Welcome to Tales from Tinseltown!

I'll keep this "welcome" post at the top...

I’ve never understood blogs. Most of them tend to be boring people’s boring ramblings about their boring lives. The kind of blather that people used to put in their diary which would be kept under lock and key. But in this age of Reality TV and Social Networking, everything needs to be made public for all to see.

So in a way this is a typical blog. I have heard that it is dangerous to write about your industry. But hopefully that only applies to people with an axe to grind.

Who am I? Who I am is of no consequence.

I am a peon who has spent the majority of my life working in the trenches of the Hollywood film industry. I have seen and experienced a lot of things that most people who spend their lives pushing papers across a desk never will.

If you are hoping for salacious gossip about which celebrities are hooking up or breaking up or which directors are arrogant jerks – then move on. This is not TMZ.com.

But if you do have an interest in how Hollywood works, then venture forth. I promise that each entry will be a self contained story with a beginning, middle and end. And every story will be completely true (or at least the truth as I remember it). Nothing hyperbolized or fictionalized for the sake of drama like in “The Player” or “Entourage.” (Even though both of them contain a great deal of truth).

These are tales of my joys of working in the world of filmmaking. I hope you enjoy my stories.

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No Good Deed...

...Goes unpunished. Or so the cynical saying goes. While I do believe that there is a kernel of truth in the statement, I don’t know if I truly do believe in it. Judge for yourself.

Many years ago I had heard about The 48 Hour Film Festival from a friend. What it is (and I believe it still exists) is a traveling contest. On a Friday night several teams draw a movie genre from a hat. They had a pre-set list of obvious ones such as horror, comedy, drama, etc. Each contestant would get a different genre. The contest administrators drew from a hat three separate items: a line of dialogue, a prop, and a character. Each and every film had to include these three items. Then you have until that same time on Sunday night to turn in a completed movie. They would be screened the following Tuesday and Wednesday at a local theater. And they would also select winners in various categories.

I had been making shorts in DV for about two years and thought this might be fun. I sign up for their newsletter and hear that they are coming to Los Angeles. I mention it to my friend Dave. He wants to enter too. I think it would be great if we both make films and am supportive. In fact he was more gung-ho about the contest than I am.

A few days before the contest, they announce which teams’ films would be shown on which night. I am on Tuesday and Dave is on Wednesday. So I buy tickets to both screenings. When I explain this to Dave he is immediately apologetic and says he can’t afford to see both screenings. He had a young baby and the cost of the tickets and a babysitter in addition to the expense of making the film would be too much. I explain that I understand. I bought tickets to the other night only because I wanted to see his film and be supportive. But I also felt his reasoning was specious. Didn’t he want to see the other films he would be competing with for the awards? He couldn’t ask his wife to stay home with the baby and go out by himself? After all, he wouldn’t be in this contest if it weren’t for me. But I keep these feelings to myself. He says how he will want to see the film and that we can exchange tapes or DVDs after the contest. I agree that I’ll do that but also know how these things often work out.

The night of the contest I drew the genre “mockumentary.” The contest added one other criteria. All the films must have a land-mark of Los Angeles. This was something they add the first time they bring the contest to a new city. I think this added criteria and such previous mockumentaries as “This is Spinal Tap” and “Waiting for Guffman” inspired me to do a parody of the casting process in Hollywood. This is also good, because I can just write an outline that is improvised around rather than a full script and any clunkiness in the production values can be attributed to the documentary style required for the genre.

Dave drew “Comedy.” I wish him luck. Once again he launches into an apology for not coming to the screening of my short. I say it is okay and that I understand and we go off to make our movies.

Saturday morning I start shooting my project “Cattle Call.” But something bizarre happened with my main camera early in the day. I remember thinking that the picture looked wrong in the little viewfinder. But my cinematographer didn’t think anything was wrong and I trusted her.

Towards the end of the day I am manning the main camera and dissatisfied with what I see. On instinct I shut off the camera and turn it back on. When it turns back on the image in the viewfinder is bright and clear and the colors are vibrant. Damn! What a bizarre malfunction. When I get to the cutting room, I see some of what my editors had put together and realize that all that footage was EXTREMELY dark and murky. Way worse than it looked in the camera’s viewfinder. None of it matched the look of the second camera. I have the editors put color effects to brighten up the image so you can at least see what’s going on. But because it was shot improperly, it also washes out the colors.

Because of the improv with the actors, I wound up shooting a lot of film. There were a lot of things I wanted to try in the editing room. Alternate plots to explore. Alternate takes with different jokes. But ultimately I couldn’t because of the deadline. We get done and I feel the piece is decent, but not as good as it can be. It looks ugly and un-professional.

We output a tape and I drop it off about a half an hour before the deadline. I stay and chat for a minute and head home to crash. The next day Dave calls me at work ostensibly to ask me how it went. But before that he launches into another apology for not coming to my screening.

Now I don’t know what overcame me. I hadn’t thought of this before. But on instinct I just say that he has nothing to worry about because I didn’t make it. I tell him that I got to the place to hand in the film about ten minutes late and was disqualified. I don’t know what possessed me to say that at that time. In retrospect it was primarily to save Dave’s feelings. So he would feel that he wasn't missing anything. I think on an extra unconscious level it was because I felt that my movie wasn’t good and I would rather not show it to anyone. From my point of view, Dave really wasn’t missing anything.

In talking to Dave, I felt he had the same overall feeling about the contest I did. The forced time constraint did light a fire under us – but was also was an albatross around our necks. I realized that this contest was not geared toward me. We all know people who claim to be writing a script, or novel, or making a short film. But they never find the right level of commitment to really do more than write a bunch of notes or shoot some footage but never cut it together. Or they or so obsessed with getting EVERYTHING perfect that they keep re-writing and re-shooting. And the piece never gets finished. For people like that, this contest is perfect. The deadline gives them a reason to not fuss over every little thing and just get it done. I have started projects and abandoned them. But they have been few in number. Especially when compared to the ones I had completed. So the time limit provided a level of inspiration I didn’t need. It was only a constraint on my creativity.

I go to the screenings. My cast and crew come to see "Cattle Call" and they really love it. The audience laughed in all the right places. But all I see is the missed opportunity and bad cinematography. Most of the rest of the shorts are also rather mediocre too. So that is re-assuring. But only mildly. All night people are praising me for my short and saying how funny it was. But I am kinda numb to the whole thing. All night I keep thinking about how George Lucas said he was unhappy with “Star Wars” and felt it was a fraction of what he wanted and the fact that people loved it did not ameliorate his desire for it to be better.

Dave’s movie is very funny and has good production values and I am sincere when I said that I liked it. He ultimately made a parody of an infomercial. He tells me to give him a tape of my short because he still wants to see it. I assure him that I will do that.

Skip ahead about a week. I get an email from the 48 Hour Film Project. The subject of which is simply “And the winners are...” I open it and scan to see if I can remember any of the films that win. There are a bunch of categories such as “Best use of the prop.”

I scroll to the bottom and see “Cattle Call” and my name. I didn’t win “Best Picture.” But I won “Best Directing.” Actually, I tied for best directing with the people who also won for “Best Picture.” But a tie is still a win over 37 other short movies.

After I get over my initial shock (because in my mind the project sucked), a wave of regret comes over me. Right then my phone rings. I know who it is.

“I thought you said you didn’t turn your film in on time” Dave says. There is no way out. I have to come clean. So I admit that I lied to him so he wouldn’t feel bad about missing the screening of my film. Needless to say, Dave was pretty angry with me. Not only at being lied to, but also finding out this way, and also to losing to me with a project which I said was sub-par. It wasn’t like I won “Best Sound” or some small prize. I won “Best Directing.”

That was many years ago and I still don’t understand how I won that award. I also decided it was best to go out with a bang and hung up my hat in regards to making shorts. I haven’t directed a short since. I think that still to this day, Dave hasn’t seen “Cattle Call.”

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Just Another Day in the Office

I’m on the phone, leaving a message on my best friend’s answering machine when I glance over towards the door. And what do I see walk through the hall, but a man holding the hand of a chimpanzee wearing diapers.

What the...? To the best of my knowledge, I didn’t take any LSD or peyote that day. I hang up the phone and immediately head out the door. I follow them to the other end of the hall. Several other people from other offices also saw them too and flocked at the other end of the hall. It was a trainer taking the monkey to meet a director who was prepping a new Tarzan movie.

The chimp was extremely cute. How often do you see chimp at work? Of course, the capper was the fact that he was wearing diapers. The trainer and the animal went into the office and were gone. We were all left muttering stuff to one another. Mostly we were all still flabbergasted by the fact that there was Chimpanzee in the hallway. Right next to the Tarzan office was a casting agent and I found myself standing next to an actress who came out of the casting agent’s office.

Did I say actress? Actually, that is not accurate. She was a genetically engineered robobabe. Remember Bo Derek? She was a “10.” This girl was an “11”... on a scale going from one to three!

As we start to go back to our offices, she says to me, “Excuse me, do I know you from somewhere?” Now when a face that could launch a thousand ships has words coming out of it and they are directed at you... you respond.

She is giving me one of the oldest lines in the book. But I don’t know how to respond. “Uh, I don’t think so. I would probably remember if I met you.”

“Did you work on the Paramount Lot?”

SCORE! I did work on the Paramount lot a year prior. Okay, maybe I have met this woman and forgot (after all, to paraphrase William Goldman, beautiful women are a dime a dozen. I can throw a stick in the direction of Malibu and hit ten of them). “Yes I did work at Paramount last year.” I can see her eyes pick up. “I was way in the back of the lot.” I see confusion in her eyes. “I was in the Haggar building.”

She asks, “Oh wait, do you work in casting?”

“No. I am a film editor.” At that moment I can see her completely shut down and lose all interest. It was as instantaneous as flipping off a light switch. In that instance I thought of that joke “Beauty is only skin deep. Ugliness goes to the bone.”

But that’s okay. I wasn’t chasing tail. I was chasing a Chimpanzee in diapers. And I got a funny story out of it. When my friend called me back he asked if I lost my mind. I didn’t understand. He then played back my message which was

“Hey, Chris. When you get this message give me a call back. Oh look there’s a Chimp!”

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Rashomon Part II

Beverly Hills. 90211 (not 90210). Wilshire Blvd. Summertime. It is lunchtime. I’m  walking down the street with two co-workers. A Small Volkswagen headed west pulls up and stops next to us.

A young blonde woman is driving. (What is it with women and VW’s?) The second thing I notice is that the driver doesn’t roll down the window. She leans over the passenger seat and opens the door. I pay it no mind. I had been in other old cars where a window would no longer roll down and assumed she had the same problem.

She asks “Excuse me, do you know where 8484 Wilshire Blvd. is?” We were around the 8900 block so we knew she was close and told her so. She said that she had already been around the block but couldn’t find it.

Jon, one of my co-workers asks what company or corporation she was looking for. She said something in response, but her voice was low and it was inaudible. Jon continued, “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you. What corporation or company are you looking for? It might help us pinpoint where you should go.”

Her voice was still soft, but this time I could audibly hear her say, “Hustler Magazine.” Her hushed voice had a slightly exasperated tone to it. One that exuded a sense of “Ugh. You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you.”

Jon then immediately knew where she was headed. “Oh you want the Larry Flynt Building.” It’s at the corner of La Cienega. About a mile down. You’ll see a big brown oval shaped building with a sign on it that says ‘Flynt Publications.’ You can’t miss it. On your right side.” She thanked us, closed her car door and drove away.

Later, while we were scarfing down our lunches, I ribbed Jon about how the heck does he know where Hustler Magazine is located. Then Dan, the third person in our group chimed in. “How about that? Notice how she threw her bust out so we could look down her dress?”

I wanted to reply. I was about to say that it was because she was leaning over the passenger seat because her window wouldn’t roll down. But Dan continued, “And She blurted, ‘Yeah. I’m looking for Hustler Magazine’ with no problem.”

At which point I thought, “Did you see the same woman I did?” She only asked for the address. She only mentioned Hustler when Jon asked her the company name. And at it was really meek. We didn’t even hear her the first time. She was totally embarrassed!  I wanted to interrupt Dan and correct his extremely faulty memory. But then another realization came over me.

In the half hour since we saw that girl, we were now hungrily eating our food. And I realized that right now that woman is probably buck naked, oiled down, lubed up, with a sleazy photographer shouting at her while another naked woman is...

I think you get the idea. I decided to let Dan have his fantasy. The reality is much more innocent – and at the same time much more debaucherous.

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Be Careful. He Might Hear You.

November 1992. It is the day before Thanksgiving. I am in NJ visiting my parents. I am tagging along with my friends Maxwell and Patrick into New York City to visit our friend George. He had graduated college and got a job working for an insurance company in the financial district right next to the World Trade Center.

We take the train to the World Trade Center. When we get there, Maxwell reminds us that George said that he would meet us in the lobby of his building at 1PM and that if we were late he would take off.

We arrive at the World Trade Center at around 12:55. Because I have lived and worked in New York City, Maxwell and Patrick turn to me. I reply, “I don’t know where his office is!”

Maxwell says, “I don’t know either. Patrick, you’ve been there before.”

Patrick retorts, “Yeah, but that was over a month ago.” Time is limited and this was an era before cell phones, so I take charge. I quickly realize that there is no way Patrick is going to be able to find the direct route to the place from the subway. So we go up to street level.

We race around because time is running out. I try to jog Patrick’s memory by calling out whatever I see. “Okay, we’re headed down Vesey Street. Church St. is in front of us. The World Trade Center is to our right.” It is totally stream of conscious. Looking around I see John Heard in the Plaza. He’s about 100 feet away from us.

Now a lot of you are probably right now saying, “Who is John Heard?” He is not a star. He is a character actor. He has been in dozens of movies over the years. He was the lead in Cat People, Tom Hanks’ nemesis in Big and Macaulay’s father in Home Alone – To name just a few.  But I am calling out everything I see and totally stream of conscious belt out, “So the World Trade Center is behind us. Oh look there’s John Heard. Patrick, does any of this look familiar?”

But my voice carries and he heard me and turns around! I see it out of my peripheral vision and turn back. Without missing a beat I shout back to him, “I loved you in Home Alone! Okay, Patrick, should we go down Church Street?”

Maxwell and Patrick are kinda like, “What just happened there?” Maxwell actually doubled back to get a look at who was that guy. And I think, “Maxwell, we don’t have time to be messing around! We gotta find George’s office!"

At the time I was focused on the task at hand which was not missing George. In retrospect I was surprised that he heard me and that I was able to avoid an embarrassing moment.

Later, Maxwell commented, “You know that guy has been in a whole slew of movies way better than Home Alone.”

“You know, I was just calling out what I was seeing and he happened to catch my eye. He seemed too far away to hear me. But I was wrong and had to pull something out my ass. That was the first thing that came to mind. My concern was getting to George. Not giving him a compliment.”

Oh, and if you are curious – we did find George’s office and get to him in time to make our lunch date together. And that is all that mattered.

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Stay True. Stay punk.

I went to college at UC Berkeley. For those of you who do not know, it was where the countercultural movement of the sixties originated. The streets are filled with burned out hippies and all sorts of freaks. The Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane, and Santana are all from the bay area. Latter day acts from the bay area are Counting Crowes, Green Day, and Rancid.

Green Day was definitely one of those bands that had the bay area misfit mentality. I saw them perform at Woodtock ’94. Conveniently, I was working in Upstate NY and got in for free. I paid a grand total of $35 the entire weekend on food and gas. But I digress... At the end of their set, Green Day got into a mud pelting contest with 50,000 fans. Several mud covered fans got up on stage and one point security mistook bass player Mike Dirnt for a fan and tackled him.

I still remember that during the mud pelting, Billie Joe spoke to the crowd and at one point he said, “Okay, shout ‘stop playing’ and we will.” I remember thinking that I didn’t want them to stop. So I stayed silent. But all the dumb kids caught up in the cult of personality shouted out “Stop playing.” And true to form – they did! They dropped their instruments and left the stage and that was the end of their set. I kinda expected that to happen, because this was not my first time seeing Green Day perform.

In May 1993 I saw them perform at the Berkeley Square. A small club that held about 300 people. Tilt and Rancid were the opening acts. The show cost $7. At the time Green Day had two indie albums, but I did not own either. So everything was new to me. At one point, a fan got up on stage and started singing the song. Security moved to throw him back into the crowd when Billie Joe stopped him and let the fan sing the entire song for him. Pretty cool if you ask me.

What I remember most from that night was waiting in line to buy my ticket. At a certain point I realized that the line had stopped moving. So I move over to look see what is going on. I see a guy wearing a red bra (with no shirt) talking to the guy in the booth.

Now, I am from an upper middle class suburb. I have done some wild and crazy stuff. But I have never worn women’s underwear. And certainly not as outerwear. Who is this self involved freak that is wasting my time forcing me to stand around and wait? I get pretty frustrated and decide to go up to this jerk and say something. But right at that moment, their conversation is finished and he steps aside and the line starts moving again.

Well I am glad nothing happened. When Green Day took the stage, I learned that the freak in the red bra was the drummer Tré Cool. How embarrassing would that have been? I truly would have been an American Idiot, twelve years early. But when I think about it, it's pretty damn cool that when they signed to a major label and became big, they didn't sanitize their act to appeal to the masses. They stayed true to who they were. That is pretty rare.

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A Change of Pace. Just for Once

When I was 22 years old I worked for Merchant Ivory. This is the film company comprised of Producer Ismail Merchant, Director Jim Ivory, and Writer Ruth Prawer Jhabvala. They made A Room with a View, Howard’s End, and The Remains of the Day to name a few. Jim owns a house in Claverack, New York which is across the Hudson River from Woodstock and about 2 ½ hours drive from Manhattan. This is where he edits his films. They also have The Merchant Ivory Foundation. A non-profit organization to help young burgeoning artists.

While I was working for them they had a benefit for the foundation on Jim’s estate. I asked Ismail if my parents could come. He said it was okay. About a week before I found myself driving Ismail, Ruth, and her husband Cyrus (nicknamed Jhab) from New York City to Claverack.

Now, I probably should mention that Ismail had just directed his first feature film, In Custody which is about Urdu poetry. Urdu is the language of Pakistan and Indians who are Muslims. Ismail turned to Jhab and said something in Urdu. He then turned to me and asked, “Do you understand what we are saying?”

“No. I never learned to speak Urdu.”

Ismail snaps back, “How can you not speak Urdu? Your parents have done a horrible job raising you.” I pay his comments no mind. But then he speaks to him a second time and asks again, “So you really don’t understand Urdu?”

“No. I really don’t. My parents never taught me Urdu.”

“This is absolutely horrible that you don’t speak your language.” Something I didn't think to say at the time was to correct him that it is not MY language. It is my Parents' language.

“Ismail, I’m afraid my parents are going to come to this benefit only to be loaded with reproaches from you.”

Ismail continued, “Yes. I am going to give them a piece of my mind. They’ve are horrible parents and have done a bad job raising you!” Now, I'm a child of the eighties. I blame all my problems on my parents. And in my personal opinion, they weren’t very good parents. But... THEY ARE MY PARENTS! I was getting perturbed.

First of all, Ismail has never even met my parents. How can he say that? He has no idea what kind of struggles they went through or why they made the choices they did. Second. Ismail has never been married and has no kids. This man doesn’t have a paternal bone in his body. So while he has the right to his opinion, quite frankly it is not one that has a lot of merit. It is not validated by experience. So I chime back, “Ismail, you can’t say that. You have never even met my parents. You don’t know why they made the choices they did.”

Ismail was what I call a “professional arguer.” He was always angry and ready to blow his top at the drop of a dime. I don’t even get two words out before he starts barking over me just repeating the same shit. He doesn’t hear anything I say. Meanwhile I see Ruth and Cyrus getting visibly nervous in the backseat as my focus shifts from driving to arguing. I quickly realize that this is a lost cause. I give up and shut up.

But knowing that I never even made my point really gets my goat. Being forced to sit next to him enervates me even more. As I try to stay contained, the bile rises inside me. I stay quiet and externally shut down. But I grip the wheel so hard that my knuckles blanch.

I had already interned for Merchant Ivory in college. And everyone assumed that I had a connection with Ismail because we are both South Asian. Wrong. I am a coconut (Brown on the outside. White on the inside). I was born in NYC and raised in NJ. Jim is an American (everyone assumes he is English) and was born in Berkeley (where I went to college). He is the one I felt more connected to. When I first started working on this film, Jim said, “You know the drill with Merchant Ivory. There will be lots of yelling and screaming. But if there ever is anything that is truly unacceptable. Do not hesitate to come to me and I will try to do whatever I can to fix the situation.”

When we get to Claverack, the house is in a minor state of disarray. They were moving furniture around for the benefit. I find myself sitting on a Sofa with Jim that is temporarily in a foyer. I lean over and whisper, “Jim, when you get a moment, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“I have a moment now. What is it?”

“No. Not now. This isn’t the right time or place. Later. When we’re alone.”

Jim replies, “We’re alone now. What is it?”

I continue to quietly protest, but he insists. I relent and tell the tale of what happened. As I explain what happened all the emotions that I had bottled up come pouring out and I start balling like a baby while telling the story. “And who the fuck does he think he is? He has no right to say something like that. He’s never even met my parents!”

Then, like a scene from a movie (and with perfect timing) I see through the doorway, Ismail pass by in the hall. He then doubles back and comes in and asks, “What is going on here?”

At this point the emotional floodgates are open and I am beyond perturbed or enervated. I am pissed off with rage, venom, and bile. But I am still cognizant. I snap back, “Ismail, I’m having a private conversation with Jim. Will you please leave us alone.”

Ismail enters the room and with a condescending tone says, “Don’t worry. I won’t tell them. I won’t tell them.” Now in reality his telling my parents that they have done a horrible job raising me is the last of my concerns. If he were to do that he would only making an ass of himself.

It was more the principle of the whole thing. His dogmatic opinion. How rude, condescending, simple minded, and just downright disrespectful, hurtful, and tactless he was. I retort more forcefully, “This has nothing to do with that! Now I’m having a private conversation with Jim so please just leave us alone!”

At this point, Ismail blows a gasket. He raises his fist in the air and screams at the top of his lungs, “You must know something about your culture. Or I’ll beat the hell out of you!”

Now let’s pause a moment. First of all, Ismail is completely wrong. He is an immigrant. I am not. It is not MY culture. My culture is Americana. India and Pakistan are my Parents' culture. But that is not what is important. I am an emotional wreck at this moment. Tears are streaming down my face. My sinuses are filled with mucus. But I am not an idiot. When I worked as an usher in college we were told never to touch in any way an irate customer. Because if we do they could have grounds for a charge of assault. Ismail just made a verbal threat. All I have to do is get him to touch me in anyway. Even if he only grabs my shoulder, I plan to run out of there. The next morning I’ll get a lawyer and sue him for millions of dollars.

Ismail was a closeted homosexual. And while I have my own opinions about that, I am not gay and did not go through puberty in India in the fifties. So my opinion about how he should have lived his life as an adult in America in the nineties has no merit and is not validated. But I do know that if I were to sue, Ismail would fold faster than a Chinese Laundry and settle out of court. The south Asian community loves him. But they are also very conservative when it comes to homosexuality. He would not risk my bringing it up in a court of law.

Back to scene. All of this flashes through my brain in a nanosecond. No sooner are the words out of Ismail’s mouth than I stand up and scream as loud as I can, “You want to beat me up? Okay! Come On! Come On!” I motion with my arms for Ismail to come forward.

At this point Ismail turns into a deer in the headlights. He has no idea what he just said. It was just verbal diarrhea. Jim flips out. He stands up, puts his arms around me to hold me back and says, “Ismail, let me talk to him. Let me talk to him.” Ismail high tails it out of there and Jim and I sit back down. Jim agrees that he behaved inappropriately and assures me that he will talk to Ismail. “Dry your tears” he tells me and this degenerates into a conversation about actor’s loving to cry. He tells me how Christopher Reeve desperately wanted to cry in The Bostonians but he wouldn't let him. However he let Emma Thompson cry in The Remains of the Day because she is a good at it. I come back to a place of emotional normalcy and Jim says, “Okay, go get cleaned up and meet us back here for dinner in half an hour.”

I don’t remember exactly what I said. But it was something along the lines of  “Are you insane? After what just happened? I’m gonna go back to my cottage and boil some pasta. You guys have dinner without me. I’ll be just fine.” But Jim is very insistent and eventually I relent.

Dinner is fine, but at the end, just before clean up, Ismail starts asking me questions about whether the people at their office remembered to put this or that in the car. I reply, “I don’t know Ismail. I didn’t load the car.” After a moment, he continues with the same questions, So I repeat with the exact same tone, but a little louder, a little slower, and more emphatically, “I don’t know, Ismail. I didn’t load the car.”

Suddenly Ismail points at me and screams, “Don’t you raise your voice at me or I’ll beat the hell out of you!” This time Ismail probably realized what he said as the words were leaving his mouth because he immediately got up and left.

Jim puts his face down into his palms just over his plate. He says quietly, “We make all these movies and there are no problems. I don’t know what’s happening.”

I am still calm, but a little flabbergasted by Ismail’s threatening physical violence – twice! I say aloud, but mostly to myself, “I must touch a nerve in him.”

Ruth, having the perfect timing of a writer quips back, “Oh, he has a lot of nerves to touch!”

Still reeling, Jim says, “Why don’t you just leave. We’ll clean up.” I was more than happy to get out of there and away from this mad house. Getting out of clean up was just the cherry on top of the cake.

As I walk around the main house back to my cottage I hear from the kitchen window Ismail yelling, “I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to talk about it!”

Now here’s the punchline: That weekend at the benefit, Ismail meets my parents and immediately starts talking to them in Urdu. He charms the pants off of them. They think he’s the grooviest cat. My protests of “That’s not the same man. He was insulting you and I was defending your honor!” are discounted based on their own experience.

Some people think that fame, success, power, money, or having suffered through hardship gives them the right to berate, belittle, demean, harass and abuse the people who work for them.  Ismail was someone who always appeared upset. Maybe it was years of built up hostility about his secret sexuality. I don’t know.

We all have boiling points, are flawed, and can behave inappropriately. But I believe that NOTHING gives a person the right to be an asshole. There is such a thing as basic human decency. The day I heard Ismail died, I felt bad, but for the rest of the day, I had a smirk I couldn’t wipe off my face.

EDITOR'S NOTE & DISCLAIMER: I realize this is a negative post about an argument. Don't expect more of this. This was a one time exception. I felt free to make this exception because Merchant Ivory is based out of New York and already had a horrible reputation. Ismail is dead and the company is essentially defunct.

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Double Bill

Have you ever heard of the term “a four quadrant film”? I have never heard this term in all my years working in Hollywood. But I read an article that referred to it. Apparently it is a term used by marketing guys. It refers to males under and over the age of 25 and females with the same age division. Those are the four basic demographics they market for. Obviously a film like “The Devil Wears Prada” is skewed towards women. “Away We Go” is skewed towards adults. And a film like “Up” hits all four boxes.

I have never believed in this type of categorization. I like to think that I am a relatively well educated, intelligent, and cosmopolitan person. I have a wide variety of tastes and interests. When people ask me what my favorite film is, my stock answer is, “It’s a tie between Casablanca and Rambo: First Blood Part II.” While that is a rather glib answer, it is mostly the truth.

A few years ago I saw an Ad in LA Weekly for a Concert by Itzhak Perlman at the Walt Disney Concert Hall. I immediately snatched up tickets and called the woman I was attempting to woo at the time. I realized that only two months earlier I had been to my last concert. Ice T and Body Count.

Both were amazing concerts. I still remember being in the front right when Ice-T was about to launch into the last number in the encore. I was screaming “Momma’s Gotta Die Tonight.” Ice was about to say something and shortly after I screamed out my request, he shifted gears and said, “Okay, I think I’m gonna close with an ode to my mother.”

In the middle of the Perlman concert, the fire alarm went off. People started to get up to leave. But after a minute it stopped. False Alarm. Then Itzhak started cracking jokes. You could see that part of him wanted to be a comedian.

My point is that life is a cultural pastiche that ranges from the sublime to the ridiculous. One minute I’ll be quoting Shakespeare, the next Bugs Bunny. And that is something that living in a major metropolitan area like Los Angeles can feed. The greatest thing about LA is that you can structure your life to be whatever you want. You can have the white picket fence and the dog named Spot in the Valley or south bay. You can be a starving artist in the dregs of Hollywood. You can be a bohemian artist in a loft downtown, or have a glamorous pristine life in Beverly Hills. Or if you are lucky you can sample different bits of these lives when you want.

I still remember my greatest night in Los Angeles. I had just finished working on a Hallmark movie. The premiere was at the DGA on Sunset Blvd. near West Hollywood. It was a cute romantic comedy. The screening started around 7PM and there was a reception with food afterwards. I hung out with some of the people I had worked with and it was fun chatting with them again.

I leave around 9:30PM. I decide to take Sunset west to where I live (by the shore). I pass by the famous Whiskey-a-Go-Go. I remembered that The Rollins Band was playing that night. I wanted to go to the show, but ultimately decided it was more important to be at the premiere. I look at my watch. It’s still pretty early. Right then a parking spot opens up on Sunset Blvd. I take it as a sign of providence.

I pull in. Right in front of the Whiskey is a guy scalping a ticket at face value. I buy it and walk in. About ten seconds after I cross through the doors, Rollins takes the stage. A half an hour ago I was at a Hollywood Premiere for a sad and weepy Hallmark movie where Peter Gallagher gets cancer and Mary Louise Parker portrays his wife. Now I am head slamming to Punk Rock music on the Sunset Strip. Two great tastes that shouldn’t taste great together. Sort of like eating an In-N-Out Burger and washing it down with Dom Pérignon. Actually, that sounds good. I have to make a mental note to try that sometime. But it definitely was a “two quadrant” night.

That’s the kind of double bill that doesn’t interest simple minded people who only have one set of tastes. But it is also the kind of double bill that you can’t do in Kansas City (where Hallmark Cards is based). That’s why I love living in Los Angeles.

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The Butterfly Effect

Life is strange. Things happen out of nowhere and  can turn on a dime. This is one of those stories.

I do a lot of work for the American Cinema Editors (ACE). They are an organization that is essentially an honors society for editors that promotes the art of editing. Every year they put on the ACE Eddie Awards. Historically it is held one week prior to the Oscars.

In 2002 they asked me to cut a piece for the show. Previously I had only worked as an assistant on these pieces. So this was a big opportunity for me. Doug, the producer had an idea to do a montage of a series of images being “cut” from famous movies. The specific example he gave was seeing a throat slashed.

So I got to work and compiled a list of images from movies. Many of them are pretty innocuous things I remembered from myriad films. Like a paper cutter slicing stickers from The Distinguished Gentleman and cutting the wire on the nuke in The Abyss.

But I am a child of action films. So I also remember the arm getting hacked off in Spartacus and stuff from the Terminator and Die Hard films. I decide to end it with a shot from the Albert Brooks movie Modern Romance. The lead character is a film editor and there is a shot of him cutting a piece of 35mm film in a splicer.

Then a friend asks if I am going to use Un Chien Andalou. That is a classic short film by Louis Bunel and Salvador Dali. It opens with a shot of a man cutting a woman’s eye with a straight razor. It is a classic film in the Avant Garde genre by two great artists. As soon as he mentions it – I realize that shot should be the opening of the piece.

So I cut the montage together and show it to the producers. They love it. They are over the moon and have only three minimal notes. I incorporate the notes and turn in my final cut.

The night of the show I see Doug, the producer at the cocktail hour before the show. He tells me that he is really nervous. He had shown the piece to the emcee and some other people and they felt it was extremely violent. He tells me that he decided to play the piece as the first thing in the show to just get it over with.

Now I am nervous. I start thinking about it and realize, that yeah, I did have a lot of action/horror moments. But Doug and Ed saw it (two 80 year old men) and they loved it. So it can’t be that bad.... Can it?

When the show starts I go to the back so I can overlook all the tables. The piece starts and when the famous eye slice happens I hear all 1,000 people at the Beverly Hilton’s ballroom groan in unison. And they don’t seem to stop groaning. In the middle of the piece I put a few humorous moments. Gene Wilder stabbing himself in the leg gets a chuckle. Edward Scissorhands, The Nightmare before Christmas, and Goldfinger saying “No, Mr. Bond, I expect you to die!” get no laughs. I sense even more groans when Robert DeNiro kills Don Cicco in The Godfather Part II. One person did applaud for a quick shot of James Dean in the knife fight in Rebel without a Cause. The piece is moving so fast, I am not sure if they even notice the shower scene in Psycho, Nicholson chopping down the door in The Shining, or Caribou sacrifice from Apocalypse Now.

For the entire one minute and seventeen second duration of the piece I am freaking out. I sincerely believe that my career is over. I am gonna get run out of the business. I think that the moment this piece is over I should make a bee-line for the door because if anyone finds out that I was the one who cut that piece they will string me up and torture me with a cat-o-nine-tails.

The piece ends and I am seriously getting ready to book. Suddenly there is huge applause. Thunderous applause. I am baffled for a nano-second. Then it sinks in. And I realize, “Oh my God! They liked it. They really liked it!” It was a Sally Field moment – and at an awards show. Except I was in back (where I belong) rather than on stage.

Doug later told me that he initially told the host to come out as soon as the piece ended, but ultimately had to hold him back because there was so much applause. Joe Mantegna made a joke about the piece when he got up to present an award. And the next day Mark Helfrich (editor of Rambo: First Blood Part II) pro-actively called me to tell me how much he enjoyed the piece.

While all that attention was nice, what I will always most remember from that night was that split second when I went from being totally dejected and freaked out to being totally over the moon. Everything changed in the blink of an eye. I wonder if that is what it is like to be bi-polar?

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The Formosa Café

The Formosa Café. For those of you who do not know, The Formosa is a Hollywood Legend. It is part of “Old Hollywood” and deemed a cultural landmark. It is a place that many stars of the Golden Era of Hollywood frequented. Marlon Brando, Frank Sinatra, Humphrey Bogart. But it is not a fancy, haughty place. It is just a really cool bar with decent food.

January 2001. I am out for drinks with a group of people. Now, please note my terminology. I am not out with a group of friends. Someone I know through work put together a drinks night and invited me. I know a few of the people there, but am not particularly close to any of them except for my friend Greg whom I brought along.

It is a Friday night and the place is pretty packed. And guess who walks in by himself... Martin Landau. I had just finished working on a mini-series called Haven which he had starred in and had not yet aired. So I go up to him and say, “Papa Gruber, how are you? How is Ruthie? Is she still up in Oswego? We all got so nervous when we heard she was going to Europe. But we were so proud of her to stand up to President Truman.”

At first he is confused. The movie had been shot in Canada six months prior. I came on after shooting ended. After a minute he realizes that I am addressing him as the character and talking about the events in the movie. I explain that I worked on the movie. Martin replies, “I hope you haven’t seen the movie.” Which I found perplexing. Maybe he thought I was a studio executive since he didn’t remember me from the shoot.

I reply, “Well actually, I worked in the editing room. So I have seen the film more times than I can possibly count.” He seems to find that answer satisfactory. But here is the interesting part. It is a bar and it is noisy so it is a situation that many of us have probably been in where you have to shout at the top of your lungs so the person standing next to you can hear.

But Martin Landau was already a septuagenarian so maybe that was beyond his capabilities. When he talks to me, he leans over and speaks right into my ear. When you have a conversation with someone, especially someone you do not know, you tend to look at their face and in their eyes as they speak. But I couldn’t do that. So the natural rhythm of conversation is thrown out of whack.

I am already a little nervous, a little buzzed, and his speaking in my ear discombobulates me. So I have a mental whiteout. I can’t think of a thing to say. Nor can I recall of the name of a single film he has been in.

In my experience, famous people enjoy accolades, but they don't really want to have a conversation with a stranger. When they are out in public, they are doing something and want to get on with their lives. So I try to be brief and release them. Next thing I know Martin is rambling on telling me that Steve McQueen was his best friend at the Actor's Studio, that he dated Marilyn Monroe, and that he has a production company and they are producing a sequel to Easy Rider.

He starts talking about Mission: Impossible and leans into my ear and says, "You're probably too young to know this, but a lot of the technology in the show didn't exist at the time." Now, I am an educated man. I have a liberal arts degree from a top University. My IQ is ranked to be in the top 2%. I have some knowledge of history (including technology) from before I was born. So I assume he is making some larger point and just say, "Uh-huh."

Martin then says to me, "I just said, 'You're too young to know this.' So your response shouldn't have been, 'Uh-Huh.' It should have been, 'Oh?'." I have never had anyone dictate to me what my response should be. Are we doing improv or having a conversation?

At this point my mental whiteout turns into total deer in the headlights. I have no idea how to respond. The idea of defending myself and explaining that I am more of an intellectual than most people he meets doesn't enter my mind. At that moment nothing was in my head. But I can see that at that moment, Martin writes me off. As a scene partner, I wasn't giving him what he wanted.

At this point a couple comes up and say to Martin that they would love to buy him a drink and I was saved. When I return to my group everyone was floored, “You, were talking to Martin Landau for ten minutes! What the heck were you talking about?” were repeated over and over again by all the people.

I replied by telling my Haven/Papa Gruber story and continued, “Then he just started talking to me. I couldn’t shut the guy up!”

My friend Greg said, “Did you bring up Coppola?” At the time we were both working on a film that he was producing and had just met him. But I didn’t understand what he meant. Greg reminded me that Martin’s comeback was getting nominated for an Oscar in Tucker: The Man and his Dream. Damn! Lost opportunity because of my whiteout. Looking around the bar Martin had moved on from the couple that had saved me and was already yammering away to some other fans who were clamoring to pay their respects.

Landau has had a strange career. He has been in films as varied as North by Northwest as well as The Harlem Globetrotters on Gilligan’s Island. He has been on top and at the bottom. Monroe, McQueen, and Hitchcock are all dead. So I ask, why do you think a 72 year old Academy Award Winner goes to a classic Hollywood hotspot ALONE on a Friday night?

I may not have impressed Martin. But that night to that group of assistant editors – I was the man.

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