Life in Hollywood, below-the-line

Life in Hollywood, below-the-line
Work gloves at the end of the 2006/2007 television season (photo by Richard Blair)

Sunday, July 28, 2013

Out of the Frying Pan, into the Fire

This isn't an actual post -- at least, not the sort of post I'm used to writing and you've become accustomed to reading here at BS&T -- because we're still in the month of July, and the July hiatus remains in effect.  I'll probably have something new up next week... but maybe not.  I got my ass kicked on a show all last week, and am still feeling (and hearing) the reverberations.

Not to mention the fatigue.  God damn it, I hate that.  This getting old thing really sucks, kids.  Those of you in your 20's and early 30's have no idea what's coming, nor will you for another twenty to thirty years.  But that'll be then and this is now,  so don't waste a minute worrying about it.  All will be revealed with the relentless passage of time -- and when that day arrives,  you'll know.

Just be sure to enjoy and make the most of your youth while you still have it, because once it's gone, it's gone for good.  At that point, the page will have turned to a much darker chapter of life.

Enough whining.  This post is meant to draw your attention to a much more interesting offering by young Ben Puleo at his blog Delusions of Fresh Meat.  Fresh out of school, Ben made the great leap of faith in taking the plunge here in Hollywood, moving to this City of Broken Dreams to begin beating his tender head against the hard brick wall that is Hollywood.

Breaking into the industry sounds easy when some old fart like me prattles on about how things were back in MY day... but it wasn't easy then and it's not easy now -- and this is a very different Hollywood than I encountered as a greener-than-green wannabe back in 1977.  With no Internet, no Industry blog-o-sphere, only a few film schools in the country, and a strong, thriving Hollywood that was still the center of the cinematic universe, the competition for entry level jobs was not nearly so fierce.  I worked for free on one job -- an extremely low budget feature -- and from that point on, managed to get paid for  my ignorant, fumbling, uneducated labor as I learned on the job. *

I didn't earn much, mind you, but I did get paid.

Things are different in Hollywood these days, where kids with no Industry connections find themselves at the bottom of a very steep and rocky hill.  This town is flooded with young, starry-eyed wannabes here to make their mark on the Industry -- and a few of them will do just that.  The rest will have to go back home or find a way to settle for something less than their Hollywood Dreams.

That's life in the big city.

In an effort to gain a leg up on the newbie competition, Ben recently attended a weekend workshop at PA Bootcamp, which he writes about in his most recent post.  In the not-too-distant past, The Anonymous Production Assistant got into a kerfuffle with the people at PA Bootcamp -- TAPA contending that their workshops were not worth the money, because what PABC teaches can be learned on the job by any sentient, motivated young person in a couple of days.

I won't argue the point with TAPA (who I happen to like), but before the Hollywood newbie can learn on the job, he-or-she has to get that first job... and that's where the PA Bootcamp experience just might prove useful. If you come from outside Hollywood lacking any connections, and thus don't know a damned thing about the realities of the Industry, anything that can help you learn some of the basics and thus be better prepared for that first day on set is worth considering,  including PA Bootcamp.  I don't know anybody involved with that organization, but until someone can demonstrate to me that they're running a scam on vulnerable young wannabes, their PA workshops are at least worthy of consideration.

Everybody has to learn the ropes somewhere, so I don't really see much difference between working for no money at all (as I did for my first three weeks) and paying a nominal sum to learn a few on-set basics.

Maybe it's because I'm closing in on the end of my own Industry career, but I feel a certain resonance in the struggles of kids like Ben as they tilt at the windmills of Hollywood.  I remember well the blend of hope, determination, and fear -- the fear of failure -- that accompanied me to this town so long ago.  A lot has changed since then, and in most of the ways that matter, Hollywood is a completely different place now, but that part of the equation remains the same.  Overcoming one's fear in managing to find yourself -- and your place in the Industry -- is still what this journey is all about.

* I've done my share of freebies since then, of course, but those were a different sort of transaction.  Once you've acquired a certain level of skills and knowledge, the opportunity to work a day or two for free will occasionally arise as others in your peer group seek to climb the ladder.  So when someone you've known for a while is trying to make a spec. commercial to build their reel or is struggling to get   their no-budget first feature off the ground, you help out whenever possible.

Sunday, July 14, 2013

A Blast from the Past

                        A very small portion of a very big wrap...

So why, you might ask (given that this blog is supposed to be on a July hiatus), has a new post materialized from the ether?  A close look at the last post will reveal a loophole: see, what follows is not actually a “new” post, but a reprint from 2009, which I'm re-posting in light of the recent demise of “CSI New York,” and because many of you were not even aware of this blog back in early 2009, much less reading it.

Well, that and the fact that it’s a lot easier to reprint an old one than write a new post.  Hey, I’m still on hiatus…

But first, a tiny window on the economics of a big episodic drama.  I shared duties on the Insert Unit for CSINY during the show’s first season, and was told at the time that the producers were paying $120,000/week for all the lighting equipment the DP and gaffer wanted -- and they used a lot of equipment.  Given the subsequent success of the show, I’m sure that figure rose accordingly over the next eight years.  Once the two week stage wrap was completed, the L&D (loss and damage) to lighting equipment totaled a cool hundred thousand dollars.  That's an eye-opening figure, but you have to remember this was the only season-ending wrap and L&D accounting done over the course of nine full years.  Averaged over time, that works out to a tick over five hundred dollars per eight-day episode -- pin money for such a massive show.

That doesn’t mean the UPM and his producer bosses were happy to be handed such a large bill, though.  There was a fair amount of crew turnover during the course of that show, which means being the Best Boy at the end was a bit like entering an ongoing game of musical chairs late in the game only to be stuck as the last man standing -- and holding the bag -- when the music finally stopped. 

I imagine that poor guy had some uncomfortable explaining to do.

So here you go, a post from the dusty archives...

                            The Mother Ship

Feb 14, 2009

Just another day in Hollywood, shooting the “meat pipe.”

The manner in which employee parking is allocated on major studio lots reveals much about the class structure of the Industry. At CBS Radford, for instance, the VIP above-the-liners -- producers, directors, high level executives, and actors – usually have their names on parking spaces very near the sound stage where their show is made. Their lesser production brethren (who also end their work days with clean hands and clothes) are assigned parking on the first three levels of the six floor parking structure down by the great concrete ditch of the LA river. Everyone else – including those of us who grunt, sweat, and get dirty doing the heavy lifting – must park on a first-come, first-served basis on the 4th, 5th, and 6th floors. With their ungodly 4 to 5 a.m. calls, construction and set painters get the choice spots near the elevators, followed by rigging and episodic crews, who usually arrive between 6 and 7 a.m. Needless to say, there are very few cars on the first three levels at that hour, but as the sun rises in the East, the 4th floor up is jammed like a mall parking lot the day after Thanksgiving.

I guess those above-the-liners really do need their beauty sleep.

None of this applies to a juicer working on a sit-com, who enjoys a uniquely varying daily schedule -- but since I don’t have show right now, I join the rest of my fellow work-bots waking up in the dark, then squinting into that rising sun while driving in great elongated ellipses all the way up to the fifth or sixth floor of the parking structure. Such is the nature of life, where we must accept the bad with the good, even while hoping for more of the latter than the former. In that light, it’s useful to remember that things can always be worse: at the dusty, dank gulag of Paramount, for instance, riggers and crew members must pay for the privilege of parking in dark, cramped multi-tiered structures outside the studio gates, across heavily traveled streets on the Eastern and Western flanks of the lot. I've been there, done that, and don’t really want to go back.

I left my car on the fifth floor at Radford the other morning and took the open stairway down, enjoying a panoramic view of the studio. The parking structure elevators move at a geriatric pace, and although I’m in no real hurry to put on the work gloves, I avoid those elevators as much as possible. They’ve been known to get stuck between floors on occasion, and being trapped in an elevator full of extras freaked out about being late to the set – some of whom have driven a long way and will need to find a bathroom soon -- is not my idea of a good time.

Although many shows have gone down recently – the most senior of those being “According to Jim,” which ran more seasons than anyone thought possible before making its final exit to the great sit-com stage in the sky – some productions are still going strong, notably “CSI New York.” The shooting crew was back on the lot this particular morning, returning from four days filming on location – four days out/four days in being their usual routine. Five big 40-footers were parked outside the stage on the south side of the parking structure: the grip truck, electric, special effects, camera, and wardrobe, each being supplied with electricity via long black cables snaking out from the stage. A couple of dozen male and female extras in varying sizes, shapes, ages, and colors stood shivering in the morning chill at the tailgate of the wardrobe truck, waiting to receive their thespian garb du jour – uniforms of the cops, civilians, detectives, doctors, nurses, or forensic lab workers they would portray as “background action” for this particular episode. The alley beyond was bustling with activity, grips pushing carts laden with sandbags and C stands, while the juicers rolled several big Maxi Brutes mounted on Road Runner stands in through the big stage door. Teamsters were jockeying their stake-bed trucks into position, the carcinogenic stench of diesel exhaust mingling with the endlessly irritating beep-beep-beep of commercial vehicles backing up. Around the corner, away from the vortex of noise and confusion, sat the big catering truck, serving a stand-up breakfast to the cast and crew.

The Mother Ship was in.

I did the first season of “CSI-NY" working on the Insert Unit, which had a relatively easy schedule of two or three 12 hour days each week, filming on whatever stage was convenient while first unit was out on location. We worked with a small crew -- a gaffer, me, and couple of grips, along with a D.P., camera operator, camera assistant, prop man, and a two-man prosthetics crew. Occasionally one of the special effects guys would make an appearance to create bullet hits or explosions of one sort or another, but most of their crew was out on location, dying the death of a thousand cuts.

Our job was to shoot all the “insert shots” First Unit couldn’t get around to during their 12 to 14 hour work days. This usually meant doing abstract close-ups in the forensics lab, computer room, autopsy room (creepy, that) or other parts of the vast set. Much of what we did were what I called the “meat pipe” shots – the very odd P.O.V. (point of view) shots that remain the distinguishing feature of the CSI franchise. Since every episode dealt with a murder of some sort, our task was to create P.O.V. shots as the murder weapon passed into and through whatever internal human organs were destined to suffer the death-dealing trauma -- shot, stabbed, crushed, or burned -- in a given week’s episode. Sometimes the lens would chart a bullet’s course entering an abdomen, a knife slicing a throat, or for one particular show, the interior of a man’s chest cavity being crushed by an immense weight of a shipping container. The prosthetics crew created these filmable body parts by layering rubbery, flesh-toned plastic inside and outside a thin-walled piece of PVC tubing of the proper diameter -- a "meat pipe." Once an appropriate quantity of dark red movie blood was added, the results could be disturbingly realistic.

To light these shots, we’d pound the biggest, hottest lamps we had at very close range into the designated meat pipe, trying to get the shot before the whole thing melted, using special thin tubular lenses that could be inserted deep into any cavity. The whole process was rather disgusting at first, but soon became routine – and as you can imagine, the resulting black humor from all involved was as funny as it was unprintable. As countless generations of cops, hospital workers, and soldiers have learned, laughter really can help get you through a long, gory day.

It wasn’t a bad job, really. Three 12 hour days a week weren’t enough to grow fat on, but the job kept my bills paid while leaving me with a four day weekend. Although we always seemed to face an endless list of insert shots for various episodes, the work proceeded at a reasonable pace without all the self-important huffing, puffing, and shushing of the first unit shooting crew. Isolated from their high-pressure anxiety, we didn’t get ground into the dirt.

When the Mother Ship was in, though, things weren’t quite so relaxed. As the mere Insert Unit, our schedule was of no importance. First Unit had priority over all three stages, so if we happened to be set up where they wanted to shoot, we’d have to scurry out of their way like cockroaches spooked by the kitchen light, dragging our equipment carts, lamps, and props off to another stage. Much of the time that meant shooting on a stage where more sets for future episodes were under construction, working amidst the primal screams of wood being ripped apart and devoured by power tools. This was not so much fun -- breathing clouds of fine sawdust and paint fumes all day tends to make me very cranky.

But in tune with the cosmic order of the universe, it’s an ill wind that blows no good, and the Mother Ship was accompanied by support vehicles -- namely a craft service truck laden with tasty treats -- along with a caterer providing hot meals, which allowed us to avoid paying for breakfast and lunch at the studio commissary. It’s easy to blow twenty dollars a day in that commissary, which adds up after a while. As for the work itself, the only real advantage to having the Mother Ship close was being able to borrow a couple of BFL's from the electric truck when necessary. Not much of a perk, that, but you take what you can get.

Best of all, once we’d logged our 12 hours – and the production manager had very strict rules about the lowly Insert Crew costing him money by going into double-time – we were done for the day, heading home while First Unit slogged on into the dark night. It’s not that I wished ill upon our brothers and sisters on the shooting crew, mind you, but there’s always something a little bit sweeter in being released from bondage while others continue to suffer.

Human nature is a nasty little beast.

My tenure on CSINY ended after Season One. Wholesale crew turnover is common in episodic television, especially in the early, grueling years of any show, and this was no exception. The new Insert Unit DP brought his own crew along, so I did the Hollywood freelance shuffle, moving on to other opportunities. Industry veterans know what this is all about, but for any of you who might suffer delusions that the freelance life sounds somehow cinematically romantic (like a cowboy strapping his bedroll to the saddle, then mounting up and riding into the setting sun), it’s not. We’re more like itinerant farm workers, really – braceros -- going from crop to crop as the harvest rolls in. And that’s in good times -- in not so good times (like now), a more accurate comparison might be with dumpster divers, foraging for food and whatever else we can find amid the stinking alleys deep in the shadows of that big white sign in the Hollywood Hills.

But such is the Faustian bargain we all struck when first embarking on an Industry life – and having made that particular bed, here we must sleep.