Writing yesterday about my film school pilot, I thought about our terrible professors for the first time in years. They were all pretty old, and set in their ways. They wouldn’t let us do anything unusual, like, oh, say, move the camera in the shot. They drained every ounce of originality from the production. Like network executives, only not paid as well.

At the time, I also worked for the school. I asked my grizzled old boss what he thought of the situation. Was it going to be this hard to get things done in the real world? He assured me no studio is run as inefficiently as film school. They’d go out of business.

“Everyone is here because either they’re too old to hack it any more,” and he included himself in this group (he was old enough to be on a first name basis with Walt Disney), “or, if they’re young, they never will.”

I looked around at my professors and saw that he was right. When I checked credits on imdb, either I didn’t recognize anything they’d worked on, or their last project of note was done before I was born.

After I graduated, I had an AD who was an asshole (not all that uncommon for ADs, sadly) and had no idea what he was doing. I later found out he taught a directing class at our alma mater. I felt bad for his students.

This obviously calls to mind the old saying, “Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.” Out of curiosity (and lack of anything to do), I tried to figure out who coined that phrase. Apparently, everyone did. On further researching, I discovered it’s actually a bastardization of a quote from Aristotle: “Those that know, do. Those that understand, teach.”

While I think the latter is nicer (my wife is a teacher, after all), the former one applied to my professors much better.

(On an unrelated note, I’m excited to learn I’m not the only one in Hollywood who votes Republican.)

In film school, I worked on a sitcom pilot for the campus TV station. It was for a class, so if you wanted to be either the director, the writer, or the producer, you had to interview with the professors. They made three highly questionable choices.

There were a lot of funny people on our crew, but the writer wasn’t one of them. It’s not that he had a strange, Andy Kaufman-type sense of humor; nor did he make obscure, Dennis Miller-style references. No, his dialogue was just… words. That weren’t funny.

The director had terrible instincts. We found an actor who was able to draw some humor out of the terrible script by creating a layered performance. He essentially treated his character’s public persona as a different person from his private one, and that tension built comedy. (Trust me, it was funny.) The director saw this and naturally decided the actor should do it completely differently. And less funny.

To complete the trifecta, we had a lousy producer. He was totally disorganized. He never knew what was going on, or when it needed to happen. It was amazing we got the show finished at all.

Did I mention I was the producer?

So, you see, Dawn, there’s a very good reason why I don’t want to be a coordinator, UPM, or anything along those lines. Besides the very obvious fact that I’m not good at it, I don’t enjoy it, either.

Being good at, and enjoying, producing is so far removed from my own experiences, that I really do not understand people who are good, and do enjoy it. Of course, my parents don’t understand how I can stand finding a new job every six months.

It’s not an insult. It’s genuine confusion. But I am glad there are people out there who do produce. Nothing would get done without them.

Unlike most people, I didn’t go to Dark Knight this weekend. I’ve already seen it on a regular screen, and all the Imax screenings were sold out.

Instead, I went to Venice beach. (In my excitement to be outside and away from the office, I called up a friend who lives in Hawaii, which is akin to him calling me from Interstate H-1 to tell me how cool it was he was driving at 65mph.)

I love all the crazy, hand-made things the street vendors sell on the Venice boardwalk. I saw this set of salt and pepper shakers that looked like two people hugging. It was really cute, until I noticed that the salt and pepper poured from their eyes, making them the creepiest salt and pepper shakers ever.

I also saw some hand painted, ceramic skulls. It took me a minute to realize that they were bongs. I wondered what other home decorations I’d seen were actually bongs. Your name on a grain of rice? A bong. The painting of your name made out of rainbows and dolphins? A bong. The hugging salt and pepper shakers? Bongs, with the smoke coming out of the eyes.

Another thing I love about Venice is the canals. I didn’t even know they existed, until a couple of years ago. When my wife and I stumbled upon them, she said, “Oh, I wondered where the canals were.” Shows how much I know about Italy.

I don’t know if they named the city “Venice,” then decided to dig the canals, or if they found the canals naturally and thought “Venice” fit.

I prefer to believe the city founder one day just declared, “I hereby name this city, “Venice!” And… Hey, you, what are you doing over there?”

Then a confused guy with a shovel looks around, and says, “Just digging some canals. Why?”

(Please don’t tell me the actual story. Mine’s better. Admit it.)

The best part of Venice, though, is the people watching. There were roller skaters dancing, hippies playing bad Bob Dylan and/or Marley covers, skate boarders Ollying, a homeless man declaring George Bush is controlled by aliens, people practicing Capoeira, another homeless guy declaring the first one is controlled by aliens, sunbathers sunbathing, surfers surfing, muscle builders building muscle, and generally a throng of people hustling and bustling up and down the beach.

Los Angeles doesn’t have a Commons, or a Central Park, or what have you. We have the beach. Whether they live on the West Side, or in the Valley, or in East L.A., rich or poor, black, white, Hispanic, Asian, or other, in the Industry or just a civilian, a P.A. or a studio executive, everyone goes to the beach. If you want to see, to experience, to be a part of a cross section of this great metropolis, just go to the beach.

I promise you’ll have a great time.

Yesterday, the writers’ assistant asked me if I wanted to be a production coordinator.

The question puzzled me. Who actually wants to be a coordinator? I can’t imagine anyone stepping off the bus in L.A., and thinking to themselves, “I can’t wait to coordinate some productions!”

I know some people roll off the turnip truck wanting to be actors, and, thanks to the cult of the auteur, others want to be directors. I get those (sorta)

People’s interests vary, so I can even understand someone wanting to be a DP, a costume designer, or any of the creative department heads. (On a side note, I am a little confused as to why they would want to work in movies, rather than in their own unique field. Why not just become a photographer or a clothing designer?)

Personally, I always knew I wanted to be some kind of writer. It took me a while to figure out I wanted to be a screenwriter, but once I did, I’ve focussed on nothing else.

But I really can’t imagine someone devoting themselves to becoming, say, a UPM or an AD. It doesn’t seem like a dream. It strikes me more as something you fall into, when you realize you’re organized, and not much good in any other department.

Do people really want to be coordinators, or do they just become them?

Maybe I’m just prejudiced. I don’t know.

I was walking down the hall at the studio, yesterday (as is my wont to do), when one of our producer/writers came out of the bathroom just as I passed it.  We did that awkward thing where you’re walking at the same speed to the same place, without actually walking together.

Feeling the need to make small talk, I asked him how things were going down the hall (where our writers’ offices are).

“Pretty good,” he said. “Making progress.”

“That’s good.”

Awkward pause.

Then he asked, “Are you on [the expensive, and much better, cable show whose writers' office is down the hall in the opposite direction]?”

Even more awkward, for me, at least, pause.

“No, I- I work for your show. I’m in the production office” fifteen feet down the hall from your office.

“Oh.”

I don’t begrudge him not knowing my name. I can’t remember his, either. To me, he’s just Balding, Socially Awkward Producer Who Wears Flannel Like He’s In An Early Nineties Rock Band, Despite Being Old Enough To Remember When The Beatles Played On Ed Sullivan’s Show.

Hell, I don’t even care if he doesn’t know what position I’m in. There’s at least a hundred positions on a TV crew, and he can’t know who does what. But seriously, shouldn’t he at least remember the face of the guy he walks by every day on his way to writing terrible scripts?

I had a chance to see The Dark Knight last night, at a screening on the Warner Brothers lot. It was for employees, mostly executives and their assistants. Usually when I see movies ahead of time, it’s with LA Weekly or Campus Circle; the crowd is mostly wearing flip flops and t-shirts. Last night was a more staid affair, with most people in shirts and ties (or skirts and heels).

I won’t go much into what I thought, other than to say that the audience cheered, actually cheered, at a certain point in the movie. It’s quite a compliment to the filmmakers that this bunch of jaded studio folks could still get excited. (You’ll know the part I’m talking about when you see it.)

Screenings are free and plentiful in LA, which is why I went to a lot of them as a poor film student. Besides the movie itself, there are often guest speakers, too. I saw Kevin Spacey at a screening for American Beauty in my first month at school. I even got to ask him a question! If I recall correctly, it was something along the lines of, “Mr. Spacey, why are you so awesome?” (This was before 21, mind you.)

A couple years ago, I went to a screening of King Kong.  We weren’t expecting any special guests that time; just a big monkey, some dinosaurs, and maybe Naomi Watts in a skimpy white dress. But while we were waiting in line, I heard a voice I definitely recognized.  It took me a minute to place it, and then I realized it was Brad fucking Bird!

I pointed him out to my friend, who responded, “That’s not Brad Bird.”

“Yes, it is.  I recognize him from my Incredibles DVD.”

“I don’t think that’s him.”

“I’m sure it is.”

It went on like this for a while, until I finally went up and asked the guy, “Excuse me, are you Brad Bird?”

“Yes.”

“SEE?”

That’s pretty much the end of that story.  I said I liked his movies, he said thanks, the end.

In any case, my point is, if you start going to these screenings, you too can meet minor celebrities and prove to your friends that you listen to way too many commentary tracks.

(First, I’d like to point you to an amusing post on Amanda’s website, about how soon you forget what it’s like to be young and poor.)

In most offices, there are enough binders to create a replica of Stonehenge entirely from supplies purchased at Staples.

My boss keeps copies of everything– every script, every draft of every script, every schedule, every crew list, every cast list, and even every memo. (”No parking in the East lot from 9:00am to 11:30am, July 8th.” Really? Do you need to keep that?)  And everything goes in a binder.

I even have a couple of binders on my shelf. One for resumes (yes, we keep them; no, we never look at them), the other for menus. For some reason, I had oriented the titles on the spins differently, one top to bottom, the other bottom to top).

Last week, my boss noticed: “Hey, did you know you wrote on your binders in opposite ways?”

I had, indeed, noticed. But… so?

One philosophy that was pounded into my head as a camera assistant was, “The only thing that matters is what winds up on film (or tape).” Nobody will care that I filled out the camera report correctly if I didn’t reload the magazine fast enough to get the shot while we still had the light.

This is the tough part about production. Almost nothing we do winds up on the screen. All the paperwork in those binders? Meaningless to the folks at home.

Now, I realize that there is a place for the support staff. Even though an accountant’s work is invisible to the audience, the crew does need to get paid.

But the orientation of the spines of some PA’s binder is so far removed from anything that matters, I just can’t bring myself to care.  Am I wrong?

I’ve just been looking at my incoming links (I like to see what people are searching for when they find my site), and two questions sprang to mind.

Who’s been searching for “0000001000000110000001000000110000001000000100000010000001,” and, upon doing so, why did they decide The Anonymous Production Assistant Blog must be the site they’re looking for?

By the way, welcome everybody who followed the link from Nikki Finke’s comments section. I hope the racist talk from today’s earlier post didn’t put you off.

I was overcome with curiosity by my fellow PA’s statement yesterday, “You don’t know who I know. I could make your life a living hell.” (Seriously, though, he’s a nice guy. This is waaay out of context.)

I knew he had been hired because the coordinator was told she had to hire him. So today, I asked her who, specifically, instructed her to do so.

She responded, “I’ll tell you if you tell me what happened yesterday.” (Of course, I hadn’t told her about our discussion, despite the fact that, I’m told, my face was as pink has the third draft of a script immediately afterward.)

So, I told her my colleague felt that I was condescending to him, and issuing orders when we are, in fact, on the same level. “So, who told you to hire him?”

“It was a political hire.”

“I know that. A political hire from who?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

…

I felt like a cartoon character, suddenly realizing the Warner siblings were in front of me, and no longer behind me.

“Wha- but… I just told you.”

Finally, she admitted the higher up works at the production company overseeing our show, but she declined to name names.

That’ll teach me to trust her.

This isn’t the first time I’ve gotten a bad feeling from her. On my first or second day, she was telling us PAs that we’re going to have to keep the kitchen clean. “Keep it neat, like you would your own- Well, not your kitchen. You’re guys. But keep it clean.”

Haha, very funny, whatever. I don’t mind. In any case, she’s right.

Seconds later, literally, as she was going on about cleaning stuff, I joked, “We’re going to need a girl PA.”

My boss stared at me like I just ran over her puppy. “We do not need a girl PA. Don’t ever talk like that in my office again.”

I failed to utilize the “you started it” defense.

And the weird, confusing politics goes on.

Several accountants have started this week, and I don’t yet know all of their names. I was trying to tell my boss that one of them wanted something. She asked which one, and I said, “Oh, shoot. I forget her name. The Asian one.”

Again, her jaw dropped to the floor, like I’d just said, “You know, the slant-eyed gook, sneaky jap, oriental one.”

Come on! It was an immediately accessible, clear, obvious characteristic. She knew who I meant. “The short one with the dark hair” wouldn’t have worked, because we also have a Middle Eastern accountant. Or possibly Hispanic. I’m not sure.

See, this is why I couldn’t be a racist. I can’t tell if I’m hating the wetbacks or the camel jockeys. Hell, I can’t even tell Jews from white people half the time, and what kind of racist doesn’t hate the Jews?

A Polish one.

They say you hate in other what you hate most about yourself.

I recently came off a show where I had one of the worst bosses of my entire life. Besides having the emotional maturity of a four year old (he once yelled at the script coordinator for bringing him pages, when we had just distributed pages the night before; what the hell is she supposed to do about it?), he was also unrelentingly condescending and sarcastic.

For example, someone came in the office and asked for the wireless password. Since I was using a desktop, I asked my boss what the password was. He responded thusly:

“GYWAAAAAAHHHHhhhhhhhaaaaa. [That's the closest I can approximate his drama-queen sigh of feigned exasperation without using the Klingon alphabet.] You don’t know the password?!”

No, asshole, I’m plugged into the wall. My password is, “I’m plugged into the fucking wall.”

Equally annoying was his little sidekick, a PA who’d worked for him on a few shows. She was constantly telling me things I already knew, or reminding me to do things I’d already done. This was all very annoying, of course, but I dealt with it. I wasn’t going to be working there forever, after all. Besides, she was an idiot, so why should her opinion bother me?

Fast forward to the present. Now, I’m the one with more experience. In fact, it’s the other PA’s first show.

He’s a good guy. A nice guy, too. He doesn’t always know what’s expected of him, but he’s trying hard and asking questions. Pretty much all you could ask for. Things are going great.

Then, today in the copy room, he confronted me. I asked if he had put the bagels and stuff away, and if he had, he should put the cream cheese in the fridge, not on the shelf.

He whirled on me, and said, “Look, you’re not my boss. I don’t need you telling me what to do all the time.” He went on to say that he knows I’m trying to make him look bad, by waiting until our bosses are around when I ask him if he’s done something yet.  (He failed to notice I was asking him in the copy room, when no one else was around.)

He was visibly shaking as he said this, too. It got really weird when he told me that I didn’t know who he knows, and he could make my life a living hell. Plus, he went to military school, so he could knock me on my ass. “Not that I’m threatening, but just know that.”

Which is not to say he overreacted (barring the threat of physical harm). From what he said, this has been bothering him for a little while. Plus, there was an unfortunate confluence of events–

On Monday, our boss gave him a stern talking to, about thinking ahead and picking up the slack, blah blah blah. Totally unwarranted, in my opinion, but whatever. Then, when I was gone yesterday, he told me he had his best day working here, since he didn’t feel he had three different people looking over his shoulder all day.

The truth of the matter is much more banal. When I ask, for example, if he’s checked the mail, it’s not because I want him to look bad for not having done it already. Nor am I checking up on him. I just don’t want to go out to the mail box if the job’s already done. Far from bad mouthing him, after he left on Monday, I defended him to our boss, saying basically, “He’s trying hard.  He’ll learn.”

I told him all of this, of course (except for the part about defending him, which seemed inappropriate to say). I don’t really know if he believed me, but I got out of the room without being punched.

Somehow, I went from being annoyed to being the annoying one. I don’t mean to be obnoxious or condescending, but I always seem to come off that way. I hear this all the time from people. I once had a therapist tell me she thought I was a jerk for the first few weeks of therapy.

So, I’m aware this is a problem. Last week, I even thought about telling him, “Listen, if I’m telling you things you already know, or if I’m talking down to you, or whatever, just let me know. I’m just trying to help.”  I don’t really remember why I didn’t, other than the opportunity didn’t present itself.  Now, of course, it’s too late.

I honestly don’t know what to do about it at this point. So far, I’ve just avoided talking to him, for fear of offending, but I can’t very well do that for the rest of the shoot.

What should I do?