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MIRTH
IN YOUR MAILBOX! |
The grass is always greener where Hoffa was buried.
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MOVIELAME
June
28, 1998
Where
is that Keller boy? I've
been wondering the same thing
myself. No, I haven't disappeared
into some self-absorbed pity-fest
(Pity-a-palooza? Loathing Fair?).
Quite the opposite. I bin
workin'. This
has been perhaps the
most relaxed period of
my life. I didn't
realize how hard I had
been working the past
several years until I
stopped. I have had so
much free time that I
was going insane trying
to motivate myself to do
anything. What the hell?
If I don't do it today,
there are 90 other
todays to do it in, or
so went the logic of the
time. Of course, I
looked up and a third of
it was gone, and the
only thing I had managed
to produce was a bunch
of half-baked ideas and
a growing appreciation
for Jerry
Springer. Well,
they ditched the
violence on
Springer,
and so I was forced to
move on with my life.
The novel I started ages
ago is now a chapter or
two longer, and I am
near completing my first
sitcom episode summary
(trust me, that's the
hard part). The
rest of the editorial staff
regards me with about as much
respect as a normal human being
would a used tissue. They
regularly bump into me without so
much as a word, and rarely
acknowledge my existence, unless,
of course, they want something
from me. I'm not sure what to
attribute this to: their Beverly
Hills-infected brains, my intern
status, or both. My
responsibilities consist
mostly of filing press
kits that the higher-ups
routinely pull from the
filing cabinets, mixing
their contents (the
press kits, not the
employees) at their
leisure. The guy who
sold me on the
internship made it sound
so much more glamorous,
like the pictures on the
menus at Denny's that
look so much different
when you get
yours. But,
you're saying, this only takes up
ten hours of your life. Why are
you suddenly so busy, sport? The
answer begins last week, when I
noticed crews had put up signs
telling us that there would be a
movie shooting down the street,
the upshot of which being that we
couldn't park within three
hundred miles of our
homes. One
of our neighbors took it upon
herself to go door to door in
some doomed effort to get people
to complain, and she gave me the
number of the production company.
At first I called to clarify
where I could park
(answer: "Redwood, North
Dakota"), but then I thought, you
know, I'll kick myself if I don't
at least ask if I can hang out on
the set and watch. Daddy
always taught me to ask for more
than I want, as I just might get
it, so I started out by asking if
they needed any production
assistants. The guy on the other
end of the line (who sounded like
the fastest talking peon in the
world) gave me what sounded like
a well-rehearsed speech about how
the film had already filled out
their staff, and the budget was
limited... yadda, yadda, yadda...
But then I mentioned that I would
be willing to work for free, and
he hired me. (Actually, he told
me to show up at the house the
next morning at six so he could
check me out, but close
enough.) So
there I was, on a movie
crew without so much as
a resume or an
interview. There was one
drawback: the calltime
was 6:30 a.m., by far
the earliest I've had to
rise since freshman
year, when I didn't have
any choice but to take a
7:00 a.m. discussion
section, and the advisor
(the collegiate term for
"useless, overpaid
guidance counselor") had
to hold a gun to my
head. But hey, this is
the movies. Oh, and it
doesn't hurt that the
movie stars Claudia
Schiffer and Christine
Taylor (the former of "I
Regularly Get into Bed
with David Copperfeld"
fame, the latter of
"Marsha, Marsha,
Marsha!"
fame). They
have a table on set that is
constantly stocked with all sorts
of goodies, like pop, crackers
and all sorts of stuff. It's like
a little free convenience store
just for us (and one of my
biggest disappointments in LA is
the lack of convenience, stores
and otherwise). I try to stay
away as much as possible, but
then it creeps into my mind that
they aren't paying me a red cent,
so I should take advantage of
it. The
other real joy is the co-workers.
There are some (ahem) pricks,
like the location manager, whose
job consists of telling the
interns to pick up trash at
regular intervals. You can set
your watch by it. Usually, I grab
a wrapper, throw it away in full
view of her, and then go talk to
a crew member and try to look
like it's real important until
she goes away (presumably to her
cave where she stands over a
bubbling cauldron and talks in
rhymes). It
didn't take me long to figure out
who was cool and who wasn't. My
direct supervisor, fortunately,
is one of the cool ones. His
name's Ted, and his job is -- I
swear -- to repeat "Quiet!"
"Action!" and "Cut!" as they are
relayed on the radio, even though
we all heard it the first time.
Ted's a stand-up comic in his
spare time, and he also owns a
hardware store. Odd mix, if you
ask me. He must be ten years
older than I am, but we get along
just like old high school pals,
only with less fart
lighting. It
didn't hurt that it was the first
time both of us had been on a
shoot. The experienced members of
a crew can sense when you don't
have the slightest clue what's
going on, like dogs sense fear.
So Ted and I banded together, and
we stand around and make strange
jokes about everything. One
exchange centered around Pookie,
the dog, who plays the dog of one
of the actresses. Ted witnessed
Pookie take a crap, and the
trainer caught it in a napkin
before it hit the ground, causing
the dog to become extremely
confused. ("Did you see a turd
around here? I swear I left it
right there...") So
later, Ted told me to take over
for him while he went to the
bathroom. I handed him a
napkin. Such
is the glamour of moviemaking.
Truly a load of crap,
eh? That
piece was (c) 1998 Patrick
Keller, Gern Blansten
Productions. Feel free to
distribute it as long as the
article is complete and contains
this notice. Questions, comments,
news tips, weird stories and
other minutia, no matter how
strange should be sent to
me.
Employees and their families are
not eligible and will be
thoroughly mocked. |
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