Since moving to Hollywood, I have been full of an amused-yet-horrifed pride that I am part of just 10% of the Hollwood population who is not either an actor or a wannabe actor. This may seem like a horrific stereotype, but I have met, literally, two people who have not at some point acted. I guess it makes seense, what with entertainment being the main industry. After all, if one lived in a fishing village, a large proportion of the population might reasonably be expected to make their living fishing.
I have just spent the morning as a paid actress.
Yes, this seems improbable to me to. I gave up drama at age 14, suffering from stage fright. I am not blonde and 17 and pretty (the norm for actresses here). I have no desire to act. What the hell is happening to me? Am I becoming Californicated?
Here's how it happened. Yesterday morning, Scott phoned me from work, told me that they needed an English actor/actress to do a voiceover for some cell-phone network that someone in his office building had the advertising account for. He said I should send in an audition tape, just for a laugh, if I had any spare time.
They send me a script, and question me on the phone about my acting experience. Which is obviously non-existent. I go downstairs to Jessie's and we spend all of 5 minutes recording me reading the script.
I was therefore somewhat surprised to discover they loved my "disinterested manner" (sadly, i thought I'd been doing upbeat) and that I had the job. So today I spent 45 minutes in a recording studio and was rewarded with $500. (To add some context to this, my rent is $600 a month.) That sounds like a lot of money for very little work, but I see it as being fair compensation for the hours of fear-induced nausea I endured this morning.
In the end, I actually really enjoyed the experience. Putting on a sexy voice and trying out different tones and inflections as directed. Sadly, they haven't actually paid me yet, as they didn't know how to cope with the fact that I wasn't SAG (screen actors guild) and didn't have an agent. They actually thought I was a real London girl come to LA to be a movie star. I'm not sure whether this is what I want people to think of me? Have I lost my integrity? Did I ever have any?
I doubt I shall be repeating this experience. When it comes down to it, I've always really hated the sound of my own voice, and even spending a morning being referred to as "the talent" (and what girl doesn't love that?) can't make up for that.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
The Cost of Living
Although I am deeply saddened by the passing of Butch the cat, the situation was almost so much worse. We almost had two of our four cats die this week. Sorry for writing two cat posts in one day, I guess I am a crazy cat lady at heart.
We returned home form a weekend away to find that Squeaker the cat had developed a golf-ball sized lump on her rump. Various theories were raised as to how this had happened, the most popular being a stealth attack by mean-cat Loki that had gotten infected. This theory was vehemently denied by Elizabeth, owner of Loki, who, sweet as she is, seems incapable of realizing what a bastard her cat is.
Squeaker is clearly in a bad way. She’s hot to touch, lethargic, unhappy. So, we do what has to be done; Jessie and I trek over to Burbank to take her to the cat hospital.
They are very nice folks in Bastet cat hospital. They stroke Squeaks gently and shave the affected area. After a brief examination they pronounce that it is indeed an abscess caused by a fight. They leave Jess and I to fill in forms while they calculate how much the treatment will cost. Due to my not having a driving license to transcribe some number from, Jess fills her details in on one half of the form. We are now, officially, life-partners (and have since received welcome cards through the post from Bastet cat hospital addressing us as such).
The vet returns, and tells us that the required surgery will cost $800, and that there’s a large chance that Squeaker will die of the infection if we leave her untreated. After a brief discussion, Jess and I realize we have no choice but to refuse the surgery, and instead spend $50 on some antibiotics.
We sound callous, I know, but we literally do not have $800 to spare. I know this makes us irresponsible cat-owners but bear in mind these are cats we took in when their old owner died and his ‘friends’, after promising to look after them, abandoned them in our garden. And, yes, we should probably get pet-insurance to cover these eventualities, and one day if I actually earn some money, I will do just that. Bear in mind I only managed to finally afford health insurance for me a month ago.
So, Jess and I decide to take the DIY life in the ghetto option. We roll up the rug in my living room, pull out some clean towels and sterilize a scalpel with hydrogen peroxide. We attach a desk lamp to the table and point in down. Our operating room is ready.
We realize we could do with some more help with holding the patient, seeing as how we have no anesthetic at our disposal. A quick scout around the compound make it clear that, while sympathetic, everyone else is too grossed out to be any use to us (this includes Scott).
We wrap Squeaks up tightly in towels to constrict her movement. Her wailing is upsetting, but we have no choice. Jess makes the incision, and we begin to squeeze the puss out.
It is a stinky job, it has to be said, yellow pus with green and black touches. It’s pretty hard to make sure it’s all out whilst trying to also hold down a cat and keep everything sterile.
10 minutes and we’re done. Squeaker rushes away and we wash our hands more thoroughly than ever in our lives. 5 minutes later Squeaker returns and rubs up against me purring. She seems like herself again.
A month on and she’s fine. I maintain that our 10 minute surgery was actually a lot less invasive and distressing for her than being knocked out for hours and staying overnight in a strange vet’s would’ve been. Jess and I are quite annoyingly proud of our achievement, and get rather annoyed when we tell people about the death of Butch, and they presume that it must’ve been the cat we operated on that died. It’s nice that people have so much faith in us.
There are two things that I think are very LA about this story. Firstly, the fact that someone was going to charge us $800 for something we could do ourselves, with absolutely no training, within ten minutes. Secondly, that once we’d finished the surgery and sat back for a celebratory drink, Jess and I turned to each other to share identical thoughts – why on earth didn’t we film that?
We returned home form a weekend away to find that Squeaker the cat had developed a golf-ball sized lump on her rump. Various theories were raised as to how this had happened, the most popular being a stealth attack by mean-cat Loki that had gotten infected. This theory was vehemently denied by Elizabeth, owner of Loki, who, sweet as she is, seems incapable of realizing what a bastard her cat is.
Squeaker is clearly in a bad way. She’s hot to touch, lethargic, unhappy. So, we do what has to be done; Jessie and I trek over to Burbank to take her to the cat hospital.
They are very nice folks in Bastet cat hospital. They stroke Squeaks gently and shave the affected area. After a brief examination they pronounce that it is indeed an abscess caused by a fight. They leave Jess and I to fill in forms while they calculate how much the treatment will cost. Due to my not having a driving license to transcribe some number from, Jess fills her details in on one half of the form. We are now, officially, life-partners (and have since received welcome cards through the post from Bastet cat hospital addressing us as such).
The vet returns, and tells us that the required surgery will cost $800, and that there’s a large chance that Squeaker will die of the infection if we leave her untreated. After a brief discussion, Jess and I realize we have no choice but to refuse the surgery, and instead spend $50 on some antibiotics.
We sound callous, I know, but we literally do not have $800 to spare. I know this makes us irresponsible cat-owners but bear in mind these are cats we took in when their old owner died and his ‘friends’, after promising to look after them, abandoned them in our garden. And, yes, we should probably get pet-insurance to cover these eventualities, and one day if I actually earn some money, I will do just that. Bear in mind I only managed to finally afford health insurance for me a month ago.
So, Jess and I decide to take the DIY life in the ghetto option. We roll up the rug in my living room, pull out some clean towels and sterilize a scalpel with hydrogen peroxide. We attach a desk lamp to the table and point in down. Our operating room is ready.
We realize we could do with some more help with holding the patient, seeing as how we have no anesthetic at our disposal. A quick scout around the compound make it clear that, while sympathetic, everyone else is too grossed out to be any use to us (this includes Scott).
We wrap Squeaks up tightly in towels to constrict her movement. Her wailing is upsetting, but we have no choice. Jess makes the incision, and we begin to squeeze the puss out.
It is a stinky job, it has to be said, yellow pus with green and black touches. It’s pretty hard to make sure it’s all out whilst trying to also hold down a cat and keep everything sterile.
10 minutes and we’re done. Squeaker rushes away and we wash our hands more thoroughly than ever in our lives. 5 minutes later Squeaker returns and rubs up against me purring. She seems like herself again.
A month on and she’s fine. I maintain that our 10 minute surgery was actually a lot less invasive and distressing for her than being knocked out for hours and staying overnight in a strange vet’s would’ve been. Jess and I are quite annoyingly proud of our achievement, and get rather annoyed when we tell people about the death of Butch, and they presume that it must’ve been the cat we operated on that died. It’s nice that people have so much faith in us.
There are two things that I think are very LA about this story. Firstly, the fact that someone was going to charge us $800 for something we could do ourselves, with absolutely no training, within ten minutes. Secondly, that once we’d finished the surgery and sat back for a celebratory drink, Jess and I turned to each other to share identical thoughts – why on earth didn’t we film that?
Excuses, excuses, excuses.
I haven't posted for months. Likelihood is no-one reads this anymore. However, I'm having one of those periods where I feel that I should be noting down life's little adventures so that I can laugh at them when I'm old and feeble. Therefore I am making a pledge to make at least three entries a week in here. I've deliberalty made this statement public so that it will be humiliating if I renege on it.
Let's see how long this new-found enthusiasm lasts...
Let's see how long this new-found enthusiasm lasts...
In Memoriam
I have sad news to report; Butch the cat is no longer with us.
Although an extensive search of the neighbourhood has revealed no body, the fact that Butch has never been known to miss a meal in his life means that we are assuming that he is no longer in the land of the living.
Oh Butch, most comedy of all the Serrano cats. You who were given exactly the same amount of food as the others, yet were somehow about three times their size. I will miss the way you waddled around hesitantly and, blind in one eye, bumped into almost everything.
I will remember how you shunned sofas and cushions and all other soft things. You, dear Butch, were a true man cat who sat solely on hard things. Yours was a world of pizza boxes and glass tables and edges of desks and, your favourite place of all, the toolbox. Was it cruel of me to laugh when you inevitably fell asleep and tumbled off the edge of whatever hard thing you had sat on. Why did you never sit in the centre of the desk? This I can never ask you.
Although he was cross at the time, Scott now looks lovingly at the huge scratches you made on the scooter seat. Being a mancat, you loved leather (and even fake leather). When we ride the scooter we will think of you.
It’s Fluffer who misses you most though. It was beyond sweet how the two of you used to sleep cuddled up together on the plastic chairs (rock hard of course) outside the house. We may have teased you for being gay lovers (we're clearly not as liberal as we claim to be), but deep down we respected how devoted you were to each other. It’s been two weeks since you left, and every night Fluffer is still howling desperately up at the stars for at least a couple of hours. He’s the only cat sleeping outside now. We would let him sleep upstairs with us but, you know, he has that spraying problem.
Oh Butch, we will miss you. If you were to come back, I’d even forgive you for the time you shat on the rug and then spent 10 minutes sitting on your own poo while I desperately searched the apartment for the source of the stink. It was a clever move on your part to try and hide the evidence of your wrong-doing although, you know what Butch, it was probably you that suffered most by having to sit on your own shit.
I know that Lloyd, your original (and also deceased) owner, would have liked you to have been buried in the bizarre pet cemetery he constructed at the bottom of our garden (a collection of terracotta plant pots full of cement and bones and each topped – wedding cake-like - with a metallic representation of the deceased, an even mix of cats and what look bizarrely like dragons). I’m sorry that we can’t give you this honour, dearest Butch, but know that you will stay in our hearts and minds forever.
Josh, who at five is Serrano’s youngest resident, thinks that dead cats become stars that he can gaze up at in the night sky. I like that image a lot Butch. I think you would’ve too.
Although an extensive search of the neighbourhood has revealed no body, the fact that Butch has never been known to miss a meal in his life means that we are assuming that he is no longer in the land of the living.
Oh Butch, most comedy of all the Serrano cats. You who were given exactly the same amount of food as the others, yet were somehow about three times their size. I will miss the way you waddled around hesitantly and, blind in one eye, bumped into almost everything.
I will remember how you shunned sofas and cushions and all other soft things. You, dear Butch, were a true man cat who sat solely on hard things. Yours was a world of pizza boxes and glass tables and edges of desks and, your favourite place of all, the toolbox. Was it cruel of me to laugh when you inevitably fell asleep and tumbled off the edge of whatever hard thing you had sat on. Why did you never sit in the centre of the desk? This I can never ask you.
Although he was cross at the time, Scott now looks lovingly at the huge scratches you made on the scooter seat. Being a mancat, you loved leather (and even fake leather). When we ride the scooter we will think of you.
It’s Fluffer who misses you most though. It was beyond sweet how the two of you used to sleep cuddled up together on the plastic chairs (rock hard of course) outside the house. We may have teased you for being gay lovers (we're clearly not as liberal as we claim to be), but deep down we respected how devoted you were to each other. It’s been two weeks since you left, and every night Fluffer is still howling desperately up at the stars for at least a couple of hours. He’s the only cat sleeping outside now. We would let him sleep upstairs with us but, you know, he has that spraying problem.
Oh Butch, we will miss you. If you were to come back, I’d even forgive you for the time you shat on the rug and then spent 10 minutes sitting on your own poo while I desperately searched the apartment for the source of the stink. It was a clever move on your part to try and hide the evidence of your wrong-doing although, you know what Butch, it was probably you that suffered most by having to sit on your own shit.
I know that Lloyd, your original (and also deceased) owner, would have liked you to have been buried in the bizarre pet cemetery he constructed at the bottom of our garden (a collection of terracotta plant pots full of cement and bones and each topped – wedding cake-like - with a metallic representation of the deceased, an even mix of cats and what look bizarrely like dragons). I’m sorry that we can’t give you this honour, dearest Butch, but know that you will stay in our hearts and minds forever.
Josh, who at five is Serrano’s youngest resident, thinks that dead cats become stars that he can gaze up at in the night sky. I like that image a lot Butch. I think you would’ve too.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Gratitude
Just wanted to add a quick update to my "adventures with moviestar" rantings two posts ago.
Jessie went away to stay on the actor's ranch to edit together the footage. I missed her, but felt kind of lucky that I wasn't the one dealing with the crazieness alone. Don't get me wrong, it was all very exciting (in a surreal way), but after a few weeks of it one needs a break in order to retain some grip on one's sanity.
Anyway, the upshot is that Miss Jessica returned to the compound last week bearing gifts. Two beautiful pairs of earrings, one for each of us, as a thank you present for the work we had done.
Although this is a lovely gesture, and it feels great to be appreciated, I am a little confused. I understand why Jessie was singled out for jewellery (she organised the whole shoot), but why me? There were 20 or so people on set. Why am I the only other one to be given a present. And why has the actor decided to start referring to me as Philadelphia? Before you think he may have some secret crush, I should inform you that I am categorically too old to fit into the actors preferred age range?
I think I amused him. Now I just have to figure out whether this is a good or bad thing...
Oh, I have so many stories to tell of the past few weeks, and so little time to tell them before they slip away from memory. There is the story of how a rich and spoilt O.C. boy (the place, not the show before you get really excited) thought he could seduce me while both his girlfriend and my husband were in the room. There is my new discovery of the official (according to a whole host of L.A. wanabees) way by which you can make yourself a more talented artiste. There is the story how this weekend, Scott's favourite movie came alive for him. The story of the competitive spin the bottle tournament. Most recently, there are the stories of how I, a white girl, managed to get involved in the Hollywood Black Film Festival.
Which story should I tell?
Jessie went away to stay on the actor's ranch to edit together the footage. I missed her, but felt kind of lucky that I wasn't the one dealing with the crazieness alone. Don't get me wrong, it was all very exciting (in a surreal way), but after a few weeks of it one needs a break in order to retain some grip on one's sanity.
Anyway, the upshot is that Miss Jessica returned to the compound last week bearing gifts. Two beautiful pairs of earrings, one for each of us, as a thank you present for the work we had done.
Although this is a lovely gesture, and it feels great to be appreciated, I am a little confused. I understand why Jessie was singled out for jewellery (she organised the whole shoot), but why me? There were 20 or so people on set. Why am I the only other one to be given a present. And why has the actor decided to start referring to me as Philadelphia? Before you think he may have some secret crush, I should inform you that I am categorically too old to fit into the actors preferred age range?
I think I amused him. Now I just have to figure out whether this is a good or bad thing...
Oh, I have so many stories to tell of the past few weeks, and so little time to tell them before they slip away from memory. There is the story of how a rich and spoilt O.C. boy (the place, not the show before you get really excited) thought he could seduce me while both his girlfriend and my husband were in the room. There is my new discovery of the official (according to a whole host of L.A. wanabees) way by which you can make yourself a more talented artiste. There is the story how this weekend, Scott's favourite movie came alive for him. The story of the competitive spin the bottle tournament. Most recently, there are the stories of how I, a white girl, managed to get involved in the Hollywood Black Film Festival.
Which story should I tell?
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Service
In contrast to my last exciting gossippy entry about up-close encounters with movie stars, today I am going to write about the fascinating (at least to me) subject of differences between the U.S. and U.K. service industries. Oh yes, I can feel the excitement levels rising in you.
As everyone throughout the western world is aware, the U.S service is industry is guaranteed to fill all your needs with a smile.
At first I found it odd that it's not really the done thing to browse through clothes shops. I love browsing, and feel a bit like a suspected shoplifter when someone trails me as soon as I enter the store, reminding me constantly that they're here to help me with anything I could possibly need. On the other hand, I found it really useful on Friday, when shopping for new jeans, that the girl at Miss Sixty could direct me instantly to the products in the store that fit my requirements (dark, skinny and low-cut). She checked on me in the changing room, found out which pair was best so far, then refined her search around the store based on that. I ended up with the most perfectly-fitting pair of jeans I have ever owned.
On the other hand, it really annoys me that in all L.A. restaurants (including some pretty fancy places) the serving staff start clearing away your plates as soon as you finish a course - before waiting for everyone else on your table to finish theirs. It's horrible. If you're the slow one you feel painfully bad for keeping everyone else waiting. If you're the fast one you feel bad for disrupting your tablemates dinner by having some waitress lean over and probably drop crumbs of your food onto their plates. Why do they do this? Is there a shortage of plates in LA, meaning that kitchens need to get them back and washed a.s.a.p? Is it a tactic for shaming slow eaters into chewing more quickly? Or are restaurants just trying to prove how attentive they are to your every service need by watching you like a hawk and sweeping in to take your plate away? If so, do they not realise that what I want more than fast service is a nice meal with my friends where everyone feels good at the end. This level of attentive service does not make one feel comfortable; it makes you feel like you are a nuisance, merely a source of income to be fed and dispatched as soon as possible. It does not a pleasant dining experience make.
Then there are just the weird differences between life here and life in the motherland. At the supermarket in California (and probably the rest of the U.S.), there are two checkout girls/guys for every customer. One to add up the cost of the groceries (and to check your ID if you buy wine even though you are 26, and you have shopped at this store at least twice a week for the past 6 months), the other to pack your bags for you. That's right, chainstore supermarkets employ people to pack your bags for you. Scott laughed when I told him that we did this for ourselves in the UK, even in the upmarket stores. Strangely, this two people at the checkout lark seems to make the line go slower, not faster, as they tend to chat to each other. Probably makes their jobs a little less dull and shitty though.
Yet pop next door to get some fast food and you will discover that you fall into a world of pain and scornful looks if you fail to tidy away every bit of your meal and its packaging from the table when you leave. They don't employ people to clean the tables, apparently, and it's a huge social faux pas to leave your table dirty.
Smart U.S. innovation: supermarket loyalty cards (like a Tesco's clubcard or something) aren't actually cards, but a small bit of plastic that you attach to your keyring. They give you about 6 when you sign up, so all your family can collect points on the same account. They're light to carry around, hard to lose and use less plastic. Why does England not have such things? Or has this happened since I've been gone?
UPDATE: I have been informed that these have existed in the U.K. for ages and I have just been an idiot and never noticed. I clearly pay much more attention to grocery shopping in the states than I ever did back at home...
Oh dear god. I think I might've just written the most boring journal entry in the world. It's okay, the next one'll be more exciting. I still have to write about the Griffith Park fire (last fortnight's near-death experience) which should be slightly more entertaining for anyone who actually reads this...
As everyone throughout the western world is aware, the U.S service is industry is guaranteed to fill all your needs with a smile.
At first I found it odd that it's not really the done thing to browse through clothes shops. I love browsing, and feel a bit like a suspected shoplifter when someone trails me as soon as I enter the store, reminding me constantly that they're here to help me with anything I could possibly need. On the other hand, I found it really useful on Friday, when shopping for new jeans, that the girl at Miss Sixty could direct me instantly to the products in the store that fit my requirements (dark, skinny and low-cut). She checked on me in the changing room, found out which pair was best so far, then refined her search around the store based on that. I ended up with the most perfectly-fitting pair of jeans I have ever owned.
On the other hand, it really annoys me that in all L.A. restaurants (including some pretty fancy places) the serving staff start clearing away your plates as soon as you finish a course - before waiting for everyone else on your table to finish theirs. It's horrible. If you're the slow one you feel painfully bad for keeping everyone else waiting. If you're the fast one you feel bad for disrupting your tablemates dinner by having some waitress lean over and probably drop crumbs of your food onto their plates. Why do they do this? Is there a shortage of plates in LA, meaning that kitchens need to get them back and washed a.s.a.p? Is it a tactic for shaming slow eaters into chewing more quickly? Or are restaurants just trying to prove how attentive they are to your every service need by watching you like a hawk and sweeping in to take your plate away? If so, do they not realise that what I want more than fast service is a nice meal with my friends where everyone feels good at the end. This level of attentive service does not make one feel comfortable; it makes you feel like you are a nuisance, merely a source of income to be fed and dispatched as soon as possible. It does not a pleasant dining experience make.
Then there are just the weird differences between life here and life in the motherland. At the supermarket in California (and probably the rest of the U.S.), there are two checkout girls/guys for every customer. One to add up the cost of the groceries (and to check your ID if you buy wine even though you are 26, and you have shopped at this store at least twice a week for the past 6 months), the other to pack your bags for you. That's right, chainstore supermarkets employ people to pack your bags for you. Scott laughed when I told him that we did this for ourselves in the UK, even in the upmarket stores. Strangely, this two people at the checkout lark seems to make the line go slower, not faster, as they tend to chat to each other. Probably makes their jobs a little less dull and shitty though.
Yet pop next door to get some fast food and you will discover that you fall into a world of pain and scornful looks if you fail to tidy away every bit of your meal and its packaging from the table when you leave. They don't employ people to clean the tables, apparently, and it's a huge social faux pas to leave your table dirty.
Smart U.S. innovation: supermarket loyalty cards (like a Tesco's clubcard or something) aren't actually cards, but a small bit of plastic that you attach to your keyring. They give you about 6 when you sign up, so all your family can collect points on the same account. They're light to carry around, hard to lose and use less plastic. Why does England not have such things? Or has this happened since I've been gone?
UPDATE: I have been informed that these have existed in the U.K. for ages and I have just been an idiot and never noticed. I clearly pay much more attention to grocery shopping in the states than I ever did back at home...
Oh dear god. I think I might've just written the most boring journal entry in the world. It's okay, the next one'll be more exciting. I still have to write about the Griffith Park fire (last fortnight's near-death experience) which should be slightly more entertaining for anyone who actually reads this...
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
So Hollywood
All of this is true. Only the names has been omitted, to protect my future career prospects...
So, last week I worked my first freelance Hollywood job and, gosh, it was an experience.
On Wednesday night I’m sitting out on the front porch with Laura-from-downstairs when she receives a phone call from her boss (an eminent film producer) asking her if she would like a week-long job organising a one day film shoot for a rather famous film star. The film star in question is very busy, and wants to shoot a monologue the next Tuesday. The purpose of this shoot is for him to perform said monologue made-up to look like a famous author from the last century. It is his passion to make a feature film based on this author’s life story, and he is trying to convince the money men firstly that he can perform as this person, and secondly that the make-up can be applied convincingly. (The author cuts a rather older and uglier figure than the actor.)
Laura takes on the rather daunting job of organising the entire shoot from scratch in a week, and promptly employs me as her second-in-command. Things happen fast in Hollywoodland.
The next day I get to meet with the actor over breakfast. It is slightly painful to have ones first proper meeting with a bona fide Hollywood star take place at seven in the morning when you haven't had time to put any makeup on. Jessie and I sit with him in his trailer and try to get him to make some decisions. He's a strange creature. Has a reputation for being difficult. Saying that he was lovely to Laura and I during the week of preproduction - one of the smartest, funniest most charismatic people I have ever met. Obsessed with the author, which can only be a good thing. He quickly becomes familiar with Laura and I, thinks nothing of parading around in his underpants in front of us whilst in his trailer. Later he demonstrates "how annoying it is when people don't respect your personal space" by stroking my arm for 5 minutes.
Then, on shoot day, he went completely mental on us. Turns out that the reason he has this "reputation", is that he's a hard-core method actor of the old school. Now, as the elderly author he is portraying was an alcoholic misogynist forced to whore himself on lecture tours so as to have enough money to eat, this made for a rather unpleasant atmosphere for the women on set, especially the ones who had to tell him what to do (Jessie and I). At one point he shouted "women, I'm surrounded by bloody women" in his character’s southern drawl, before throwing a whole load of notecards at Elizabeth (our sweet and innocent 23 year old production assistant and downstairs neighbour, who hadn't met the actor before, and hence just concluded that he was the most horrid man in the world).
But, the day soon turned even more bizarre. The actor had emphasized Laura and I during preprod that he was v. clean living. No tobacco or alcohol ever, only eats raw foods. Fine we say, we can accommodate all that within this tiny 5 days preprod period, even though the author he is playing was an alcoholic cigar smoker and Laura and I have to organise EVERY single aspect of the whole shoot between us in a week, and for v little money.
The whiskey is simple - I buy a crystal tumbler from a thrift store and fill it with a blend of decaf ice tea that the actor approves of. The cigar becomes the bane of my existence. After enthusiastically agreeing to get the actor a tobacco-free cigar, we soon learn that such things do not actually exist (which makes sense when you think about the fact that a cigar is wrapped up in one giant tobacco leaf). I call up head shops, I have in-depth discussions with custom cigar making companies but, no, tobacco-free cigars do not exist.
We consider going back to the actor and telling him this. But we don't want to do that. The actor is trusting us to put together this shoot, and we've already learnt that he's the kind of guy who doesn't need to know exactly how everything is done, he just wants it done.
Anyway. So, with many years of cigarette rolling experience behind me, I endeavour to construct my own tobacco-free cigars (who could have guessed that all those nights of drunkenly rolling cigarettes would come in useful one day). They take about an hour to make each, but they are so beautiful. I slowly and carefully hollow out regular cigars with tweezers and kebab skewers, then refill them with herbal tobacco from herbal cigarettes. To compensate for the smoke from the tobacco leaf that still forms the wrapper, I manage to find a way to squeeze three cigarette filters into one end. Gina tries to help, but just destroys things. Turns out that herbal cigar making is a highly skilled profession. The night before the shoot I get Scott to test a cigar, as he is the most smoke-hating person I know. He tries one. Not only does it smoke properly, but he announces that it in no way makes him feel ill. Result!
Now for the juicy part. We get on set and get busy with prep. Laura's answering a million phone calls and dealing with crew, I'm hurridly writing out the prompt cards that the actor "forgot" that he said he wanted to do himself, as well as putting up our set and arranging the props (as it's a tiny crew I'd also been promoted to head of art department - which I actually really enjoyed). The actor is having his makeup put on. Everything is good and calm, except for Laura, who is super-stressed because, although everything on shoot is going fine, she has forgotten her cigarettes. I try and calm her down, send one of the PA’s out to buy her fags. I cannot believe that I am somehow not the person being sent out to get fags, but am high up enough to be the one doing the sending. When did this happen?
Anyway, the actor comes on to set and is being all authorly and abusive. (I will point out that although this is disconcerting, his acting is SUPERB. It's kind of like when you fist see someone really truly beautiful, and you realize that all the people you've seen in your life and though pretty were just that - jus pretty, not beautiful. The level of brilliance separating the actor's acting and anyone I have seen act on stage ever is amazing. He WAS the author. And I can now understand why some actors get paid so much money (only some, mind, i haven't gone completely crazy)).
Anyway, we start shooting and the actor/author decides he doesn't want the filters in the cigar because that's not how real cigars are. We tell him that we know that, but that we were just trying to keep the unpleasantness level as low as possible. We tell him we have real cigars that we can give him if he'd like true authenticity. No he decides, he doesn't want to go that far. We decide to just take the filters out. His bloody choice.
The first few takes go fine. By take 3, actor/author is acting a little weird. He's adlibbing more, and is really bringing out the author as drunk side of the monologue, instead of just the author as funny humorist. It looks amazing. Take 4 is even better, starting to take our breath away when, after just a few lines, actor/author yells cut and storms off set, followed by his makeup/hair guys who generally trail him everywhere.
No-one's that concerned - actor/author has been having tantrums and storming off all day. We start to reset the camera and lights. Those who smoke pop out for a quick fag. Others grab coffee from craft services. All is going fine until the $30,000 a day prosthetics dude walks back onto set shouting it's a wrap kids, it's a wrap.
Actor/author is in his dressing room, feeling very unwell. The story is that the actor was so into the part that he managed to actually get drunk on decaf ice tea whiskey and herbal cigar smoke. Play a dying alcoholic and you get drunk and sick, if you're as sensitive a soul, and as good an actor, as the actor is...
Other stories do circulate, too salacious to be written here. Ask me very nicely and I might tell you about them. Might.
So, last week I worked my first freelance Hollywood job and, gosh, it was an experience.
On Wednesday night I’m sitting out on the front porch with Laura-from-downstairs when she receives a phone call from her boss (an eminent film producer) asking her if she would like a week-long job organising a one day film shoot for a rather famous film star. The film star in question is very busy, and wants to shoot a monologue the next Tuesday. The purpose of this shoot is for him to perform said monologue made-up to look like a famous author from the last century. It is his passion to make a feature film based on this author’s life story, and he is trying to convince the money men firstly that he can perform as this person, and secondly that the make-up can be applied convincingly. (The author cuts a rather older and uglier figure than the actor.)
Laura takes on the rather daunting job of organising the entire shoot from scratch in a week, and promptly employs me as her second-in-command. Things happen fast in Hollywoodland.
The next day I get to meet with the actor over breakfast. It is slightly painful to have ones first proper meeting with a bona fide Hollywood star take place at seven in the morning when you haven't had time to put any makeup on. Jessie and I sit with him in his trailer and try to get him to make some decisions. He's a strange creature. Has a reputation for being difficult. Saying that he was lovely to Laura and I during the week of preproduction - one of the smartest, funniest most charismatic people I have ever met. Obsessed with the author, which can only be a good thing. He quickly becomes familiar with Laura and I, thinks nothing of parading around in his underpants in front of us whilst in his trailer. Later he demonstrates "how annoying it is when people don't respect your personal space" by stroking my arm for 5 minutes.
Then, on shoot day, he went completely mental on us. Turns out that the reason he has this "reputation", is that he's a hard-core method actor of the old school. Now, as the elderly author he is portraying was an alcoholic misogynist forced to whore himself on lecture tours so as to have enough money to eat, this made for a rather unpleasant atmosphere for the women on set, especially the ones who had to tell him what to do (Jessie and I). At one point he shouted "women, I'm surrounded by bloody women" in his character’s southern drawl, before throwing a whole load of notecards at Elizabeth (our sweet and innocent 23 year old production assistant and downstairs neighbour, who hadn't met the actor before, and hence just concluded that he was the most horrid man in the world).
But, the day soon turned even more bizarre. The actor had emphasized Laura and I during preprod that he was v. clean living. No tobacco or alcohol ever, only eats raw foods. Fine we say, we can accommodate all that within this tiny 5 days preprod period, even though the author he is playing was an alcoholic cigar smoker and Laura and I have to organise EVERY single aspect of the whole shoot between us in a week, and for v little money.
The whiskey is simple - I buy a crystal tumbler from a thrift store and fill it with a blend of decaf ice tea that the actor approves of. The cigar becomes the bane of my existence. After enthusiastically agreeing to get the actor a tobacco-free cigar, we soon learn that such things do not actually exist (which makes sense when you think about the fact that a cigar is wrapped up in one giant tobacco leaf). I call up head shops, I have in-depth discussions with custom cigar making companies but, no, tobacco-free cigars do not exist.
We consider going back to the actor and telling him this. But we don't want to do that. The actor is trusting us to put together this shoot, and we've already learnt that he's the kind of guy who doesn't need to know exactly how everything is done, he just wants it done.
Anyway. So, with many years of cigarette rolling experience behind me, I endeavour to construct my own tobacco-free cigars (who could have guessed that all those nights of drunkenly rolling cigarettes would come in useful one day). They take about an hour to make each, but they are so beautiful. I slowly and carefully hollow out regular cigars with tweezers and kebab skewers, then refill them with herbal tobacco from herbal cigarettes. To compensate for the smoke from the tobacco leaf that still forms the wrapper, I manage to find a way to squeeze three cigarette filters into one end. Gina tries to help, but just destroys things. Turns out that herbal cigar making is a highly skilled profession. The night before the shoot I get Scott to test a cigar, as he is the most smoke-hating person I know. He tries one. Not only does it smoke properly, but he announces that it in no way makes him feel ill. Result!
Now for the juicy part. We get on set and get busy with prep. Laura's answering a million phone calls and dealing with crew, I'm hurridly writing out the prompt cards that the actor "forgot" that he said he wanted to do himself, as well as putting up our set and arranging the props (as it's a tiny crew I'd also been promoted to head of art department - which I actually really enjoyed). The actor is having his makeup put on. Everything is good and calm, except for Laura, who is super-stressed because, although everything on shoot is going fine, she has forgotten her cigarettes. I try and calm her down, send one of the PA’s out to buy her fags. I cannot believe that I am somehow not the person being sent out to get fags, but am high up enough to be the one doing the sending. When did this happen?
Anyway, the actor comes on to set and is being all authorly and abusive. (I will point out that although this is disconcerting, his acting is SUPERB. It's kind of like when you fist see someone really truly beautiful, and you realize that all the people you've seen in your life and though pretty were just that - jus pretty, not beautiful. The level of brilliance separating the actor's acting and anyone I have seen act on stage ever is amazing. He WAS the author. And I can now understand why some actors get paid so much money (only some, mind, i haven't gone completely crazy)).
Anyway, we start shooting and the actor/author decides he doesn't want the filters in the cigar because that's not how real cigars are. We tell him that we know that, but that we were just trying to keep the unpleasantness level as low as possible. We tell him we have real cigars that we can give him if he'd like true authenticity. No he decides, he doesn't want to go that far. We decide to just take the filters out. His bloody choice.
The first few takes go fine. By take 3, actor/author is acting a little weird. He's adlibbing more, and is really bringing out the author as drunk side of the monologue, instead of just the author as funny humorist. It looks amazing. Take 4 is even better, starting to take our breath away when, after just a few lines, actor/author yells cut and storms off set, followed by his makeup/hair guys who generally trail him everywhere.
No-one's that concerned - actor/author has been having tantrums and storming off all day. We start to reset the camera and lights. Those who smoke pop out for a quick fag. Others grab coffee from craft services. All is going fine until the $30,000 a day prosthetics dude walks back onto set shouting it's a wrap kids, it's a wrap.
Actor/author is in his dressing room, feeling very unwell. The story is that the actor was so into the part that he managed to actually get drunk on decaf ice tea whiskey and herbal cigar smoke. Play a dying alcoholic and you get drunk and sick, if you're as sensitive a soul, and as good an actor, as the actor is...
Other stories do circulate, too salacious to be written here. Ask me very nicely and I might tell you about them. Might.
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