Boredom

A lot of time on set is spent sitting around, waiting for other people to do their jobs. You gotta wait for the actors to block the scene, then wait for grips and electrics to light it, then camera has to set focus marks, then hair, make-up, and costume have to fix up the actors, because they’ve been sitting under the hot lights too long, and then you actually roll. And roll. And roll.

Keep rolling!

You gotta find a way to fill all the time.

Some common ways are football pools, or the dollar raffle (write your name on a dollar, and whoever’s bill gets drawn wins the pot). But there are some esoteric games unique to each department.

The grips have the C-stand game. What you do is, you crane the stick up as high as it can go. Then, you loosen the knuckle, letting it fall, and tighten it just before hits the base (or your hand). The closest to the base without hitting it wins.

Camera assistants play with the time code, or footage, meter. See, at the beginning of a tape, you’re supposed to roll 30 seconds of bars and tone. (In film, you roll 5 or 10 feet of a color chart.) Once again, whoever can get the closest without going over wins. This is much easier in film than in video, as you might imagine.

In the office, we have a game involving paper. When we get revisions, we calculate how much paper we’ll need (say, 23 green pages X 75 copies = 1725 sheets). Then, we try to pull out exactly that much paper (three reams, plus approximately a half). The goal is to come out with as little colored paper in the tray as you can.

As I was writing these, I came to realize how lame most of these games sound.

But there is one game that sounds totally awesome– gay chicken. A long time ago, I saw a production designer and DP play this game the time. It basically involves two guys taking turns touching each other. You start someplace innocuous, like the shoulder or arm, then work your way closer and closer to the other dude’s junk, until someone drops out.

I’m still not clear who’s the winner in that game…

I Heart Teamsters

“How do you tell which kid is a teamster’s on the playground? He’s the one sitting around, watching the other kids play.”

That’s not really fair. Teamsters have it tough.  They’re the first ones in, and the last ones out.  Their turn around times are frighteningly small.  Plus, everybody makes fun of them.

Teamsters have a reputation for being surly, as well as lazy, but that hasn’t been my experience. Maybe it’s just my amiable nature, but they’re usually friendly to me.

Case in point. I drove a lot this weekend, but I forgot to fill up my gas tank.  When I got to set, I saw the little red light come on. Shit.  Now I’m going to have to pay whatever gas costs in Westwood. (If you don’t live in the LA area, Westwood is a sovereign nation with it’s own currency.  It looks just like our money, but somehow, everything costs twice as much.)

Desperate, I asked the transpo coordinator if I could just get a gallon from his fuel truck, to get me to the nearest Costco.  He picks up his walkie and goes, “Hey, Tim, why don’t you fill up Anonymous’s car for him?”

Isn’t that awesome?  I mean, I realize he’s giving away someone else’s moeny, but still.  He’s just cool.

Movie Magic

I directed a short film earlier this year that prominently featured a pregnant woman.  In a burst of verisimilitude, we actually got a real pregnant woman to play the part.  She provided her own costume and baby bump and everything.

Here’s the thing about maternity clothes, though– they’re designed to conceal, or at least de-emphasize, the size of the woman’s belly.  Kind of a drawback in a visual medium.

Upon screening the movie, several people told me that they couldn’t tell she was pregnant.  My editor informed me that, despite my storyboards, I didn’t actually shoot a close up of her pregnant belly.

This was all months ago, so, of course, the baby has already been born (happy and healthy, thankfully).  This leaves me in the awkward position of finding a stand-in to wear the same dress with a pillow stuffed down the front.

“No, really, it’s not ’cause you’re fat.  I-I mean, you’re not fat!  We just want to make you look fat.  Pregnant, I mean!  We want you to look pregnant!”

I wonder if Spielberg ever has to deal with stuff like this?

Judging

When I’m writing, my emotions tend to vacillate between “Oh, God, how did I ever fool myself into thinking I can write?” and “Why am I so amazing?”

For this reason, I’m not very perspicacious when it comes to judging my own work.  (Why, yes, I do have a word-a-day calendar.  How did you know?)

On the one hand, my favorite script is one my wife hates. On the other, I wrote a short that I thought was just okay, but my friend said, “You have to make this.  Right now.”

So, you never know.

That being said, I’m still surprised when I read a really bad screenplay on TriggerStreet.com.  (For those of you unfamiliar with that site, it was created by Kevin Spacey’s company as a kind of social networking website for filmmakers and other artists.  You can post scripts, short films, comic books, and so on.  The hitch is, you have to review someone else’s work first.  It’s a clever way of dissuading freeloaders.)

It’s a great way to put your story out into the world and stand up or fall down on its own merits. But the scripts some people submit just baffle me. I’ve seen stories with huge plot holes, characters that don’t act like people, scenes that ramble on and on, and general grammatical confusion (commas and periods serve very different functions, buddy).

I suppose I should congratulate them simply for completing a very difficult task.  Then again, people say the same thing about soccer (or “metric football“), and you won’t see me going to an LA Galaxy game anytime soon.

Reading a script like that always gives me pause.  Did this guy think he had just written his masterpiece?  Did he really believe this was the great American screenplay?

What does this say about me, when I jump back and think, That’s it!  Don’t touch another word!  Just point the camera at the pages, and it’ll make a hundred million!

Am I as delusional as these guys?

- – -

This has nothing to do with the above, but if you like video games, it’s funny anyway.

Luckiest Motherfucker Ever

You know my feelings on luck.  I generally don’t believe in it, but Peter Steinfeld is trying to very hard challenge that disbelief.

The other day, I listened to Creative Screenwriting Magazine’s interview of Steinfeld after 21. (By the way, it’s a great podcast series, if you’re interested in writing. You can download old podcasts here, or just go to iTunes.)

Before the movie came out, I was excited about it because I like math. (I’m a nerd.)

The movie started with Kevin Spacey talking about the Monty Hall Problem, which didn’t make any sense. This was supposed to be a senior level math course at MIT, and Spacey was talking like these students had never heard of it before. I know about the Monty Hall Problem, and I went to film school, for fuck’s sake. I can barely read.

And then, he got it wrong. He, or rather, the writer, left out the most important part of the problem: the fact that Monty Hall knows which door has the goat. If he doesn’t know, it’s just a fifty-fifty chance, like Deal or No Deal.

So, you’ve got an MIT professor explaining a basic math problem to a senior class, incorrectly. The film went downhill from there.

I was so annoyed at 21 that I read the original book, Bringing Down the House, just to find out if any of this actually made sense. Turns out, the book is amazing. Besides all the nerdy math stuff, the story and the people are far more interesting. I don’t know why they changed anything.

Once I discovered Steinfeld’s interview on the Creative Screenwriting site, I had to listen to it, in the vain hope that he would explain why he took such an awesome book and crapped all over it.  Sadly, he did not feel compelled to defend himself.  But he did tell this story–

Steinfeld moved to LA a few days after the Northridge earthquake. Not knowing anyone and having no connections, he immediately got a job on a Showtime movie as Chazz Palminteri’s driver.  (This in itself is pretty lucky.)

He didn’t have a Thomas Guide and spent most of his time lost. On the last day, as he was taking Palminteri to the airport, Chazz says, “Kid, you’re the worst fucking driver I’ve had in my entire life. I hope to God you want to do something else with your life.”

Of course, he said he really wanted to be a writer. Palminteri gave him some writing advice: “Write something that people might want to see.”

“Like what?”

“What’s the oldest story in the book?”

“I dunno. The evil twin movie.”

“Great. Write the evil twin movie.”

“But I don’t want to write the evil twin movie.”

“Just do it as a writing exercise. Get it under your belt.”

A week later, Steinfeld’s out of a job and has some time on his hands, so, he takes Palminteri’s advice.

He doesn’t want to waste any time on this stupid idea, so he writes fifteen pages a day. He finished the whole script in a week.

After that, he got a job at a production company. He tells one of his coworkers that he just finished a script. His friend asks him to bring it in tomorrow (Tuesday).

Sure, why not? The friend reads it Tuesday night, and on Wednesday says he likes the script, can he show it to a producer friend?

Sure. So the guy shows it to his friend, who reads it Wednesday night. Thursday, the producer calls Steinfeld, says he likes it, can he show it to his agent at ICM?

Sure. Friday, the agent calls, asks if he can send it out to some people over the weekend?

Sure. Monday, ABC bought it.

Holy shit.

Ho.

Ly.

Shit.

I mean, seriously. Seriously? Six weeks in Los Angeles, and he’s sold his first script. Seriously.

Not Feeling Like Myself

Since I mentioned I attended the TV writers’ group, I’ve received several e-mails from writers asking if I was this guy or that guy that they’d met. (Curiously, no has suspected that I’m a girl. I realize that I do talk about my wife, but hey, it’s legal in California, now.)

The truth is, I am and I am not those people. I hear stories from friends all the time, and I’ll often rewrite these in the first person. (It’s funnier that way.)  Other times, I’ll write about myself in the third person.  You never know.

I also change details, like when something happened, or to which department. I won’t make up a story out of whole cloth, but I will alter it enough that, hopefully, if any of the participants are reading this, they won’t recognize themselves.

Of course, I will embellish for humor. I can’t resist a good joke.

All of this is in a vain effort to maintain my anonymity and, more importantly, not get fired.  If you have figured it out, I ask that you keep it to yourself, smarty pants.  I can’t write posts like this if people know who I am.

Everyone’s Favorite Department

On one end of the spectrum, you have the camera department. On the other, craft services.

(Or “crafty,” as they are affectionately known by everyone else besides me, because “crafty” is already a word, with a definition and everything.)

The craft services person is always the nicest guy on set, with the possible exception of locations. The locations manager can be either super-nice, or used car salesman-nice, but crafty is always nice.

There’s a very good reason for that. To most people, crafty means snacks. They’re the ones who bring bagels and doughnuts in the morning, put out fruit and candy all day long, and occasionally bring out walking meals after lunch, in the long stretch before wrap.

But that’s not actually their job. The reason the department is called “craft services” is that they’re supposed to help the other departments, or “crafts.” The on set dresser needs to move a couch? Crafty picks up the other end. Grips are unloading their truck? Craft lends a hand. In other words, he’s the most helpful guy on set.

A professor once told me the story of how crafty went from being a handy man to a snack provider. It’s probably apocryphal, but I like it anyway.

When people come in to work a long day on set, it’s nice to have some doughnuts in the morning. The craft services man, nice guy that he is, buys a box, and asks everyone to throw in some change to cover the cost.

But some people don’t like doughnuts. They like bagels. So crafty gets doughnuts and bagels. Pretty soon he’s getting doughnuts and bagels and fruit and coffee, and all of this is starting to cost a pretty penny. Unfortunately, not everyone is contributing their fair share, and this poor, nice guy is losing money.

So, he goes to the producer and asks for a little money, and the producer is like, “Doughnuts? Fuck that. I’m not paying for fucking doughnuts.”

And so, the next day, there are no doughnuts, nor bagels or fruit or coffee. And everyone is very, very upset. So the producer gives the crafty guy his money.

Decades later, crafty=snacks.

Oddly, since craft services is part of local 80, their union charter still reflects this history. They’re still supposed to do all of those other chores, like sweep the floor.

And collect horse poop.

True story– The craft services guy came up to the UPM and said he’s going to need another person tomorrow. The UPM asks why?

“Because we’re going to have a horse on set, and it’s crafty’s job to pick up the horse’s… waste.”

“So what? How long does it take to pick up horse shit? You don’t need another guy just for that.”

“Do you think the producer will like to eat finger sandwiches made by the same guy he saw sweeping up horse poop an hour ago?”

He got the extra man.

Another Stupid Competition

I was listening to the Adam Carolla Show this morning, and they had Kaitlin Olson, from It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, as a guest.  They were talking about how poor you are when you’re starting out, and Adam said, “But you’re making good money now, at least.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m making big bucks,” she sarcastically replied.

Sigh.

I saw an actor’s contract the other day (memo to higher ups: yes, we do read every piece of paper you give us, no matter how many times you mark it “confidential”).  This actor got paid more in a day than I do in two weeks.  This wasn’t one of our main cast, or a guest star, either.  This was a day player whose character doesn’t even have a name.  That’s right, Waiter #1 gets paid ten times as much as I do to say one line.

And I guarantee you this guy thinks he doesn’t get paid enough.

(I know, I know, actors work sporadically, but you know what?  Fuck you.  You get $1,250 to play pretend for six hours.  Open a savings account.)

I don’t know what Kaitlin Olson gets paid, but it’s definitely more than that guy.

The only stupid game that comes up more than the Sleepless Competition is the Who’s Getting Paid Worse? Contest.  As a PA, I hate getting into that.  It’s like playing Counter Strike with your mom– you know you’re going to win.

Like I’ve said before, complain to someone who cares.

PS: “Hi!” to everyone who went to the TV Writers meet-up last night.  Great to finally meet you face-to-face.

A Map of Hollywood

The Industry, not the town.

I actually feel a little left out, since it refers to set PAs, but not us lowly office PAs.  Everyone forgets about us.  :(

(Hat tip: Script Goddess.)

Why Didn’t You Remind Me That I Reminded You?

Some days, I think my boss is a blithering idiot.  (By the way, did you know “blither” means “to blather”?  Thanks, dictionary.com!)  Other days, I think she’s pants-shittingly crazy.

We have a production meeting tomorrow, so my boss wrote up a memo with the time and room number, and had me copy it fifty times (17 for the people who will be there, 23 for the people who couldn’t give a shit, and 10 because she hates trees or something).

But Anonymous, that’s not crazy; it’s just wasteful!

Keep your shorts on.  I’m getting there.

There’s a memo we send out daily about the next week’s meetings, location scouts, and things of that nature.  Part of my job is to call all the departments and ask if they need to add or change anything.  I write notes on today’s memo, then give it to my boss, so she can update tomorrow’s.

So, I handed her the memo with my handwritten notes, but before I even got to the door, she said, in this annoying sing-song voice, “You forgo-ot so-omething!”

“Really?  Who did I forget to call?”  In all honesty, I do forget to call some people occasionally.  Mostly because I don’t care.

“No one, but you didn’t make a note about the production meeting tomorrow.”

Wait.  Are you serious?  You want me to write you a note about the meeting you scheduled and you wrote a memo about, not three hours ago?  Who does this make sense to?

As my friend said, What is in her brain?

Oldness.