The 9 Circles of Edit Hell
A documentary-maker’s descent into madness.
Apologies – it’s been a few weeks since I last ‘sub-stacked’.
Why? Well, mostly because I’ve been lost in an edit, and as anyone who’s spent time trying to craft a compelling story from a mountain of rushes will know, it can be thrilling, intense and deeply frustrating.
Whether it’s a script-heavy piece which requires the writing skills of a tabloid front page (and yes, that takes skill!) – or a commentary-free doc that’s allowing its subject matter to guide us through unfolding narrative, as well as emotion – the edit can pose a myriad of different challenges.
Throw in the challenge of trying to satisfy a client’s / broadcaster’s needs (ensuring the tone and style appeal to their key audience and echo their wider ‘brand’), ever-shrinking budgets and schedules, and the fact documentary and factual television is a smorgasbord of subjectivity that makes it nigh on impossible to please everyone – and you’re left somewhere between creative flow and existential despair.
So, since I recently wrote about Television’s Ten Commandments, I figured it was only fair to balance things out and take a trip in the opposite direction – journeying through the fiery chaos of Dante’s Inferno. A descent into the depths of creative hell…
Limbo – The Assembly Abyss
This is where every edit begins. Not with a bang, but with tens of hours of footage and no idea what your story is. You may have mapped out a running order and shoot script before filming began, logged every frame of your footage, transcribed all your interviews, even readied a battalion of multi-coloured Post-it notes to march proudly across the edit suite wall.
None of that will save you now. You’re not cutting yet. You’re assembling – like someone building IKEA furniture with no manual and six screws missing. There’s no music, no narration, no polish. Just a bleak, grey timeline and the slow dawning realisation that half your contributors forgot to mention the key bit of the story (well, your director forgot to ask them.) But never mind. No one’s yelling yet. But no one’s smiling either.
Lust – Longing for Better Rushes
Now comes desire. The initial, glass-half-full “I think it’s going to be fine” attitude adopted by yourself and your editor has been replaced by a growing desperation for more.
You crave shots that don’t exist – the POV (point of view) that was never filmed, or the second camera that was running but which was identical to the main camera. You long for your producer’s interview questions to follow up on previously undisclosed details (but they don’t, because the producer was knackered after being up all night dealing with a contributor welfare emergency). You wish the shooter could cover actuality on their prime lenses and that you’d checked their references before hiring them.
But as you scroll through footage hoping something magical appears – something you missed – it doesn’t.
Fraud – The Project You Were Sold
It was pitched to the channel as a hard-hitting access documentary. Now, halfway through the edit, it turns out most of that access didn’t come off. Or was never properly agreed. Or fell through completely.
So instead, you’re crafting meaning from scraps: making four minutes of waffle sound profound; reworking timelines so they vaguely add up; constructing jeopardy from a soggy tea-bag.
You’re no longer editing. You’re mythmaking. Everyone nods like this was always the plan. It wasn’t.
Gluttony – The Timeline Buffet
At this point, the edit suite becomes a feast – but not a healthy one. You’ve stuffed the timeline with every clip that might be useful. Really long interview answers that will never make it, but you like them too much to cut. Every bit of b-roll. Five different ways into the story – and no way out.
And you still don’t know how it ends.
It’s bloated and indigestible, and you know deep down you can’t blame anyone else anymore. But you can’t stop. What if that one shot of the dog barking turns out to be crucial later? You throw it in. Just in case. You’re not building a film – you’re hoarding footage like it’s the apocalypse.
Greed – The Impossible Cut
The exec producer pops in. They’d “love to see the first couple of parts.” They stress “it doesn’t matter if it’s very rough, I just want to get a sense of tone and the characters.”
You know what that means: they’ll watch it and panic because it’s not brilliant and completely polished (which is exactly what does happen).
Despite your very reasonable suggestion that their concerns will be assuaged in the second pass – and it really would be better if you could get to the end of the timeline before addressing notes – they insist that embarking on a complete re-work of the first 8 minutes is the best thing to do.
Your editor wonders why you didn’t hold firm (like you said you would). Their respect for you after you fought for the shot of the barking dog was low enough. Now it’s full-blown resentment. Your editor says nothing, but the way they push their chair back says plenty.
Wrath – The Internal Storm
By now, the frustrations are no longer low-level. You’re not just tired or jaded – you’re angry. The kind of simmering, helpless rage that builds slowly over weeks of invisible effort and shifting goalposts. You shout internally at the contributor who never gave a clean answer. At yourself, for being foolish enough to care this much.
You start slamming your water bottle down harder than you need to. You tut when the editor mislabels a sequence. You write sarcastic comments in your edit notes – then delete them. You snap at WhatsApp messages from your partner, who just wants to know if you’ll be home late (you will).
This isn’t the productive fury of a creative visionary. This is impotent fury. The kind that eats your insides and makes you fantasise about quitting television entirely to become a gardener. Or a postman. Or someone who works with wood and never opens a Google Doc.
Heresy – The Forbidden Tone
After many long hours spent re-working structure and script, you make a breakthrough. You have a story that feels like it’s finally working. It’s more than the sum of its parts, at times clever and subtle (even if you do say so yourself – and the editor groans).
Full of hopeful expectation, you show it to your Exec, and one thing becomes abundantly clear: they don’t want your clever, subtle film.
You are very clearly told to “speak to the kids at the back of the class.” That’s code for: make it obvious, then make it more obvious, then repeat it again.
They don’t care if you’re explaining nuclear subs, detailing the emotional impact of a harrowing crime, unpicking a financial collapse or describing ancient belief systems – you must do so in a way that assumes your viewer is half-watching while scrolling their phone and doing the dishes.
And just when you think you’ve salvaged something elegant, Compliance arrives. That powerful line? Too speculative. The perfect archive clip? Unclearable. The moment that made people cry in the edit suite? Too risky.
You re-type a line for the sixth time, slowly draining it of intelligence, like pasta left too long in the pan.
Violence – The Airless Tomb
The edit suite has no windows. The air con makes a sound like a dying goat. You’ve had the same Pret sandwich three days in a row (yes, it’s a middle-class problem, but it’s a serious one, goddammit!).
The Avid crashes every time your editor hits play. The mic makes your VO sound like it’s underwater. You email tech support. They suggest restarting. You already restarted. You restart again.
Your Garmin thinks you’re dead. You haven’t walked in hours. You used to be a human. Now you’re just a cursor with eye bags.
Treachery – Notes from the Void
Finally, you deliver your best cut yet to the channel. It’s honest, structured and sharp. You’ve worked late every night. You’re proud. Even your Exec seems mildly excited.
Then the commissioner replies:
“Watched on the train. Only got 15 mins in. Can we make it more punchy?”
The silence in the suite is heavy. You stare into the middle distance. Your editor says: “Tea?” You nod. And begin again.
Every word, completely true. My life on rinse and repeat!
All the things they didn't shoot on location which somehow becomes the fault of the edit.
When a commissioning editor views the rough cut of a film in which people speak different languages (including English) and are subtitled, and then asks you to recut the film so we are never more than five minutes away from someone speaking English, what circle of hell is that? Obviously they were told that wouldn’t be happening.