And on the 8th day, He created the "Modesty Patch"

The rest of this week flies by as I scramble to stay on top of my usual work load, plus take on additional responsibilities such as getting clearance for us to use certain music and TV footage in the film. As busy as I feel though, my boss is even more extended. He calls me into his office to tell me something, but by the time I walk the distance between my desk and his, he's gotten on a call with the production accountant. He pantomimes a few quick gestures--after three years of assisting I am fluent in Non-Verbal Communication--which roughly mean "please my dear friend take a seat on my couch here. This'll just take a minute and I will be with you as soon as I can get off the phone with this long winded moron."

I sit and, as they discuss cash flow, go over my notes in preparation for our conversation. A few minutes pass and he's still on this call, so I make a list of things for me to do, look up--still talking--a list of things for him to do, look up--still talking--recheck both lists, look up--is he done? oh no, just listening to the other guy talk--go through my notes again, and then, having run out of things to make myself appear busy, doodle obsessively. I count two Q trains passing overhead, which means I've been sitting there for at least 14 minutes. Finally, I get up the nerve to excuse myself and scurry back to my desk in the rabbit warren. I now have a list of things to do, a full note-page of 3D boxes, and no idea what my boss wanted to discuss with me. A very productive meeting indeed.

Much later, Jeff emerges from isolation and tells me he needs a Nudity Rider faxed to our attorney in LA (this is in fact what I sat around waiting for earlier, a request which he could've easily asked me via email and saved 15 minutes of my life, but it's fine, I'm used to being at the mercy of someone else's schedule, it's part and parcel of that sadistic process in Hollywood which is called "paying your dues").

Now, if you don't know what a Nudity Rider is--and I didn't until I saw it today--let me explain. Basically, whenever an actor appears partially or fully nude in a film (and we're assuming this is a respectable film in which they have more screen time with their clothes on than without), their agent/manager/attorney will usually require the filmmakers to sign one of these contracts in which a tender moment of physical affection expressed through cinema is reduced to two pages of legal jargon. I had actually had the extreme displeasure of being in the room when the director and my boss had a conference call with the agent/manager/attorneys of the two actors who are sharing this brief scene, and intend on blocking it out from my memory just as soon as I finish writing this entry. Basically, Rick, the director, was forced to outline his plans for the scene like a perverted voyeur, down to every last detail such as duration, degree of light in the room, amount of physical contact etc. It was pretty creepy. The Rider (so-called because it is an addendum that will figuratively "ride" on top of the actor's original film contract) is then tailored to the specific scene with admonishing phrases such as "there shall be no actual fondling of the performer's genital region" and "performer's garment shall be a so-called 'modesty patch.'" Basically, it reads like the Ten Commandments of Movie Sex. I am pretty sure an earlier draft had phrases like "Thou shalt not fondleth performers breasts or buttock regions" or "And God Said, 'let the Israelites weareth a 'modesty patch' while they haveth simulated sexual relations and keep it holy." Thus ends my first week back in NY. And it was good.

Under The Cyclone

NOTE: For the duration of this blog, certain names and situations have been changed to protect their privacy of the film crew and, well, let's be honest, the safety of my job.


So, the weird thing about being a producer's assistant on a film set, is that you are--at least at the onset--the odd (wo)man out. Meaning, the rest of the crew doesn't exactly trust you since you're the eyes and ears for the head boss on set and, as they're all part of the New York film production crew scene (and it is definitely a network all unto its own), they know the same people, share inside jokes, and have their own unique film set rhythm in place. Meanwhile, I walk in on my first day and, socially speaking, it's like I've just transferred into 7th grade mid-year and am lisping "hello" through my headgear.

I spend the morning trying to learn everyone's names (co-producer, production coordinator, 1st assistant director, oh my!) and get used to my new environment. I sit in the main production office, which is basically one large room with about a dozen desks, phones, and no walls where the above crew, plus various members of the art, locations and costume departments all sit. This is a vast difference from my LA space where I have a nicely sized room with a large desk, 1 phone and 4 very soundproof walls all to myself. Basically, I'm now working in the film crew's equivalent of Times Square and am quickly learning that production folk have no qualms about interrupting you at any time to tell you about their experiences working on Sex And The City. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy hearing the truth behind the rumored tension between SJP and Kim Cattrall like any other dutiful US Weekly reader, but maybe not when I'm trying to get through a script that we were supposed to give feedback to an agent on last week.

Anyway, my boss Jeff and the film's director share another office at the other end of the hall, which in theory is the better of the two working spaces and the room in which the most important decisions regarding the film will be contemplated, away from the bustle of the crew. Ironically though, having decided to save money on office space (we're on a shockingly low budget after all), the co-producer chose this location sight unseen because of its attractively low price tag, not really taking into account the fact that the DUMB part of DUMBO really means Down Under the Manhattan Bridge. So, thanks to the building's brilliant architect, my boss's cushy private office is in fact directly located beneath this major artery of East River car and subway traffic, and every 7 minutes or so, the roar of the Q train passing above is near deafening. The first official joke of the film shoot is that this office is like the childhood home of Woody Allen's character Alvie in ANNIE HALL, that is, located right below The Cyclone in Coney Island. I spend a good chunk of the afternoon making a three part mix CD of soothing music from my iPod for Jeff to drown out the noise and jokingly entitle it "Under The Cyclone." This doesn't really work though, and now it sounds like Coldplay is giving a concert on a rollercoaster in their office. I make a mental note to time his conference calls to the subway schedule. And thus ends my glamourous first day on a film production set.

Karmic D.U.M.B.O.

For those of you that don't already know, I am in NY for the next two months assisting my boss, a rather accomplished film producer, on the set of our company's first feature film. My official title in LA is "Creative Executive," but I'm basically a glorified assistant who gets to review projects and voice an opinion here and there, which in the film industry, is actually a huge privilege, even more so considering the fact that my boss respects what I have to say....at least part of the time. : ) Here in NY on set however, I will be pretty much ALL assistant, no glory, but I am excited to be a part of production nonetheless.

My second semester senior year of college, I had an internship which turned into a part time job as a Production Assistant for a company that made TV commercials and music videos. The owners of that now defunct company, a husband and wife team, aspired to produce films but could never quite get a project off the ground, mainly due to the fact that they were bankrupt both financially and morally. Many of the employees insisted they get paid in cash at the end of each week, as the paychecks often bounced, and we fielded calls all day from angry creditors. In the short time I was there, they changed the name of the company twice to avoid said creditors, though that never seemed to affect the amount of calls that came in. I never asked to get cash though as I made so little anyway that my checks always cleared (we're talking like just barely in the three figure range), and I liked the feeling of getting a real paycheck and would sometimes just look at it for a long time, feeling very accomplished. In reality I was very underpaid.

Anyway, point of my story is that this marginal company had its office in a part of Brooklyn called DUMBO (Down Under Manhattan Bridge Overpass), which like the acronym suggests, is situated in the unfortunate piece of land directly underneath this massive, noisy bridge. When I first worked in this area, it was home to power plants, methadone clinics, a few brave artist colonies and at least one very broke commercial production company. Now just a few years later, this same neighborhood which has gentrified into a hipster-populated hot spot, is where my current company's production office is for our film, BOHEMIA. In fact, The only thing different about the view from my old and new office windows onto the East River and downtown Manhattan are the visibly absent Twin Towers. Whenever I had a minute of downtime at my crummy first job, I used to look out the window at those monoliths to hard work and success, and dream about one day working for a real film company, getting paid to just read scripts and watch movies for a living. Now after several intensely long years of assistant boot camp, that dream has come true, but I realize there's a reason that old adage "careful what you wish for" exists; I know now that I should have been more specific in my wish, because though I do essentially get to read scripts and watch movies all day long, unfortunately most of the time they are not very good and I really do this ALL DAY LONG. My weekday routine is to wake, go to the office, workworkwork, leave around 8, eat dinner, read a script until I pass out. Rinse and repeat. As life would have it, I now look out of my current office windows and day dream about getting to the next level, that is, being a full fledged producer in my own right. We'll see how the next five years treat me....

All things told though, I do love my current job immensely and feel privileged to have been asked to work on this film during prep and production in NY. After all, my company consists of a tight knit group of talented and truly nice people--a rare combination in this industry--and I sometimes wonder if the karma gods have made a bank error in my favor. It's like I've been reincarnated and am now back in DUMBO, the same neighborhood I started out in less than five years ago, but a few rungs higher in the ladder...not that much higher, but enough to make me happy. This almost makes up for the many many hours I spent in the women's bathroom at the Studio having my daily cry and being somewhat depressed about how miserable my job as a publicity assistant made me feel back then. It was so far from what I wanted to be doing, but the best lessons I learned from that experience was that I can survive anything, and that you make the best friends when you're in the fox hole together. But that's another blog entirely!

My first week in the production office up next....

Sunday Calm Before The Storm

My first full day back in the city and in my old apartment. I awake with a jolt around noon, to the sound of children laughing in my building hallway. For a minute I can't figure out where I am, the room seems familiar, but slightly darker and smaller than how I remember it. I realize I am no longer in my sunny apartment in LA which I share with two awesome roommates, and am in fact 3,000 miles away from what I've come to refer to as home. For a moment I can't figure out if I'm happy or scared out of my mind by this thought. Am I so disloyal to my hometown that in just one sunny summer of perfect days I'm ready to pledge allegiance to another coast? I shake off this question for now and then the neurosis (which all New Yorkers share to some extent) sets in; that is, the irrational fear that I've slept away the whole day while others are out there DOING things, seeing people, making IT happen (whatever IT is), until I realize that it's only really 9AM LA time, and I still have a good 8 hours of sunlight. I have plans to meet my cousin Elizabeth--who is truly an amazing girl and one of those rare people who makes everything shine a little brighter in her presence--and jump into action.

It's a beautiful late summer / early fall day in NY, and I know this weather won't last long, but being spoiled by LA in just four months, it feels like any other day I've gotten so used to on the West Coast. That said, between the inherent zen of being back in my native city, listening to upbeat music on my ipod, and finding not one but two Jamba Juices have sprung up in my neighborhood, I feel literally high on life. It's like a first kiss, college graduation, disneyland and warm apple crumb pie all rolled into one big cliche of elation. Then I realize the irony of feeling so good on a day in which I, and thousands of other New Yorkers, felt so indescribably awful just four years ago, and this humbles me a bit, but I guess you can say that's part of the awesome power of this city--so many emotions, desires, personalities all swirling together to create this complex organism of urban life.

I meet Elizabeth (after getting a drink from Jamba Juice of course) and we walk down to Soho to do some shopping. It's amazing that in just one mile, we pass through so many different neighborhoods--the sidewalk cafes of Chelsea that overflow with hot men having Sunday brunch, the winding streets and beautiful brownstones of the West Village I dream of someday living in, the Soho boutiques and art galleries. And everywhere crowds of people walking at a superhuman speed, all apparently very late for a very important meeting with the white rabbit. We spend a good part of the day walking around and popping into stores if we so feel like it. One of the few things I truly missed about NY was the shopping--it is just so much simpler here than in LA where you have to worry about parking, and invariably the stores you want to go to are never within walking distance, unless you go to the Grove which is THE BEST shopping area ever. I love that mall. Yeah I said it. But aside of that brilliant example of architecture, LA's vaste layout is just not conducive to a shopping spree, which I guess, is a good thing and could explain to some extent why it's so easy to burn money in Manhattan. Anyway, by the time I get home, I've walked almost three miles; this is the most I've traveled on foot since I moved to the West Coast, except for when I hiked in the Santa Monica mountains, and my entire body aches. I have become such a lightweight. My high school self, the tough and oh so super cool New York kid (I say this now ironically), would be so disappointed with me right now.

I decide to go to sleep early so I can be well rested for my first day of work at the production office. It feels like the first day of school in a way. Having never worked on a professional film set during production, I have no idea what to expect. True, my first film job had been as the assistant to a director during pre-production on a pretty big film, and after three years of working for a studio I'm not exactly green, but still, I've never had real responsibilities in the Production of a real movie with, like, teamsters, and craft service, and actual trailers for the talent. My head is spinning with ideas of the kinds of experiences I'm going to have the next two months, yet somehow, I manage to fall asleep. The next morning I don't remember my dreams, but I'm sure one of them was the standard, "arrive to take a test at school and discover you're naked" anxiety dream, except for maybe in my dream, I'm not taking the test with other students, but with Oscar-winning actors, and perhaps the proctor is Harvey Weinstein. Whatever it is, I make sure to put on clothes and feel like I'm already a winner!

First night back home in NYC

The best part about flying into New York at night is getting to see the Empire State building and the Manhattan skyline illuminated against the dark sky. (It used to be the twin towers, but, well, you know). Being a native New Yorker who caught the traveling bug early, I've seen this view several times over, and every time it's just as spectacular. Tonight was a particularly special one though. About five minutes before the landing strip came into view, I spotted the red white and blue lights of the Empire State Building, and it took my breath away, as usual. Then--and here's where I sometimes think that my life is in fact an overly sentimental movie with a heavy-handed director--just to the right of this awesome monument to New York industry, giant fireworks exploded in successive bundles of color and light. I kid you not people, I could see fireworks going off above the Manhattan skyline as my plane landed in Newark airport. Not being completely delusional, I'm sure there was some reason other than my homecoming for this display and I'll no doubt find out at some random point in the future. But for now, a part of me would like to believe that it was my heart doing a tiny little dance in my eyes to celebrate my return home. ... Did I mention this was a sentimental moment? Don't worry, I'm not usually this way, much.

My parents are waiting for me at the gate. My mom runs up to me first, flattering me with motherly observations like "you lost weight!" (and she seems disappointed at this) while my dad hangs behind, just smiling a big dopey grin (I take after him so probably had one on my face too) and then when I got close enough, giving me a big bear hug and kiss on the cheek. I'm pretty sure my father thinks one hug is all he gets per reunion. So he pats my back as well, one too many times, and understates, "good to have you back kid." pat pat. "Glad to see you." pat pat.

Anyway, despite this loving moment at baggage claim, not ten minutes pass by before we slip into our familiar and familial routines on the car ride home. My mother tries to give me a shopping bag with a week's worth of her cooking and some clothing she's bought me from her favorite stores (which of course, is not my style at all and we both know she's secretly hoping none of it fits and she gets to keep them for herself). From exits 11-14 on the NJ Turnpike my father and I debate who is really responsible for the horrific aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. The conversation drifts awkwardly into the subject of another terrorist attack on NY as we drive through the suffocatingly long Lincoln Tunnel. By the time we reach midtown, I feel like I'd never left. We drop my bags off at my apartment (well, technically it's my great aunt's place, which I've been subletting for the past three years and am staying in for the next two months while I'm in NY working on set), then walk to Patsy's Pizza across the street. Two food truths about LA which I learned from my friend and former Columbia classmate Eric: Pizza and Bagels on the West Coast are just not as good. Something to do with the water quality affecting the dough? Whatever it is, it's true. Pizza and Bagels: just not as good. They should make T Shirts there that say this to warn the tourists. I had somehow managed to avoid eating both for nearly the entire three months I was in LA, except for the time I got suckered into going to a California Pizza Kitchen at the mall, and you know, when in Orange County....

I didn't expect to become so used to the LA lifestyle in just three months, but I have to admit, I felt like a total stranger in my old neighborhood. The streets seemed crowded with people for 10pm on a Saturday night, and there was so much trash everywhere, so much noise, so much frenetic energy. Even while standing in my bathroom brushing my teeth later that night, I could hear the traffic driving by 9 stories below. And my neighbor coughing through the wall. The neighbor I've never seen though I lived in this apartment for two and a half years before moving to LA in May, whom I know watches Law and Order almost every night and one time blasted Free Bird at 2am in the morning. Yes, I think as I wearily drift off to the sound of cars honking, I'm back, for two months, to assist my producer boss on set of our first feature film together. This is New York, my home, my love, my thorn and, as the song goes, this bird you cannot change.