The Andaz Hyatt had given my number, explained the
caller. Could I see a member of their cast who was suffering an earache?
Unfortunately, he was on location and wouldn’t return until evening.
She was delighted at my suggestion that I come to the
film shoot, and I’m as eager as anyone to mingle with movie people. On the
downside, I live six miles from the Hyatt; the film was shooting at the far end
of the San Fernando Valley, twenty-five miles away, and I’d quoted my fee
before learning this.
The producers had taken over a run-down motel, painted
it pink, and restored the coffee shop to its mid-twentieth century interior. I
drove past warning “closed to the public” signs and parked among the cabins and
scattered 1950s cars.
Several dozen people stood around, none over forty. You
should realize that shooting a movie is boring. Filming takes up perhaps
two percent of the day. The remainder involves setting up, technical changes,
errands, and waiting around. Everyone looks forward to lunch. I attracted
attention, being far older and much better dressed.
Earaches are easy. I followed a young man into the empty
1950s diner, made the diagnosis, handed over medicine, and took my leave.
As usual, one aspect of the experience seemed strange.
The assistant who had phoned and greeted me on my arrival was a young,
attractive woman. Other attractive women were carrying messages, answering
phones, setting up the lunch buffet. Almost every actress in costume was
beautiful; there were no exceptions for those in street clothes.
Somewhere in Los Angeles there is a creepy frat guy who handles
hiring for film sets.
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