Discovering the Story Within the Footage with Michael Papavero

From getting into his first film festivals at twelve to living on a sailboat so he could edit indie features at 21, Michael Papavero has always pursued post production with genuine passion.

Over the last decade, he has cut everything from features and short-form narrative to high-profile commercial work. He’s collaborated with brands like Disney, Peloton, Qualcomm, Franklin Sports, and Gateway, bringing a positive, solutions-driven, and highly collaborative approach to every project – whether direct-to-client or across multiple agencies.

For Michael, the joy of shaping and guiding a story never gets old. He’s continually inspired by the creative partners he works with and remains grateful to build a career in an industry that still feels a bit like getting paid to play make-believe.

Michael sat down with LBB to discuss why editors are storytellers who work backwards, the creative problem solving that comes with commercial editing, and why every cut is a small act of faith.

LBB> The first cut is the deepest: how do you like to start an editing project?

Michael> The first thing I do is listen. Before any timeline gets built, before I even open a project, I want a real conversation with whoever’s steering the creative. A few questions will tell you almost everything you need to know: tone, tempo, how stylised we should get, how closely we follow boards.

Basically, I’m trying to gauge how much leeway I’ve got before someone tugs on it. Because at the end of the day, after all of the copy testing and back and forth between client and agency, you are the first audience. It’s about taking all of that information and forming it into something that affects you personally, at least at first.

Commercials move fast, so that first day, maybe two if you’re lucky, is the most creative time you’ll have. It’s the one moment when it’s just you and the footage. You get to say, ‘Here’s what this footage told me.’ And while that rarely survives untouched, it can be where the magic lives for editors.

After that, the edit becomes a negotiation between imagination and deliverables: product clarity, brand identity, and the target audience. The job becomes more about refinement. But that first pass? That’s your shot to be reckless, to make a mess, to find what’s actually in there before things inevitably tighten up.

It’s also very important to put a spotlight on the amazing work of assistant editors here. I am only able to approach a project in this way because of the tireless work our AEs do in meticulously prepping every single project. Their work is what makes this process possible.

LBB> Non-editors often think of editing as technical, but it’s integral to emotion and mood. How did you develop that side of your craft?

Michael> Honestly, by living a bit and by listening a lot. I played piano and drums as a kid, and I think that’s the root of how I hear a scene. Editing is rhythm. It’s tempo. One beat can be the difference between a joke landing or dying quietly in the corner.

In features, good editing should disappear completely. In commercials, it’s allowed to show its hand a little more. You can make bold moves. You can play with rhythm, play with time. I do a lot of comedy, so I’m always calibrating the beat: when to breathe, when to hold silence, when to crash into a cut like a cymbal hit.

I also strongly believe in happy accidents. When a section starts to feel off, I’ll drag it down to the end of the timeline and rebuild from scratch. Sometimes, when you drop it back in, a misaligned dissolve or a bleed-over from the next shot will suddenly make it work, and everything clicks. Production experiences happy accidents all the time, but serendipity in the edit suite is rarer and certainly something to cherish.

LBB> How important is an understanding of story and the mechanics of story

Michael> It’s everything. If rhythm is the pulse, story is the skeleton. You can cut the hell out of something, but if you don’t understand story structure, you’re just moving pieces around.

A commercial is basically a micro-movie that has to deliver plot, tone, emotion and product in under a minute. It’s a beautiful challenge, and it forces you to be ruthless about what actually matters.

Editors are storytellers who kinda work backwards. We’re discovering the story that already exists inside the footage, and if you know the basics, then you know how to exceed them.

LBB> Rhythm and a sense of musicality seem intrinsic to good editing, even when there’s no music. How do you feel out the beats of a scene or a spot? And do you like to cut to music?

Michael> Everyone loves cutting to music. It’s the adrenaline shot. But you can’t always, and shouldn’t always, lean on it. We all have an instinctual understanding of rhythm outside of music, and as an editor, you’re constantly tapping into that. You start building tempo out of breath, motion, and camera moves. I’ve even cut to a metronome before, literally dropped in a click track. It sounds insane, and you obviously aren’t trying to hit every beat, but sometimes it’s just enough structure to help you pace out a scene.

For action or high-energy work, that internal rhythm is everything. At the end of the day, you can drop in just about any song later, and it’ll feel like it belongs because the structure underneath is musical. In comedy, I love cutting on the downbeat. It drives the scene forward but also catches people off guard. It’s slightly ‘wrong’ in a way that can feel very human.

LBB> Tell us about a recent editing project that involved some interesting creative challenges.

Michael> I’m really lucky to get to work often with Omaha Productions and director Forrest Davis, and this year we got to cut a spot for Fanatics and Topps trading cards that was shot on 35mm film. It’s been ages since I’ve cut a spot exclusively shot on film, and it was amazing to step back into a world where every single frame counts.

For the first pass, we were working off these old-school video tap recordings, think grainy, low-latitude footage with crosshairs and camera specs burnt in. It’s a bit like editing through a foggy window. You’re crafting a spot with what’s essentially a rough sketch, and then bam, you get that first round of 2K scans. Suddenly it comes to life.

Everything is much more intentional when you are working with film, especially 35mm. You’re not going to burn through endless takes. There’s a finite end to that magazine, so every shot is planned out more carefully. As an editor, you’re following the footage more closely out of necessity. You’re not sifting through ten takes for that perfect reaction shot; you’re working with maybe four or five really well-thought-out takes.

So the challenge became a sort of dance with limitations. You’re letting the film’s intentionality guide the edit, and that actually gives the piece a kind of focus you don’t always get with digital. You can’t just steal moments from a dozen extra takes, so you really lean into the intention behind the footage you do have.

LBB> In the US, editors tend to be more involved across post than in Europe. What’s your favourite part of that?

Michael> Colour and sound, hands down. Sitting in with a colourist is like watching your work come back from vacation: tanned, confident, glowing. It’s the same footage you stared at for weeks, but now it feels alive. Colour sessions are also where you finally stop obsessing over tiny continuity quirks because suddenly everything’s unified. It’s all painted on the same canvas. Watching that happen is addictive.

Sound, though, is where it starts breathing. Editors today do so much sound design in the offline [edit] that we’re 10% mixers by necessity. By the time we hand it off, we’re emotionally attached to every whoosh and footstep. Collaborating with mixers who can refine and expand that world is the best. It’s also a relief to hand it off to a professional; you finally get to be the client for a moment.

LBB> What’s harder to cut around: too much material or not enough?

Michael> Both can make you sweat, but for different reasons. Too little footage is a crisis. You’re inventing bridges that don’t exist, reverse-engineering context, praying for a miracle reaction shot. It’s tough, but often that pressure makes you more creative. Limitations aren’t always a hindrance if you’re given enough creative freedom.

Too much footage, though, is where the real endurance comes in. You have to try everything. You go down every road, check every box, and make every version until somebody eventually says, ‘You know what? V1.1 was really working.’ And they’re probably right, because that early pass was instinct, and instinct’s hard to beat. But you have to walk the long way to prove it, and being a professional means showing your work.

LBB> Which commercial projects are you proudest of and why?

Michael> It’s a weird thing. I’ve noticed that editors aren’t always the best at pride. We live in the shadows by design. But I’ll say this: working on the Bush’s Baked Beans campaigns with Carmichael Lynch has been a highlight. They trust you to play, to experiment, to push back.

They've built a creative space that feels loose, human, and genuinely collaborative.

At this stage in my career, I’ve realised the best jobs are less about the subject matter and more about who you’re in the room with. Making it into an edit suite full of decent, funny, generous people while getting paid to play in the sandbox all day is something to be proud of all on its own.

LBB> Are you seeing a change in the kind of projects you’re getting from brands and agencies?

Michael> The main change is tone. Five or ten years ago, commercials leaned more into feeling; the mood led you to the product. Now it’s flipped a bit: the product leads, and feeling is the garnish. And you can see why. Attention spans are short, and there’s so much noise that brands want to make sure audiences are receiving the intended message.

That said, there’s something exciting about how today’s work meets audiences with real clarity. The Super Bowl will always be a playground for big narrative swings, but we’re also seeing bold, inventive storytelling happening year-round across agencies and brands. It’s not bad; It’s just a different kind of challenge – communicating with impact in tighter, shorter, sharper spaces. The trick is finding emotional nuance inside that structure: a joke, a glance, a pause, something that makes a viewer feel more than just ‘buy now’.

LBB> Who are your editing heroes, and what films or spots epitomise good editing for you?

Michael> I think every editor’s first hero is Walter Murch. He explains the craft in a way that makes you feel like you’re being invited behind a curtain you didn’t even know existed. His book was literally the only filmmaking resource I could find at the library growing up, and it felt like discovering a hidden instruction manual. What’s incredible is how steady his voice has remained. The same generosity that shaped earlier generations now shows up in the countless clips of him online. I think he’s responsible for the first spark that leads a lot of young filmmakers to understanding film and narrative at a foundational level.

Kirk Baxter and Angus Wall are my modern editing heroes. Their work with David Fincher is a masterclass: ‘The Social Network’, ‘Mank’, ‘Zodiac’ – all surgical without feeling sterile. You glide through complex scenes and never get lost. That’s rhythm and story alignment at a molecular level. On the commercial side, the same DNA shows up: precision, restraint, and timing that guides your eye before you’ve even decided to look.

LBB> How does editing in the commercial world differ from film or TV?

Michael> Time and intent. In film, you’re building emotion. In advertising, you’re balancing emotion with persuasion. One is expression; the other is communication.

Commercial editing is creative problem-solving. You’re sculpting feelings while delivering clarity. You need to make a human connection in 30 seconds and stay true to the brand's mission. That tension is kind of beautiful. It’s art wrestling with commerce in real time.

There’s a great line in ‘Mad Men’ where Don Draper tells Peggy Olson in his trademark hate-him/love-him tone, “You're not an artist, Peggy. You solve problems.” And I don't think he was necessarily wrong for saying it bluntly. In commercial editorial, we get hired to chase the art but get paid to solve the problem.

LBB> Have you noticed any trends or changes in commercial editing in recent years?

Michael> There’s more variety than ever. Young editors coming up are especially genre-agnostic: comedy, fashion, action, documentary, all influencing each other. You’ll see an action-sports cut with the timing of a sitcom or a car spot that feels like a slow-burn indie film. It’s fun chaos.

It’s what keeps me hooked. Editing never really gets easier; you just get better at listening to the footage, to the people, to yourself. Every cut is a small act of faith. It’s finding the heartbeat of a thing and trusting that if you keep that beat long enough, the story will start dancing.