#9 - Fat City Revisited

I booked a commercial gig that shot last past weekend at O’Hare. I swear, most of acting is waiting, and that’s what I did, waited for over an hour in the international terminal for the film crew to get there from another part of the airport. When they arrived, the frenzy began. Two huge dolly carts laden with equipment and a dozen crew members moving lights, power cords, c-stands, a camera.

Jeffrey, the quintessential LA director, a small guy with articulate features, moisturized skin, and a slightly graying beard, congratulated me a hundred times and told me how excited he was and that he thought I was great. Tom, the producer from the agency with a forty-year-old smirk, asked me if I had a different white shirt and gave me an oh-well face when I didn’t.

Make-up and wardrobe, two very pretty young ladies, descended on me like quick, neat sharks, poking and prodding my face and hair and taping my not-quite-the-right-white shirt to my jacket, my collar down to my tie. Giving me a travel bag to wear over my shoulder and then taping something to that and then giving me another bag because that one wasn’t as good as this one.

Swirling around like a tornado, all the elements of the production made their way across the open terminal, coming to a rest in front of a row of deserted ticket counters, near a foot-long piece of yellow gaff tape on the floor which marked the starting line.

And then, we shot the shot. I delivered one line, “Asserting itself, with ever-growing insistency,” while walking about twenty steps (it’s part of a larger quote by Daniel Burnham, the architect from a hundred years ago – other actors do other lines). The DP, operating a steadi-cam, backed away from me as I walked. A steadi-cam is a harness-mounted system that allows the operator to move as freely and precisely as you possibly can with a bulky, 30-pound camera.

We did it about twenty times in all, and in between shots, one of the other producers or Tom would whisper in Jeffery’s ear and he’d bark orders, politely, if slightly dispassionately, to whomever needed the adjustment. “You’re happier, Jake.” or “Turn the light a little more toward talent and try to keep up.” or “Not that happy, Jake, and put a pause after ‘itself’ for emphasis.” or “Everyone slow it down, just a little.”

Every five minutes we had to “Hold for sound” as the security announcement played over the PA. Every eight minutes we had to hold for a train you could hear, ever so slightly, from the underground. And the whole while we’re doing it, passengers going home to or coming back from Mexico or the Philippines or China or Europe stopped and watched the hulla-balloo and then went about their business. It’s funny what a spectacle this work can be.

“That was perfect, Jake, now, do it with a more positive demeanor.” I did. And then, just like that, it was done in less than an hour. The crew and equipment evaporated in minutes, packing up and out to the next location. Another producer gave me $15 for parking and off I went. In a month or so, I’ll get a nice check that’ll almost cover my rent.

I’ll be sure to let you know where the spot shows up. Should be on a City of Chicago website or something.

Best,
Jake

PS – To illuminate the other side of my double life: One morning last week, my ex-girlfriend caught me rolling to Starbucks half asleep, dressed for a grubby remodel gig and looking like a dirty, dilapidated old rug from out of the basement, and there she was, in her car, clean as a bar of soap, her hair perfect, sipping a tea behind a warm tan and a cool pair of earth-tone aviators, smug, thrilled I’m sure. Humble pie, though it may be well-deserved, tastes a lot like rotten fruit on burnt toast with a side of kiss my ass.