Brave New World

A friend of mine is working on a game show, and he related to me the following story:

We have a lot of contestants on our show.  Like, a LOT.  Casting has more PA’s than production just to keep track of them all.

When the contestants check in, we give them all name tags.  Along with their names (duh), the tags also have a little code, like “WM3,” or “HF5.”

It didn’t take long to figure out that the first two letters were race and gender– White Male, Hispanic Female.  But I had no clue what the numbers meant.  They didn’t seem to correspond with age, weight, economic background, height, anything.

I didn’t have much else to do but mingle with the contestants while they were waiting to take their turn.  After a while, I finally did notice a pattern– I enjoyed talking with the fours and fives much more than the ones and twos.

Suddenly, I figured it out!  They were ranking the contestants’ intelligence based on the application on their test.

So, what he’s saying is, if you agree to be on a game show, you’re going to become an Alpha or an Epsilon.

Just one more reason reality TV is creepy.

Reality, TV

I had a strange experience yesterday. I saw someone I know on TV.

Now, when you work in television, of course you see people you know, particularly if you watch the show you work on.  But this wasn’t a show I’ve ever worked for.

What was strange is that I knew this guy before I saw him on TV.

The general public knows actors through their characters, or their public persona. Once  you start a career in the business, your view of them will change when you meet them in person. They start to be a real human being.

But that’s not what happened yesterday. Yesterday, the process was reversed. I met this actor, then I saw him on our show, and finally, I watched him play a completely different character on a different show.

It was disconcerting. When you read the script, and see the lights and cameras and everything, the artifice is clear. But take that familiar face and put it in an unfamiliar setting, doing unfamiliar things, it’s like… seeing your teacher during summer vacation.

Still funnier than anything on the comics page today. I'm looking at you, Get Fuzzy.

Strange.

What’s in a Title?

Lyric writes:

I am a new PA with big goals and I was called by a production company to be an Assistant Coordinator for a video game commercial. I am not too sure what the job entails but they know and I know that I can handle the workload. I wanted to know if you had any insight on what you think I would be doing.

I start tomorrow for a week and two days.

I have no idea.

As an aspiring writer, I’ve tried to focus on films and scripted TV shows, whose operating structures are very analogous. The few unscripted and off-network shows I’ve worked on used similar titles to mean very different things.

For instance, I was on an MTV show where the “production manager” was doing things I was used to seeing a production coordinator do.  The “production coordinator” was doing an APOC’s job, and on down the line.  It was very strange.

From what I hear, commercials and music video are completely different yet again.  I wouldn’t want to guess what your responsibilities might entail.  The only person I can think of who works on commercials is Script Goddess.  Of course, she works on set, so she might not know, either.

Maybe one of my readers can help?

How Many Members of a Particular Demographic Group Does It Take to Perform a Specified Task?

A finite number.  One to perform the task, and several others to behave in a manner stereotypical of the group in question.

I love these jokes.

How many grips does it take to change a light bulb?  That’s an electric’s job.

How many script supervisors does it take to change a light bulb?  You can’t change it, we already got it in the master.

How many editors does it take to change a light bulb?  You can’t change just one.  If you change one, you have to change them all!

How many writers does it take to change a light bulb? Seventeen, but only two get screen credit.

This last one only works when you see it–

How many PAs does it take to change a light bulb? Five.  Wait… [pauses, listening to headset] No, one.

I know there’s more, but I can’t remember them.  Any else got any?

Late Night Tours

PAs are often in the office (or on the set) before anyone else, and they’re the last ones to leave. It’s fun, because the inmates are in charge of the asylum, at least for a little while.

One of my favorite things to do at those times is to walk around the set. It’s a bit disconcerting, like being in someone’s house when they’re not there. The fact that the set is a house only accentuates that feeling.

Then you look up, and there’s no roof. Outside the windows are bare walls or green screens or fake-looking back drops. The c-stands and grip carts are just hulking shapes in the dark.

Now that I think about it, it’s so creepy, I’m not sure why I do it.

My other favorite off-hours activity is to take a surreptitious tour of the writers’ room. (Our show doesn’t have any Lost-type security. I hear they erase their boards every night, and their poor writers’ PA has to re-write the notes every morning.)

The walls are lined with dry-erase boards, and these are covered with notes. Sometimes they look like outlines, with act breaks and other things. Other times, they’re indecipherable gibberish. (What the hell does “Walk the monkey AFTER” mean?)

These are some of the best times I’ve had as a PA. I get to look at the ideas while they’re still half-formed. Later, I’ll read the script, watch the shooting, and even go down the hall to post to see the edit. There’s really no better way to learn how TV is made.

Although, “Walk the monkey AFTER” still didn’t make sense after that script came out.

Not In The Budget?

The agency I once worked for was across the street from a high school. My boss said he liked the location because it reminded him of the old saying, “Hollywood is just high school with money.”

(His other favorite saying was, “Farmers farm, plumbers plumb, and agents lie.” I learned more from him than he intended to teach, I think.)

The high school analogy is trite, but rather apt. Everyone is in a little clique, only we call them “guilds.” You’ve got your cool kids (actors), your nerds (writers), your jocks (grip & electric), and so on. There’s even a faculty that nobody likes and no one would listen to if they weren’t in charge. They’re called executives.

As for the PAs and assistants? We’re the freshman class. Everyone picks on us, no one listens to us, but before you know it, we’ll be running the school.

Like all freshmen, we get wedgies. These Hollywood wedgies come in the form of getting screwed for no particular reason.

A friend of mine was making a run to our filming location, and he got lost. It was dark, and late, and we were shooting in the middle of nowhere. He wound up with an extra thirty miles on the odometer. (Did I mention he’s not good with directions?)

When the UPM saw his mileage sheet, he came to my friend and asked, “What the hell is this?” (Normally, the UPM wouldn’t know if a run should be seven miles or seventy miles, but in this case, he had the exact distance from the location department.)

My friend gave the honest answer– he was a dumbass and got lost. The UPM responded, “We’re not paying you to get lost,” and promptly deducted $15 from the mileage sheet.

Now, seriously. Fifteen bucks doesn’t sound like a ton of cash, but it’s more than ten percent of what us PA’s make in a day.

And this is TV! We’ll throw a hundred dollars at a Starbucks run for the producers. What kind of jerk would begrudge a lowly PA fifteen dollars?

So, to amend my former employer’s axium, Hollywood is high school with money, except when it comes to PA’s.