Secret Origins

Green PA commented on a post from a couple weeks ago, “The Curse of the Origin Story”:

I recently got very lucky and was able to finagle my way out of the mail room and into a sweet PA job on the lot. I have been scouring IMDB to find the origins of all of my producers, show runners, directors, A.D.s, etc, and none of them have any experience listed before they got to the level of “line producer.” Even the writers lack any listings before their first writing gig. Why do you think this is? Typical Hollywood -I -was -born -into -greatness BS, or should we take a page from their book and hide our true job titles when out of the office or off the set?

I’ve noticed this as well.  There is certainly an element of pride.  These guys aren’t going to add PA experience from the 70s to their IMDb page.

A larger part, though, is just that they’re old.  IMDb was only just getting going when I was in college.  While IMDb still doesn’t have all of my credits, it has a lot of them, including work on shows I’m embarrassed to admit I worked on.

If/when I someday become a famous writer, those credits will stay there.  I’m probably at the vanguard of filmmakers whose entire career, from PA to producer, will be available for all to see.  Thus is life in the internet age.

Earning It

One of the basic tenets of the American Dream is the idea that hard work will be rewarded. This simple belief is what gets most of us out of bed in the morning. Yay, capitalism!

It’s so ingrained in us that we believe the obverse must be true, especially with regard to ourselves. If I’m colossally rich, it must be because I worked very hard.

This is why writers, directors, producers, and actors love to talk about how hard they work. They need to assure themselves, as much as you or I, that everything they grew up believing is true.

But that’s not how capitalism works.

Sure, hard work is more likely to be rewarded than laziness, but you don’t get points for effort.

Pay is based on two things: the necessity of a given skill, and the rarity of it. A writer doesn’t work harder than a grip, and both are necessary to complete the film.

The difference is, one skill is a lot more rare

So, what I’d like to tell all the writers, producers, directors, and especially actors is, quit trying to convince us you worked hard for your huge paychecks, first dollar gross points, giant houses, fancy cars, and trophy wives/husbands. You took your God-given talents and used them. That should be good enough.

And if it’s not, take comfort in the fact that we’d all do the same thing, in your position.

How to Impress

A friend of mine discovered I write this blog, and is now playing a rousing game of “Guess the Roman à Clef.” She hasn’t gotten them all right, so I’m glad my attempts at obscuring my identity have had some effect.

Anyway, she had a tip for getting on the director’s (or anyone else’s) good side.

On the first day of the episode, my friend went to director and asked what he wanted for breakfast. Directors are busy, and they often arrive write at call time, so they rarely get time to grab food in the morning.  My friend went and got his food, and he dutifully thanked her.

But here’s the really good part– for the rest of the week, every morning, she brought him his breakfast without being asked.  He just showed up on set, and a moment alter, she’d show up with a hot, steaming bowl of oatmeal.  (Ew.)

Now, this guy was a screamer. He yelled at everybody, all the time, for any little thing, or for no reason at all.  Actors, extras, crew, it didn’t matter.  He yelled indiscriminately at everyone.

Except for this one PA. Isn’t that sweet?

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This is completely unrelated, but here’s a great post from the Hollywood Juicer, how the real work gets done in this town.

Be Prepared

Yesterday, we had a table read (meaning the actors read the script in front of the producers and network executives). The only thing you need to bring to a table read is your script.

Guess what the director didn’t bring.

Besides his script, I was also told to grab his bag. In his office, he had three bags.

Something happens to directors, producers, and various other important people after a while. Everyone around them is so concerned with taking care of the details and eliminating distractions, these above-the-line types forget how to take care of themselves. Someone’s always there to tell them where they have to be, and when, and what they’ll be doing there. They don’t have to think for themselves.

Oddly, it sounds a lot like being a PA, only they get paid a lot more.

Success

I’ve met Bryan Singer twice.

The first time, he came as a guest judge for a student film competition at my school. This was before X-Men had come out, but he must have been in the middle of post, so it was pretty cool that he came by. Of course, at this point, Singer had had only one successful movie (and that was mostly due to its twist ending, not his work), and one flop. Plus, there hadn’t been a successful comic book movie in at least five years; there had never been a really successful Marvel comic movie.

Even though we film students looked up to him, things weren’t looking too great for our Mr. Singer.

After the competition, some students invited him back to the dorms. They were taking bets whether the “BJS” carved into one of their beds was, in fact, Bryan’s initials, from when he was a film student.

That’s how Bryan Singer wound up drinking beers with a bunch of my friends in the freshman dorms. At one point, someone put The Usual Suspects into the DVD player, and Bryan was so drunk, he started commenting on the commentary track. It was as awesome as it sounds.

I had occasion to meet Singer again, on May 5th, 2003. Not that I memorize the dates I meet famous directors; I just remember that it was the Monday after X-Men 2 came out.

It was right around graduation time, and there were a ton of parties going on. When I arrived at one such party, my friend ran up to me and gushed, “Oh my gosh, do you know who’s here? Bryan Singer!

Yes, she was so excited that she verbally hyperlinked to his IMDb page.

I asked what he was doing here, and she didn’t know. “It looks like he’s picking up some hot young coeds,” I said, noting the throng of girls fawning all over him.

“Not exactly,” my friend replied.

“Oh.”

“What the hell was a A-list director doing trolling for boys sixteen years his junior at a college party on the weekend that he’s releasing the biggest film of his career?”

I understood her point. I mean, it was cute and all when he was still only moderately successful (not to mention younger), but now it’s just creepy and weird.  Shouldn’t he have better things to do?

I’m not sure what lesson I (or you) am supposed to take away from this little story. It’s great to see that power, money, and fame don’t necessarily change you, but could they also impede your maturity?

How the hell would I know? I’m just a PA. I have none of them.

First Person Singular

Department heads often speak of themselves as if they are the entire department. I ACed for a DP once who was continually saying things like, “I’m going to put the crane over there,” or “I’m gonna set the camera here.” No, you’re not. You’re going to tell the grips and ACs, and they’ll do it.

This “I” is a peculiar thing. It’s like the inverse of the royal “we.” I know heads who do use “we,” at least. My current boss will say, “We’ll set up the table read.” Of course, what he really means is, “You’ll set up the table read.”

These verbal ticks have always bugged me. Telling someone to do something is not the same as doing it yourself. Which is why I was surprised to find myself falling into the same habit.

I was directing a short film, and I said to the actress, “Just one moment, while we make some adjustments to the camera.” But “we” weren’t doing anything. My DP changed the settings; I just watched her push buttons.

Observing this behavior in myself, I wondered if this is really where auteur theory comes from. Is it possible that all this talk of a director’s “vision” is really just a bizarre kind of metonymy?

Well, no, directors are still tools, but it’s good to remind myself how easy it is to judge from my seat of no-power.