to her fall?
Did she jump off to follow me?
Was she pushed? Robbed?
With every bump came more questions.
Blood seeped from her head. Her body was limp, but she was still breathing.
The hospital was uninhabitable. Bloodstains covered the walls and floor. The smell of disinfectant and something worse spoiled every breath. There was no mattress, no bedding. It was stifling hot, yet a chill ran through me.
For twenty American dollars we convinced a doctor to examine her. He spoke English and had trained in the United States.
He handed me a list of medicines and supplies.
“Patients must buy their own,” he said.
I went to get them. Joanne stayed beside Rosa. Martin went to the German embassy to try to find better care. The educated elite who lived in gated communities didn’t use hospitals like this.
Helpless, scared, and ashamed, I didn’t know what else to do.
I had a camera, not a cure.
We came to Haiti to tell a story about democracy and hope.
Now this was our story.
That night a quarter moon hung over Port-au-Prince as darkness covered the city. We left Rosa in that hospital and drove back to the hotel.
The contrast was obscene.
We had clean sheets and air conditioning while she lay on a grimy gurney.
Martin assured us she would be okay.
I wanted to believe him.
Another excerpt from behind the lens ↓
You’re Under Arrest
-A routine shoot in Manhattan turned into something I never expected-
I was arrested for doing my job.
Can you imagine? I don't have to.
On a gray, drizzly day in May, we were scheduled to shoot a segment for CNN's World Beat, an international music show featuring everyone from Tony Bennett and David Bowie to U2.
We were at Sean John Fashion's headquarters in the Garment District, getting ready to shoot Sean Combs, also known as P. Diddy, Puff Daddy, or simply Diddy, whatever name he used that week.
Our host, actor, model, and former Miss Hawaii World, Brooke Alexander, often taped her stand-ups outdoors on city streets. Since Diddy hadn't arrived yet and the rain had stopped, we stepped outside to record her intro.
You've probably noticed how many outdoor movie scenes look like they were shot right after a rain. That's a common Hollywood trick called a "wet-down." Spray the streets with water to make the pavement shine, reflections pop, and colors glow.
This time, nature handled it for us. The rain was real, and so was what followed.
We started filming Brooke's stand-up. Her voice sounded sharp against the background noise of traffic.
That’s when a New York City cop approached and said, “Move on. You can’t shoot here.”
"Why not?" I asked.
"You can't film on the sidewalk," he said. "Do you have a permit?"
"We're a CNN news crew," I replied. "We don't need one."
According to the city's rules, handheld news crews shooting on public property and not blocking foot traffic don't need permits.
Reason didn't seem to matter to this officer. His irritation grew, as did Brooke's. She started writing down his name and badge number. He turned to her and barked out his name, spelling it letter by letter.
"MCDONNELL. M-C-D-O-N-N-E-L-L."
I raised my camera, pointed it toward them, and hit record. That's when everything blew up.
He lunged forward, slamming his summoner’s book against my lens. Before I could react, he twisted my left arm behind my back.
"Now you're creating a public disturbance," he said. "You're under arrest."
"Are you serious?" I yelled. "Under arrest for what?"
No answer.
I felt the cold pinch of handcuffs and heard him call for backup on his walkie-talkie.
My soundman took the camera off my shoulder and kept rolling. The cable came loose, so the arrest was recorded in silence.
McDonnell yanked both my wrists behind my back as the metal cuffs bit into my skin. Then he pressed me against the building with the full weight of his belly.
He read me my Miranda rights. I couldn’t believe it. Definitely a first. Arrested for doing my job.
People stopped, stared, and rushed by. For them, it was just another day on 39th Street.
Brooke contacted the CNN office.
A squad car pulled up.
Like a scene from a cop show, McDonnell escorted me to the back seat, pushed my head down, and squeezed in beside me.
On the ride to the precinct, I asked him to loosen the cuffs digging into my wrists, but he didn't.
Arrested for shooting a stand-up. I laughed on the inside at the absurdity of it all.
At the precinct, the desk sergeant, perched on his desk, looked down at me, then at McDonnell. He seemed confused. Can you imagine how I felt?
"Do you know what's going on here?" I asked.
The sergeant shrugged, pretending to be clueless.
McDonnell reached into my pocket, took out my wallet, grabbed my driver's license, and counted my cash. He returned the money to the wallet and noted the amount. Checking my other pockets, he found a small tin box with little white pills. He asked accusingly, "What's this?"
“Starbucks mints,” I said.
He frisked me from head to toe and then locked me to a metal pole in a holding room.
Sitting in the adjacent cell were two women dressed for a working night on the streets. If they hadn't been there, I’m sure I would have been.
McDonnell left me there. Another cop came in, grinning. "Your crew is waiting in the lobby," he said.
Then, eyeing my shoes, he continued, "So, what did he arrest you for, wearing those clogs?"
Great, I thought. A comedian cop. And I was the punchline of his jokes.
Neither he nor the other officers questioned McDonnell's motives. I saw how easily power can be perverted.
Forty minutes later, McDonnell returned and handed me two summonses, one for disorderly conduct and the other for obstruction and failure to comply.
He told me to sign them. I refused. He scribbled "Refused" across the signature line himself.
With a court date in two months, I was free to leave. As I walked out of that precinct with my crew, I kept seeing the anger on his face. The power he had to turn a reporter’s standup into an arrest. We weren’t doing anything wrong, but a badge decided otherwise.
I've shot on military bases and in prisons, inside the UN, and at foreign embassies. I’ve had Secret Service clearance and filmed Prime Ministers, Kings, and five United States Presidents.
McDonnell's actions bent my beliefs about authority, liberty, and civil rights. It became crystal clear that police can discriminate, prejudge, and act with impunity if they choose to do so.
Serve and protect can easily become command and control.
I believe most cops aren't like McDonnell. Unfortunately, I met him that day.
A week before my court date, a CNN attorney called. The charges were dropped, and my record was expunged.
The Diddy interview never took place, but I ended up with something better.
This story.
