Tuesday, April 6, 2010
NCIS - LA: finally, a working stiff
I got paid for last Friday.
Yeah, OK, so what... except: Friday was a holiday, and we didn't shoot.
Again, I know: so what?
Here's so what-- for me (and perhaps you), it's been "eat what I kill" my entire adult life. Prior to now, I've never, ever been paid for not working. Not on New Years, not the Fourth of July, not on Christmas. I get sick? Bummer for me. Vacation? Factor in the loss of income and decide if it's worth it. Where's the rent coming from next month? Wait for the phone to ring, and see. Which wears a body down, after a while.
Many of you know what this feels like. Others have lived it for a time, and said "not for me, thanks." Still others read this and think (perhaps rightly): that is simply no way for an adult to live.
I hear ya. But until recently it's been the only life I ever knew.
Besides, there's an honesty, a kind of dignity in it: you HAVE to bring your A-game, every day-- because, as is often said, Results Don't Lie. The phone rings? You're doing something right. It doesn't? Get up a little earlier, work a little harder. And if that doesn't work... take a long, hard look in the mirror. (But if it comes to that, please, please: respect yourself. Most people will never have to take that look in the mirror.)
For me, working in theatre or film has always been a calling, a privilege even to be asked-- but until now, it's never been a job. So this latest development has been something of a surprise. And after decades of being "that guy" on sets ("who's That Guy?" "I dunno-- I think he knows the star, or something...")-- it is a revelation to realize that I have become part of the rag-tag community on the lot.
And I gotta say, it's nice. The day after St. Patrick's Day, Ron, the Guard, who greets me with a smile every day, asked if I was hungover from The Big Night. I told him that we New England Irish Catholics think of St. Paddy's as Amateur Night-- and when I left for the day he said he'd been telling everyone that, all day long. He loved it! That doesn't sound like much, I know-- but if you've never had it, it's a big deal, indeed.
So, yes. It's nice to wait my turn at the gate to swipe my ID. It's nice to flirt with the payroll ladies. It's nice to have the wardrobe guy say to me, excitedly: "they got Chinese chicken salad at crafty! Better get over there!"
Wanna know a secret? It reminds me of theatre, this misfit-toy feeling on the lot. We're just a bunch of oddballs trying to do our best to make a thing good. And tomorrow we'll do it again. And again, the day after that. Except for two weeks at Christmas, I've been working this job every weekday since last July.
Which is fine by me.
pk
Saturday, April 3, 2010
This has nothing to do with acting...
...but a lot to do with Easter. It's a few years old, but still. Hope you like it.
I saw Jesus walking down East Fourth Street today.
He was dressed entirely, and simply, in white, and carried over his shoulder an improbably large crucifix, which made a hollow scraping sound as it trailed along the pavement behind him. He looked, from the the high angle of the front window of my sixth-floor apartment, an awful lot like one of the neighborhood kids, mainly due to A) his street-fashionable buzz cut, and B) his gleaming white Pumas, just visible underneath his robes.
In truth, I heard Jesus' coming before I saw him, for his arrival was heralded by a repeating hymn that grew louder as he approached. I cannot state with certainty that what I was hearing was in fact a hymn, being that it was in Spanish; also, since the single hymnal voice was issuing loudly from a pair of PA speakers strapped onto the top of a Toyota (the roof was which was protected from harm by a NY Mets towel), little beyond the melody line could be discerned. The effect from my living room was that of an ecclesiastical ice-cream truck, luring customers with the promise of salvation rather than a cold Mister Softee.
And it seemed to be effective, for behind the boy Jesus (and a gang of somber apostles, all similarly white-robed) there trailed a crowd of a few hundred varied souls. Mothers in clumps, quietly pushing strollers, the elderly, and even teenaged Puerto Rican couples, side-by-side, hands squeezed into one another's back pockets. That particular sight gave me pause to consider for a moment the eternal question of What Would Jesus Do, especially as regards Public Displays of Affection. I concluded he would not mind, even if (as was currently the case) he was limping along with his burden just a few yards ahead.
This procession was capped at either end by an NYPD cruiser, each gliding silently at a respectful distance. They made their presence known mainly by their strobing red lights, which added an odd sense of holiday festivity to the procession.
But Jesus. He'd been taking his burden seriously, shifting his slow course left and right to avoid manhole covers and other minor street obstacles that might jar his load.... but as I looked down at him now, he seemed to be veering purposefully to the right, limping even slower toward the line of parked cars along the curb...
...and then I saw it too. Money.
A couple of bills, just pinched under a tire and fluttering almost free. I was too far away to see their denomination, but I could make out the coloring identifying them as among the newer bills. It had to be at least a ten-spot, maybe more. They had blown there, clearly, and would not remain there long. What Would Jesus Do, indeed?
I believe there is a biblical passage that observes that in moments of decision we are all alone. Or perhaps that was George Bernard Shaw. Or Mark Twain. Whatever the source, I have always felt it to be the case, and so I was sympathetic to the forces I imagined were tugging at the young Jesus as I watched unobserved. What moral calculus, I wondered, was being done so quickly in his head?
He passed the bills by. It was hard to tell from where I was, but I think he may have sped up a bit, pressing forward with just a little more sense of urgency as he continued on his journey.
By the time his followers had passed and the warbling hymn-song had grown distant, the money was gone.
And I felt at that moment overwhelmed, in that way that comes upon one (or at least me, sometimes) without warning. The young Jesus had been given a gift-- a story that would, over his life, be worth far more than the value of the bills he'd left behind. And I'd been given a gift, too; I knew it. I just wasn't sure what it was.
Maybe a reminder of the value of having something, anything, to believe in.
I saw Jesus walking down East Fourth Street today.
He was dressed entirely, and simply, in white, and carried over his shoulder an improbably large crucifix, which made a hollow scraping sound as it trailed along the pavement behind him. He looked, from the the high angle of the front window of my sixth-floor apartment, an awful lot like one of the neighborhood kids, mainly due to A) his street-fashionable buzz cut, and B) his gleaming white Pumas, just visible underneath his robes.
In truth, I heard Jesus' coming before I saw him, for his arrival was heralded by a repeating hymn that grew louder as he approached. I cannot state with certainty that what I was hearing was in fact a hymn, being that it was in Spanish; also, since the single hymnal voice was issuing loudly from a pair of PA speakers strapped onto the top of a Toyota (the roof was which was protected from harm by a NY Mets towel), little beyond the melody line could be discerned. The effect from my living room was that of an ecclesiastical ice-cream truck, luring customers with the promise of salvation rather than a cold Mister Softee.
And it seemed to be effective, for behind the boy Jesus (and a gang of somber apostles, all similarly white-robed) there trailed a crowd of a few hundred varied souls. Mothers in clumps, quietly pushing strollers, the elderly, and even teenaged Puerto Rican couples, side-by-side, hands squeezed into one another's back pockets. That particular sight gave me pause to consider for a moment the eternal question of What Would Jesus Do, especially as regards Public Displays of Affection. I concluded he would not mind, even if (as was currently the case) he was limping along with his burden just a few yards ahead.
This procession was capped at either end by an NYPD cruiser, each gliding silently at a respectful distance. They made their presence known mainly by their strobing red lights, which added an odd sense of holiday festivity to the procession.
But Jesus. He'd been taking his burden seriously, shifting his slow course left and right to avoid manhole covers and other minor street obstacles that might jar his load.... but as I looked down at him now, he seemed to be veering purposefully to the right, limping even slower toward the line of parked cars along the curb...
...and then I saw it too. Money.
A couple of bills, just pinched under a tire and fluttering almost free. I was too far away to see their denomination, but I could make out the coloring identifying them as among the newer bills. It had to be at least a ten-spot, maybe more. They had blown there, clearly, and would not remain there long. What Would Jesus Do, indeed?
I believe there is a biblical passage that observes that in moments of decision we are all alone. Or perhaps that was George Bernard Shaw. Or Mark Twain. Whatever the source, I have always felt it to be the case, and so I was sympathetic to the forces I imagined were tugging at the young Jesus as I watched unobserved. What moral calculus, I wondered, was being done so quickly in his head?
He passed the bills by. It was hard to tell from where I was, but I think he may have sped up a bit, pressing forward with just a little more sense of urgency as he continued on his journey.
By the time his followers had passed and the warbling hymn-song had grown distant, the money was gone.
And I felt at that moment overwhelmed, in that way that comes upon one (or at least me, sometimes) without warning. The young Jesus had been given a gift-- a story that would, over his life, be worth far more than the value of the bills he'd left behind. And I'd been given a gift, too; I knew it. I just wasn't sure what it was.
Maybe a reminder of the value of having something, anything, to believe in.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Life on the Lot, part 1
"Waitwaitwait.... are we pink or buff?"
No. I am not in West Hollywood on Saturday night.
I'm in my home in Laurel Canyon; Chris O'Donnell, my friend, client, and the star of NCIS Los Angeles, is (presumably) in his trailer somewhere near Venice beach. It's 8 AM, and we're running a scene for the current episode over the phone, and what he's saying and what I'm reading do not match up; we have this confusion --which is not one of tanning-booth settings or skin tone but about the "color" of the most current draft of the script-- from time to time.
(FOR THE UNINITIATED, A NOTE ON SCRIPT COLOR: It's something of a genius system, really: once a color progression is agreed upon --not unlike the Bronze-Silver-Gold progression of Olympic medals-- there's no more confusion about which script is current. If Green comes after Blue, and you got blue pages and see anyone walkin' around with green... you missed the memo, sport. You're out of date.)
Anyway. On a show like NCIS, there can be more than one script revision A DAY. Granted, those changes may be as little as a few lines, but still. Given that we have eight days to shoot those 60 pages (give or take), that's a lot, and they pile up.
P.S.: For those keeping track at home... it's Buff. We get back to work.
_________________________________________________________________
I think I need to answer a few questions first.
- No, I'm not dead. I'm in LA. Feel free to insert a joke, if you want.
- Yes, I have a place to live here. So... since August, give or take, Laurel Canyon (technically the Hollywood Hills, north of Sunset Blvd) has been my home. For what it's worth, it's an awesome place (view, fireplace, the whole deal). True story: while I was first walking through the house, I called the owner (now my landlord), Leslie. She's in Jersey and was initially a little confused by my 917 area code-- but 15 minutes later, in the midst of talk of commute times from Weehawken to Sony Music, she said "...you know what? You want it, the place is yours. Just send me a check."
No app, no lease, nothing. I would not know Leslie if she walked in the room.
- I am here because primarily because my two most long-term actor clients, Eliza Dushku and Chris O'Donnell, both are leads in network series-- Eliza is the lead in Dollhouse, Joss Whedon's show on Fox; Chris is, as mentioned, the lead in NCIS. I am also here because, through a series of details too convoluted to go into here, when these shows were announced last spring I had no place to live in Manhattan. My friends claimed that this was the universe's way of saying, in essence: you've been talking about LA for years-- it's Now or Never, Pal.
I chose "Now." And here I am.
______________________________________________________________
There is a funny thing about moving without thinking it through: one has no idea of what one's life is going to be-- and one (OK, me) soon realizes how completely one (OK, me) has underestimated how much of a life one leaves behind. It's hard, this; the new life, all that.
Fortunately, as some of you know, once in LA I had to hit the ground running-- for in addition to Chris and Eliza, my friend Rick Fox needs "refocusing." I have never, ever met anyone in Hollywood who receives more varied, over-the-transom offers than Rick. And me? Scattered, running-in-ten-directions me-- compared to Rick? I'm friggin' Ghandi, I'm so calm and focused.
So I settle into this new, strange life, a life dictated by call sheets. They come in nightly, and it's always surprising to me how the next day's call sheets for two entirely different shows, halfway across town, arrive in my inbox in within ten minutes of each other. (Honestly, how is that possible?) As one might expect, the Universe seems to conspire to make Big Days (or even Big Scenes) occur at the same time for all my clients. So I toggle back and forth between the two-- who's shooting what, and when-- and where? It's kinda stressful, to tell you the truth. But one does what one can.
______________________________________________________________
Much more to say, but it's late. I'll tell ya more from the plane tomorrow.
Peter
No. I am not in West Hollywood on Saturday night.
I'm in my home in Laurel Canyon; Chris O'Donnell, my friend, client, and the star of NCIS Los Angeles, is (presumably) in his trailer somewhere near Venice beach. It's 8 AM, and we're running a scene for the current episode over the phone, and what he's saying and what I'm reading do not match up; we have this confusion --which is not one of tanning-booth settings or skin tone but about the "color" of the most current draft of the script-- from time to time.
(FOR THE UNINITIATED, A NOTE ON SCRIPT COLOR: It's something of a genius system, really: once a color progression is agreed upon --not unlike the Bronze-Silver-Gold progression of Olympic medals-- there's no more confusion about which script is current. If Green comes after Blue, and you got blue pages and see anyone walkin' around with green... you missed the memo, sport. You're out of date.)
Anyway. On a show like NCIS, there can be more than one script revision A DAY. Granted, those changes may be as little as a few lines, but still. Given that we have eight days to shoot those 60 pages (give or take), that's a lot, and they pile up.
P.S.: For those keeping track at home... it's Buff. We get back to work.
_________________________________________________________________
I think I need to answer a few questions first.
- No, I'm not dead. I'm in LA. Feel free to insert a joke, if you want.
- Yes, I have a place to live here. So... since August, give or take, Laurel Canyon (technically the Hollywood Hills, north of Sunset Blvd) has been my home. For what it's worth, it's an awesome place (view, fireplace, the whole deal). True story: while I was first walking through the house, I called the owner (now my landlord), Leslie. She's in Jersey and was initially a little confused by my 917 area code-- but 15 minutes later, in the midst of talk of commute times from Weehawken to Sony Music, she said "...you know what? You want it, the place is yours. Just send me a check."
No app, no lease, nothing. I would not know Leslie if she walked in the room.
- I am here because primarily because my two most long-term actor clients, Eliza Dushku and Chris O'Donnell, both are leads in network series-- Eliza is the lead in Dollhouse, Joss Whedon's show on Fox; Chris is, as mentioned, the lead in NCIS. I am also here because, through a series of details too convoluted to go into here, when these shows were announced last spring I had no place to live in Manhattan. My friends claimed that this was the universe's way of saying, in essence: you've been talking about LA for years-- it's Now or Never, Pal.
I chose "Now." And here I am.
______________________________________________________________
There is a funny thing about moving without thinking it through: one has no idea of what one's life is going to be-- and one (OK, me) soon realizes how completely one (OK, me) has underestimated how much of a life one leaves behind. It's hard, this; the new life, all that.
Fortunately, as some of you know, once in LA I had to hit the ground running-- for in addition to Chris and Eliza, my friend Rick Fox needs "refocusing." I have never, ever met anyone in Hollywood who receives more varied, over-the-transom offers than Rick. And me? Scattered, running-in-ten-directions me-- compared to Rick? I'm friggin' Ghandi, I'm so calm and focused.
So I settle into this new, strange life, a life dictated by call sheets. They come in nightly, and it's always surprising to me how the next day's call sheets for two entirely different shows, halfway across town, arrive in my inbox in within ten minutes of each other. (Honestly, how is that possible?) As one might expect, the Universe seems to conspire to make Big Days (or even Big Scenes) occur at the same time for all my clients. So I toggle back and forth between the two-- who's shooting what, and when-- and where? It's kinda stressful, to tell you the truth. But one does what one can.
______________________________________________________________
Much more to say, but it's late. I'll tell ya more from the plane tomorrow.
Peter
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Boston, part two
... yah yah yah I know: it's been more than 24 hours (as promised) since I last wrote. But I've got a good excuse, for my ensuing 24 hours do not start well.
At all. I'll pick up where I left off:
So I'm in bed. I've sent my emails, I've shut off my laptop; as I roll over, I marvel at the fact that I'm so tired as to actually be nauseous. It's my life, I think, finally catching up to me.
Fifteen minutes later I change my mind, for the nausea has overtaken the fatigue. This isn't good.
A few minutes later the nausea has intensified, and now something more: dread. A dread that soon turns into an awful certainty I haven't felt in years: in a few minutes, I'm gonna puke. And puke hard.
Nothing changes about this ritual, or the steps that lead relentlessly to it: the sweating, the shallow breathing, the clenched fists... the desperate bargaining with one's own stomach: please, please, not now... the eternal bucket/toilet debate (and where IS the ice bucket, anyway?)... the mental plotting of the bathroom dash, followed the realization that the mere act of standing will seal the deal and the dread that one has waited too long to sprint.
One forgets how painful it is.
...the first time. After an hour or so of this, as my fingernails dig into the toilet seat and my even my legs, fully extended and tensed, are in on the job, I come to hate my body. I hate the level of pain it can endure. I hate its stubborn insistence that the best thing to do now is, ya know... puke more. I hate the fact that every muscle in my body is tense in an effort to squeeze another drop of God-knows-what from my body--and if I could breathe, I'd scream to my body (really, I would): THERE'S SIMPLY. NOTHING. LEFT. Anywhere. Trust me. I know this.
Finally, it recedes. as I collapse onto the tile floor, drenched in a sweat that trickles even into my ears, I am reminded of a fundamental truth of life: few things feel better than the end of pain.
My last thought before passing out is a prayer that this is food poisoning, for there's a stomach flu going around LA that's got a nasty reputation and I simply can't afford a week of this. Time will tell.
6AM: I open my eyes. The sliver-window in the bathroom has turned from black to a dull, slate gray. Dawn. Crawl back to bed.
A lifetime later (but it's only 9:40!) and my body has decided that one final, just-in-case round is in order-- and as I assume the position, this I know: ain't no way I'm teachin a class today. But by noon, the pain-tide has turned a little, and I decide: Peter Kelley is no quitter. I'm in Boston, Dammit, and I've got work to do. Come hell or high water, I'll rally.
2PM: I call my good friend Steve Stapinski, who's registered in the class, and he agrees to stop by with replenishing fluids on his way in to rehearse. A few minutes later, a knock at my door: a bellman, with a bag containing TWO ONE-GALLON JUGS of Gatorade. (Thanks, Steve.) A little after three, and I'm at the BCA. I make it through class, actually rally a little, and when we exit the BCA...
Now THIS is more like it. THIS is the Boston I remember.
I am suddenly walking fast and my head is down and my hands are dug into my pockets and I am squinting in a futile effort to shield my eyes against the wind-driven sleet that sandblasts directly into my face. As we approach steve's car, Steve-- who can never, ever resist talking to a young woman-- asks the valet whether we are in fact dealing with snow or rain.
"Neither," she says... "it's 'snain'. Snain's the worst."
"Snain." That's a good one. Fifteen years in Boston and I never heard that. I am shivering by the time I climb into Steve's car and I am reminded to never, ever take small miracles like heated seats for granted. Five minutes later I am back in my bed. Two minutes after that, I'm asleep.
It is not, as it feels, ten hours later when I wake up. In fact, it's barely nine PM. But I am on the mend, and I'd earlier heard a rumor that I now must confirm, so I get dressed and manage to head outside.
The rumor is true. The "snain" has turned to snow. Real snow, White Christmas snow. Suddenly, I don't even mind the cold. Suddenly, I know there's only one thing to do. I drop my head, squint... and return to the the Oak Room. I order a ginger ale (but for the love of Christ stay away from those Wasabe peas!), and listen.
One thing about Christmas carols: all the good ones succeed on the level of melody, so they don't need to be sung to be enjoyed. But now, in a bold shift... this new tune is not a Christmas carol, and it takes me a second to place it. It's The Beatles: "Here,There, and Everywhere."
Here's the thing about a Beatles song: every element is by now so iconic --the arrangement, the production, those vocals-- that it's sometimes necessary to hear one out of context to realize how beautiful it is. It's a brilliant choice, this, for it's so simple and haunting and sweet that, in another musical life, it could actually be a Christmas carol. And I get the sense I'm not alone in this thought: for the duration of the song, the whole place grows a little quieter.
It ends, and I decide not to press my luck with another Ginger Ale. One more chin-down walk though a Boston night, and in ten minutes I'm back in bed and once again quickly dropping into sleep, and as I do so I think about my day. Despite its horrible start, I taught a class. I heard Christmas carols. I saw snow. And now I'm in a warm bed.
All of our lives go through times of ache. But even then - or especially then - above all things, Gratitude. Which is the point, I think, of the season.
PK
Friday, December 4, 2009
a short note...
I have to remind myself that for Boston, this is warm.
It's ten PM, or thereabouts. I'm heading over to the Oak Bar at the Copley Plaza for a quiet(ish) glass of wine before bed, and as I scurry across Dartmouth street I remember the essential fact of how windy this place is, so I'm thankful for the relative warmth. I'm remembering from my days in Boston a series of post-Thanksgiving cold spells-- snow turning to ice in early December (I swear!), and days on end of bitter, bone-snapping cold. Not tonight, though, and I bless my good fortune as I slip into the bar.
Which is packed. A confession: there's a kind of sadness to coming alone to a place like this, in Boston, on a Friday night in the Holiday season -- as far as I can tell, it's not only Family Night but Date Night here at the Oak Room, and while I enjoy the dull din of conversation and the piano player's medley of Holiday Favorites (I am, after all, The Christmas Whore...), I'm also aware of my presence as the "party of one" guy who's workin' on his laptop on a Friday night (it's true - since I'm teaching a class tomorrow, this does qualify as a business trip for PK). (It also reminds me of a script idea about a man who goes through life positioning himself next to happiness, based on his hope that happiness is contagious and can, like a winter cold, be "caught" if one is around it often enough). Anyway. I'll probably overpay for the wine, but I don't care-- I've reached a point where I'll gladly pay a premium for a warm spot with comfortable seats.
So what am I doing here? Well, I made a promise to myself on the flight out (where I got the upgrade, again! I'm on a roll, baby! But no wi-fi on Boston flights...): I'm going to try to send "a musing a day" for the next few days, to get back into the swing of chronicling my increasingly scattered, hard-to-describe life. As a few of you have pointed out, it's been a long time since you've received a "PK rambling." I know. Rest assured I've got a backlog of observations about the culture of celebrity, working in network television, "life on the lot", life in Laurel Canyon, all of it. Things are slowing down, so hopefully that will allow me to catch up.
Stay tuned.
Especially since I now see that it's gonna snow tomorrow.
It's ten PM, or thereabouts. I'm heading over to the Oak Bar at the Copley Plaza for a quiet(ish) glass of wine before bed, and as I scurry across Dartmouth street I remember the essential fact of how windy this place is, so I'm thankful for the relative warmth. I'm remembering from my days in Boston a series of post-Thanksgiving cold spells-- snow turning to ice in early December (I swear!), and days on end of bitter, bone-snapping cold. Not tonight, though, and I bless my good fortune as I slip into the bar.
Which is packed. A confession: there's a kind of sadness to coming alone to a place like this, in Boston, on a Friday night in the Holiday season -- as far as I can tell, it's not only Family Night but Date Night here at the Oak Room, and while I enjoy the dull din of conversation and the piano player's medley of Holiday Favorites (I am, after all, The Christmas Whore...), I'm also aware of my presence as the "party of one" guy who's workin' on his laptop on a Friday night (it's true - since I'm teaching a class tomorrow, this does qualify as a business trip for PK). (It also reminds me of a script idea about a man who goes through life positioning himself next to happiness, based on his hope that happiness is contagious and can, like a winter cold, be "caught" if one is around it often enough). Anyway. I'll probably overpay for the wine, but I don't care-- I've reached a point where I'll gladly pay a premium for a warm spot with comfortable seats.
So what am I doing here? Well, I made a promise to myself on the flight out (where I got the upgrade, again! I'm on a roll, baby! But no wi-fi on Boston flights...): I'm going to try to send "a musing a day" for the next few days, to get back into the swing of chronicling my increasingly scattered, hard-to-describe life. As a few of you have pointed out, it's been a long time since you've received a "PK rambling." I know. Rest assured I've got a backlog of observations about the culture of celebrity, working in network television, "life on the lot", life in Laurel Canyon, all of it. Things are slowing down, so hopefully that will allow me to catch up.
Stay tuned.
Especially since I now see that it's gonna snow tomorrow.
Friday, July 17, 2009
A sobering thought from another Peter...
This is from Peter Bart's recent column in Variety. It's true, and a little scary:
...Hollywood, too, is having growing pains. Indeed, the kids who fight and fret and fuck their way through "Entourage" may, in their own small way, serve as a metaphor for the agonies of the community at large.
The economic crunch has had a delayed impact on Hollywood, but its impact has now become devastatingly clear. Jobs have become scarce and pay sharply shaved. Insiders believe the number of film releases will drop sharply from more than 600 last year to as few as 350 in 2010.
"The film business is like a snake digesting a large meal," the Economist pointed out last week. "The production bulge caused by the deluge of money in 2006 and 2007 will take a year or so to work its way through the system.
The entertainment business poses many contradictions to analysts. Box office is up as much as 12% this year, but the studios are getting squeezed by their once-flush parents. Corporate hatchet men at behemoths like Sony or Viacom have thus sent forth their austere mandates: Cut costs and scale back risks. That message is not exactly great news to a business whose entire history rests on expensive risk-taking.
The upshot: Just as Vince and 'E' and their confreres may now have to come of age, so do the many actors, writers and other members of Hollywood's creative community who face a tough period of corporate consolidation and cost-cutting. The balance of power between the talent and the corporate suits has shifted to the corporations. That translates into the many ugly realities no one likes to think about -- foreclosures, kids being pulled out of private schools, courts jammed with claims for reduced alimony, restaurants shuttering.
It's getting ugly out there. I'm glad we have "Entourage" to give us a few laughs.Saturday, June 27, 2009
A Boston day-Night Doubleheader
Funny, this business. If you hang around long enough, things have a way of circling back.
MARCH
I'm sent a copy of "THE TOWN," Ben Affleck's follow-up to Gone Baby Gone (and a Hot Script in LA, at the time), to read for my client Eliza.
"Oh, for CHRISSAKES," I think as I start reading, "another Boston Guys Doin' Crime script-- will these things never stop coming?"
I'm serious. Is there something in the water up there? Some friggin' Artesian well in Dorcherster or Saugus or someplace that produces, in anyone who drinks from it, an insatiable desire to write about 'these guys from the neighborhood who plan to steal some (drugs guns money)'? I can tell you without exaggeration that in the 20 years I've been doing this I am sent about one of these scripts a month, and most of them are God-awful.
But not The Town. The Town is wonderful.
Crime thrillers have a self-imposed challenge: they must quickly succeed on both plot and character levels, and the Town does so on both counts, beautifully. I opened the file sitting in bed at the Mondrian hotel, on that first, jet-lagged night in LA, but kept clicking through the pages until after two AM (actually five AM, since I'm on east coast time). Let's see what we can do with this one, I tell Eliza, and go to bed.
APRIL
I'm sent another script: VALEDICTION, a small, finely observed family drama with a supernatural layer that gives it a nice, twisty feel. Better, this is an offer for Eliza, not an audition.
Better still, I very much like the script.
So even though the role is not large --and it's the "home-wrecker" role in the script-- I urge Eliza to take it. I always urge clients to pick the project, not the role-- and Oh how some agents hate this. In limited cases I see their point-- Leading Men are Leading Men, for example, and should only consider leading roles. But still-- were there any insignificant roles in No Country for Old Men? Would any actor's career have been hurt appearing anywhere in that film? In the case of Valediction, I'm 'validated' (get it?) when I hear of the wonderful Brits that are in the cast-- ends up that Eliza is one of the only Americans in the film.
Ends up, also, that it films in Boston. July, they say, so that's that. It's on.
MAY
Out of the blue, I get an email from an old acquaintance: Frank Corache, a fine director best known for helming some of Adam Sandler's best films. Ends up Frank's directing ZOOKEEPER, a Kevin James film shooting in Boston, and do I still do any casting up there? I tell him that I do, in tandem with my good friend and casting director Carolyn Pickman. So, another script. I read it, offer some thoughts, and Frank tells me we'll be in touch.
So now it's JUNE...
...we got the Zookeeper job, Carolyn's gearing up on The Town... and, at the eleventh hour, a call from Eliza:
"Pete, can you be in Boston THIS WEEK?"
Ends up VALEDICTION got pushed-- up, not back. That NEVER happens. Suddenly, a temporary relocation to Boston seems inevitable-- and since my personal life's been in something of a freefall, it sounds like a welcome diversion. The Universe Conspiring, all that.
Back to Boston I go.
Ends up Eliza's days are mostly nights, so I manage to manage my time pretty well. But on Tuesday, I finally end up with a double header: Casting Zookeeper from 10 to 3, then moving onto the Valediction set from 4 to... well, late. As you might imagine, I have a couple of thoughts from that looong day.
THE DAY: CASTING
...which, it ends up, hasn't changed all that much. I'd forgotten how challenging these day-player days can be: it's a numbers game, and the session can feel as much like a commercial job as a feature job. But before I go any further,
LET ME EXPLAIN SOMETHING ABOUT CASTING. By observing something about falling in love.
In acting class, I sometimes ask: who here's single? This being an acting class (and New York City, after all), it's not surprising that most hands go up. (on a side note, it's always surprising who's single, and who isn't, but that's a subject for another time.)
So then I ask the single folk: "let's say you go to a party, or a bar-- how long does it take for you to know whether there's anyone there you're remotely interested in?"
The consensus: about five seconds.
And as for "The Click", that magical connection you feel with someone who might be The One? Well, that takes almost no time at all.
Which is precisely what casting for a film is like. For even the smallest of roles, there's this undefined ideal that just sort of walks in the room (for the record, "we'll know it when we see it" is true, and not at all a blow-off excuse). An actor who's not right for a role can give a lovely audition, but if there was no initial 'click' when they walked in the door, it matters not.
(But PLEASE don't despair, actors, and don't let off the gas, because "Terrific actor, wrong for this" is one of the best notes we can make about you-- and, honestly, sometimes better then getting called back. There are other projects. What's important is that we remember you as good.)
And here's what feels counter-intuitive for many actors: this holds even more true for smaller roles. Zookeeper is a Disney comedy, so if we see you onscreen for FOUR LINES we kinda need to know who you are the minute you appear in the story . Which is why it breaks our heart when actors who've been called in for the one-line Security Guard role walk in, eyes filled with hope... because they're also clutching the sides for the larger, three-scene, 'Best Friend ' role in their hands.
"Can I also read for...?" Sorry, but no. No Click. It's as simple as that.
But what of the actors for whom we feel the click?
It's equally heartbreaking when they haven't done the work to follow through on that initial promise. (I tell women it's like finally talking to the hot guy and finding out that he's dumb as a post. Oh, how you want him to be smarter, more sensitive, more insightful-- and, sure, you can choose to delude yourself that he is, for a while. Six weeks, tops. But he ain't, and you know it. But I digress.)
I can tell you now that at least this one thing about casting hasn't changed: in film and TV, you gotta bring the performance in the audition. And to do that, you must create an entire world. I like to tell actors it's a matter of going temporarily insane: for a minute or two, you actually see, quite clearly, people and things that just happen not to be there. And if you believe in this fantasy world, if you commit to it fully, then we'll see it too, in you and through you.
And Zookeeper? I'm guessing that everyone who Clicked --and who Did The Work-- will get called back (if there are callbacks)(ahem). We'll see.
THE NIGHT: ON THE SET
Which is Whiskey friggin' Park, of all places, and I'm late-- but not nearly as late as the production.
I have no way of knowing, when I arrive at five, that the first shot will not go off til after eight PM, a full five hours after crew call. Mostly this has to do with the complex setup of the first shot-- which is a gutsy thing for a director to do.
Orson Wells was known for doing it, as was Coppola: composing a long, challenging opening shot that takes a while to set up but will, once in the can, cover a page or more. You're five hours late-- then suddenly, a half hour later, you're back on track. Suri, the director (a Brit whom I get to know rather well, and who becomes a friend partially becuase I may be one of the only Americans who saw his film "A Man of No Importance" several years back), is setting up a travelling master, a stedicam shot that will follow Ben Barnes, the lead, down a flight of stairs, where he'll discover Eliza; we'll roll that two-shot all the way though the scene, right up until Ben's character is hauled back up the stars by Security Guards.
Since this is only the second day of shooting, though, the crew hasn't yet coalesced as a team. This shot shouldn't be this hard to set up, and Suri's professional, but a little tense-- and when the director's tense, everyone's tense. And as the minutes slip away one hears (with increasing frequency) from the AD: "People, we need QUIET!"
(Side note: at this moment the director in me instinctively looks up at the ceiling-- polished metal-- then down: concrete floors. Cool-looking, but an accoustical nightmare.)
And the quiet is needed, for the most part, from the extras. So, those who do extra work, take a breath. I'm gonna beat you up a little.
To some of you, being an extra feels like being invited to a cool party: I'm in wardrobe! I'm right next to the stars! Plus, for most of the day, you're not really a necessary part of things. Add to the fact that you folks are not, by and large, a quiet lot... and what you have is a perfect storm of chatter.
I speak for directors everywhere when I beg of you: Please Don't.
Even under the best of circumstances, production is tense, and often a grind (personally, I don't have a problem with that, as it reminds us of how challenging the making of good movies really is). Everyone on set is focused, and the "keys" walk around with that buzz-tired that most of us only remember from college finals.
But not the extras.I should tell you this is why so many directors (myself included) prefer to have extras holding far away from the set: everyone else on the set, even that forlorn PA over at craft services, is working-- and, probably, feeling lucky to have the job and focused on not getting fired. They stay quiet when they're asked. But to some extras, I gotta ask: what are you thinking??
Many of you are cater-waiters as well, and I can offer you this comparison: the set is like one of those parties you cater-- except that you, the waiter, are the crew; those guests are the extras. And when you're dead tired and trying to get back with that tray full of empty shrimp plates before you get screamed at or your arm falls off... don't you want those loud guests, who are apparently oblivious to the job you have to do, to simply WORK WITH YOU AND GET OUT OF YOUR WAY!?
Welcome to our world, people.
Again, I know this sounds harsh. Apologies. And, of course, not all extras are like this-- that night, I caught site of an elderly gent, nattily attired in a Brooks Brothers blazer and crisp khakis (...in Whisky Park??), sitting quietly, chipping away at a book full of sudoku puzzles. Because he was far from the action, he had an entire comfy sofa to himself, and seemed perfectly content to while the evening away, out-puzzling the puzzles, waiting for a call to action which, if it never came, was fine with him.
My kind of extra. (And don't worry about not being seen-- we know who you are. We'll find you.)
As for me? I chat with my other new "BFF," Ben Barnes (the male lead) who's quite passionate about the craft (my experience? The good ones, especially the Brits, usually are). I watch a few takes... I offer a few notes to Eliza, and give a few observations to Suri. I think they help.
And, at about eleven or so, after a few hours of watching the monitior.... I know my work here is done. I head out into a damp Boston night.
I reach my rental car, parked on Boylston Street in a 'Meter Parking 'til 8PM' spot. I bought one of those hated "muni meter" slips that was good until 7:54--
--and there, on my windshield, is an orange love letter from my old, old friends at the Boston Transportation Department. Meter Expired-- as of 7:55.
Ahh, Boston. Love you too. You never change.
MARCH
I'm sent a copy of "THE TOWN," Ben Affleck's follow-up to Gone Baby Gone (and a Hot Script in LA, at the time), to read for my client Eliza.
"Oh, for CHRISSAKES," I think as I start reading, "another Boston Guys Doin' Crime script-- will these things never stop coming?"
I'm serious. Is there something in the water up there? Some friggin' Artesian well in Dorcherster or Saugus or someplace that produces, in anyone who drinks from it, an insatiable desire to write about 'these guys from the neighborhood who plan to steal some (drugs guns money)'? I can tell you without exaggeration that in the 20 years I've been doing this I am sent about one of these scripts a month, and most of them are God-awful.
But not The Town. The Town is wonderful.
Crime thrillers have a self-imposed challenge: they must quickly succeed on both plot and character levels, and the Town does so on both counts, beautifully. I opened the file sitting in bed at the Mondrian hotel, on that first, jet-lagged night in LA, but kept clicking through the pages until after two AM (actually five AM, since I'm on east coast time). Let's see what we can do with this one, I tell Eliza, and go to bed.
APRIL
I'm sent another script: VALEDICTION, a small, finely observed family drama with a supernatural layer that gives it a nice, twisty feel. Better, this is an offer for Eliza, not an audition.
Better still, I very much like the script.
So even though the role is not large --and it's the "home-wrecker" role in the script-- I urge Eliza to take it. I always urge clients to pick the project, not the role-- and Oh how some agents hate this. In limited cases I see their point-- Leading Men are Leading Men, for example, and should only consider leading roles. But still-- were there any insignificant roles in No Country for Old Men? Would any actor's career have been hurt appearing anywhere in that film? In the case of Valediction, I'm 'validated' (get it?) when I hear of the wonderful Brits that are in the cast-- ends up that Eliza is one of the only Americans in the film.
Ends up, also, that it films in Boston. July, they say, so that's that. It's on.
MAY
Out of the blue, I get an email from an old acquaintance: Frank Corache, a fine director best known for helming some of Adam Sandler's best films. Ends up Frank's directing ZOOKEEPER, a Kevin James film shooting in Boston, and do I still do any casting up there? I tell him that I do, in tandem with my good friend and casting director Carolyn Pickman. So, another script. I read it, offer some thoughts, and Frank tells me we'll be in touch.
So now it's JUNE...
...we got the Zookeeper job, Carolyn's gearing up on The Town... and, at the eleventh hour, a call from Eliza:
"Pete, can you be in Boston THIS WEEK?"
Ends up VALEDICTION got pushed-- up, not back. That NEVER happens. Suddenly, a temporary relocation to Boston seems inevitable-- and since my personal life's been in something of a freefall, it sounds like a welcome diversion. The Universe Conspiring, all that.
Back to Boston I go.
Ends up Eliza's days are mostly nights, so I manage to manage my time pretty well. But on Tuesday, I finally end up with a double header: Casting Zookeeper from 10 to 3, then moving onto the Valediction set from 4 to... well, late. As you might imagine, I have a couple of thoughts from that looong day.
THE DAY: CASTING
...which, it ends up, hasn't changed all that much. I'd forgotten how challenging these day-player days can be: it's a numbers game, and the session can feel as much like a commercial job as a feature job. But before I go any further,
LET ME EXPLAIN SOMETHING ABOUT CASTING. By observing something about falling in love.
In acting class, I sometimes ask: who here's single? This being an acting class (and New York City, after all), it's not surprising that most hands go up. (on a side note, it's always surprising who's single, and who isn't, but that's a subject for another time.)
So then I ask the single folk: "let's say you go to a party, or a bar-- how long does it take for you to know whether there's anyone there you're remotely interested in?"
The consensus: about five seconds.
And as for "The Click", that magical connection you feel with someone who might be The One? Well, that takes almost no time at all.
Which is precisely what casting for a film is like. For even the smallest of roles, there's this undefined ideal that just sort of walks in the room (for the record, "we'll know it when we see it" is true, and not at all a blow-off excuse). An actor who's not right for a role can give a lovely audition, but if there was no initial 'click' when they walked in the door, it matters not.
(But PLEASE don't despair, actors, and don't let off the gas, because "Terrific actor, wrong for this" is one of the best notes we can make about you-- and, honestly, sometimes better then getting called back. There are other projects. What's important is that we remember you as good.)
And here's what feels counter-intuitive for many actors: this holds even more true for smaller roles. Zookeeper is a Disney comedy, so if we see you onscreen for FOUR LINES we kinda need to know who you are the minute you appear in the story . Which is why it breaks our heart when actors who've been called in for the one-line Security Guard role walk in, eyes filled with hope... because they're also clutching the sides for the larger, three-scene, 'Best Friend ' role in their hands.
"Can I also read for...?" Sorry, but no. No Click. It's as simple as that.
But what of the actors for whom we feel the click?
It's equally heartbreaking when they haven't done the work to follow through on that initial promise. (I tell women it's like finally talking to the hot guy and finding out that he's dumb as a post. Oh, how you want him to be smarter, more sensitive, more insightful-- and, sure, you can choose to delude yourself that he is, for a while. Six weeks, tops. But he ain't, and you know it. But I digress.)
I can tell you now that at least this one thing about casting hasn't changed: in film and TV, you gotta bring the performance in the audition. And to do that, you must create an entire world. I like to tell actors it's a matter of going temporarily insane: for a minute or two, you actually see, quite clearly, people and things that just happen not to be there. And if you believe in this fantasy world, if you commit to it fully, then we'll see it too, in you and through you.
And Zookeeper? I'm guessing that everyone who Clicked --and who Did The Work-- will get called back (if there are callbacks)(ahem). We'll see.
THE NIGHT: ON THE SET
Which is Whiskey friggin' Park, of all places, and I'm late-- but not nearly as late as the production.
I have no way of knowing, when I arrive at five, that the first shot will not go off til after eight PM, a full five hours after crew call. Mostly this has to do with the complex setup of the first shot-- which is a gutsy thing for a director to do.
Orson Wells was known for doing it, as was Coppola: composing a long, challenging opening shot that takes a while to set up but will, once in the can, cover a page or more. You're five hours late-- then suddenly, a half hour later, you're back on track. Suri, the director (a Brit whom I get to know rather well, and who becomes a friend partially becuase I may be one of the only Americans who saw his film "A Man of No Importance" several years back), is setting up a travelling master, a stedicam shot that will follow Ben Barnes, the lead, down a flight of stairs, where he'll discover Eliza; we'll roll that two-shot all the way though the scene, right up until Ben's character is hauled back up the stars by Security Guards.
Since this is only the second day of shooting, though, the crew hasn't yet coalesced as a team. This shot shouldn't be this hard to set up, and Suri's professional, but a little tense-- and when the director's tense, everyone's tense. And as the minutes slip away one hears (with increasing frequency) from the AD: "People, we need QUIET!"
(Side note: at this moment the director in me instinctively looks up at the ceiling-- polished metal-- then down: concrete floors. Cool-looking, but an accoustical nightmare.)
And the quiet is needed, for the most part, from the extras. So, those who do extra work, take a breath. I'm gonna beat you up a little.
To some of you, being an extra feels like being invited to a cool party: I'm in wardrobe! I'm right next to the stars! Plus, for most of the day, you're not really a necessary part of things. Add to the fact that you folks are not, by and large, a quiet lot... and what you have is a perfect storm of chatter.
I speak for directors everywhere when I beg of you: Please Don't.
Even under the best of circumstances, production is tense, and often a grind (personally, I don't have a problem with that, as it reminds us of how challenging the making of good movies really is). Everyone on set is focused, and the "keys" walk around with that buzz-tired that most of us only remember from college finals.
But not the extras.I should tell you this is why so many directors (myself included) prefer to have extras holding far away from the set: everyone else on the set, even that forlorn PA over at craft services, is working-- and, probably, feeling lucky to have the job and focused on not getting fired. They stay quiet when they're asked. But to some extras, I gotta ask: what are you thinking??
Many of you are cater-waiters as well, and I can offer you this comparison: the set is like one of those parties you cater-- except that you, the waiter, are the crew; those guests are the extras. And when you're dead tired and trying to get back with that tray full of empty shrimp plates before you get screamed at or your arm falls off... don't you want those loud guests, who are apparently oblivious to the job you have to do, to simply WORK WITH YOU AND GET OUT OF YOUR WAY!?
Welcome to our world, people.
Again, I know this sounds harsh. Apologies. And, of course, not all extras are like this-- that night, I caught site of an elderly gent, nattily attired in a Brooks Brothers blazer and crisp khakis (...in Whisky Park??), sitting quietly, chipping away at a book full of sudoku puzzles. Because he was far from the action, he had an entire comfy sofa to himself, and seemed perfectly content to while the evening away, out-puzzling the puzzles, waiting for a call to action which, if it never came, was fine with him.
My kind of extra. (And don't worry about not being seen-- we know who you are. We'll find you.)
As for me? I chat with my other new "BFF," Ben Barnes (the male lead) who's quite passionate about the craft (my experience? The good ones, especially the Brits, usually are). I watch a few takes... I offer a few notes to Eliza, and give a few observations to Suri. I think they help.
And, at about eleven or so, after a few hours of watching the monitior.... I know my work here is done. I head out into a damp Boston night.
I reach my rental car, parked on Boylston Street in a 'Meter Parking 'til 8PM' spot. I bought one of those hated "muni meter" slips that was good until 7:54--
--and there, on my windshield, is an orange love letter from my old, old friends at the Boston Transportation Department. Meter Expired-- as of 7:55.
Ahh, Boston. Love you too. You never change.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
