09: WAG

 Working at the Sony lot left a funny taste in my mouth. It was so convenient and comfortable. I had been there before, I knew my way around the lot, and got to know people as well. To think, it used to belong to MGM, the studio that Laura was now working for. It made me feel close to the industry, like it wasn't such a big place after all. It wasn't; I would soon learn it was quite small.
 There used to be more permanence amongst crafts in the business. When people worked at a studio, they generally stayed at that one studio until they retired. Maybe they got promoted, maybe they got a job working for another studio at some point, but either way they were provided a good stable life in the industry. There was enough jobs to go around.
 It was a lifestyle particular to an industry. These people generally lived near the studios they were employed at, as craftspeople, technicians, and office personnel. When their kids got older, they would have a contact inside that studio to pursue similar careers.
 Now the business had changed quite a bit. There was more competition for the finite number of jobs available. There was more moving around of personnel; this week you're at Fox, next week at Sony. It wasn't uncommon to shoot one studio's movie on another studio's lot-- a Paramount picture shooting on the Universal backlot, or even just to rent a stage for a season because all their space was booked.
 It was all about commerce now, with movie-mania gone berserk. Anything for a buck; all the lamp-docks from the studios were now trying to attract off-lot business, since they saw some local rental houses get huge in no time, catering to the location shows. It seemed like anybody could waltz on a lot and walk out with whatever they wanted for a price.
 Working in the movies was feeling more like big business than the secret society it always was. It was becoming de-mystified; obviously so to me, since I did it and lived it most everyday. But everywhere I looked seemed to be some fanfare exploiting the excitement to be found in the movies-- watching them, working them, living them-- aaahhh!!
 Both Laura and I had prosperous careers developing. It made me wonder about our future. What if we did get married, would we buy a house near the studios? If we did have kids, would they grow up and work in the studios too? It was looking too scary-- too familiar, as I thought of the people I knew, who grew up in scenarios like that or plunged headlong into them. I must admit that it is a good life if you can manage to not let it run you ragged, like so many who struggle to support a family must.
 Laura was becoming popular around the offices at MGM (they moved their headquarters to a business plaza in Santa Monica, since they no longer have a studio, remember). She was getting to know everyone from temping in the different departments, and learning the ropes of the studio business. More importantly, she was learning who to stay away from as she was approached with offers for more permanent positions.
 "I got an offer to interview for a job in Domestic Television," she came home saying.
 "That sounds cool," I offer.
 "Not really. I'd rather work for Ben Heinrechson in Physical Production. It's a much better scene, and Ben is way nicer than Lance, the guy I would be working for in Domestic TV."
 "Oh." It all sounded like Greek to me. "What's Physical Production again?" It seemed obvious, but I couldn't be too sure.
 "They're the department that oversees the studio's interest in the film's production. If they're going overbudget, if they lose a star in contractual..."
 She could go on and on with what she was learning, reading the trades every day, being privy to all kinds of contracts and all kinds of people. One thing she became sure of; that she was not interested in pursuing the studio business as a career, or so she said.
 Seeing the mentality it required, and the lifestyle it fostered, we came to the mutual conclusion that you had to be warped to be successful at it. It seemed no level-headed, smooth-thinking individual would stand a chance. What it required to be a studio executive was:
 a) the attention span of a domesticated pet, and
 b) the originality of a Quaker
These qualifications, plus a long list of unrelated business accreditations and exorbitant salary requirements can ensure you a future in the studio business.
 Laura's availability proved to be a perfect example of this. Word got around what a good employee she was, and that she was seeking a permanent position. This exec in Domestic TV got wind of what a hot commodity Laura was, and wanted to have her in for an interview. Laura finally agreed and it was set up.
 She went down for the appointment and it went very well. The exec was interested in when she could start, and made it seem like she was all set for the position. He even told her to check with him before she took another position, and he would get in touch with her next week.
 Laura was excited, even though it wasn't her ideal job. This guy seemed nice, as he was willing to be flexible with her schedule. Salary, vacation and benefits would be a big perk addition from her temp status. She was getting busier pursuing her craft (drama, that is), as well. She started to look forward to her future.
 She got involved in acting on the local Hollywood level, and began to mix with other aspiring thespians like herself. She became part of a comedy group that sprung from some classes she took at a renowned improv school. I had to admit, Laura had come a long way from being the new kid in town. Now she was integrated and exploring her options. She just needed to get straight where she would be working for the next year or so, so she could afford the difficult and costly life of a struggling actor in Hollywood.
 She floated around MGM waiting to hear if she got the job. A week or so passed and the call didn't come.
 "Maybe he hired someone else..." I speculated.
 "No, the position is still open. My friend Marla sits at the desk across the hall."
 "Who knows, maybe he's busy. Or maybe he was just bullshitting you all along-- you know how studio people can be."
 "I just wish he would call and let me know what's up, so I could take my life off hold."
 "Well, then, you call him. Tell him you have another offer to consider and would like to know what his decision was."
 "Yeah, I guess so. I'll just give it a little more time."
 So, she waited another week and still no response. Then she made the call, and left a message for this TV exec guy, that she would like to know what's up, did he make a decision, because she is entertaining other offers. Still no response as another week goes by. By now, Laura has written this off as not the kind of kook she would like to be working for unless he has a very valid excuse for his blatant neglect. After all, it was he who petitioned her for the interview. He could at least have the decency to tell her she is not right for the position.
 Then Laura sees that same exec in the 2500 building down the hall from where she is working one day, so she approaches him to try to corner him and get an answer. She told me about it after work that day.
 "I couldn't believe it, Jack, he saw me coming and ducked around a corner. I went to catch up with him, and by the time I rounded the corner-- he was gone! He had fled! I mean-- literally run away from me! Me-- a temp!! And this executive is running away so he doesn't have to face me!? What could I possibly do that he could be afraid of?!"
 We never did find out what he was afraid of. Soon after the fleeing incident, Laura received a general memo that circulated stating the position had been filled, and thanks to all the applicants.

*****

 The smoking, twisted wreckage of the small private aircraft was strewn about the desolate field. Fires blazed randomly, sending thick clouds of dense smoke skyward, lighting up the blackened background like a smokestack. A creak is heard, as life stirs inside the burning remains.
 A moment later and the side exit stairs crash downward, hitting the earth with a thud. The survivors come lurching forward, injured and weary. I see their exhausted, defeated faces, and immediately realize this is no ordinary private passenger plane.
 In fact, it's a government plane, dispatched from The White House. The passengers are Dustin Hoffman, Robert DeNiro, Woody Harrelson, and Anne Heche, and the picture we're making is called Wag the Dog.
 Another instant and-- "CUT!!" The director shouts it out, and the momentarily silent soundstage buzzes back to life with talking and activity. The grips pull the crane back to it's start position and lower the boom arm, so the man behind the camera can step off. Only after someone else steps on, of course, so you don't violently upset the delicate balance of counterweight.
 The director is Barry Levinson, director and Oscar winner, who so long ago brought Diner to the screen. He steps up front and center to discuss the finer points of the blocking with the all-star cast. Dustin Hoffman and Robert Deniro both had Oscars themselves. Earlier this morning, they announced this years Academy Award Nominees--Woody was up for Best Actor for his performance in The People vs. Larry Flynt.
 Bob Richardson, ASC, gets off the camera operator platform and moves in close to follow (Bob also has an Oscar for his photography on JFK). I look around the set for Ray Peschke, the inimitable gaffer, but he is nowhere to be seen (Ray has no Oscar; there is no shiny gold statue awarded for being a great gaffer, but if you ask me, he deserves half of Bob's). I am obliged as a set lighting technician and member of Local 728 to step in and cover in my boss's absence, so I do so with trepidation. I feel a little small in the midst of these industry giants.
 The AD's all simultaneously chime out "QUIET FOR REHEARSAL!!" so that everyone can hear. Scattered about and out-of-time, they sound like a choir badly in need of practice. The company reluctantly begins to settle as they look on, quietly busy themselves, or step outside before they get trapped in the brimstone-and-dungeon-like atmosphere. They are very strict on the "quiet for rehearsal" policy here, and understandably so. This is very expensive talent.
 I decide to forego another visit to the endless spoils of the craft service truck this time-- I have had four cappuccinos already this morning. I knew this was going to be interesting. The actors began to run through their lines, feeling for the character, trying to sense what their actions and emotions would be. The director looks on from some twenty feet away, engrossed in his thoughts as he follows their business. Everyone else stands behind him and awaits his decisions.
 I am close to the action, and feel somewhat privileged to be there. They insist upon holding the work during rehearsals, despite the fact that we are behind schedule. Although my attention is not mandatory, I elect to watch the rehearsal nonetheless. I could rely on Ray's instruction, but I find it helpful to know firsthand where the subjects are going to be during the scene. That way, you know where to shine the lights when they tell you to go back to work.  
 I was beside some of the most highly acclaimed individuals in their respective fields. I knew my craft well, stayed on my toes, and had every right to be there. But some part of me still felt like a kid who had snuck behind the stage door, and at any moment they were going to ask me to leave.
 Next thing I know, I hear Big Wave Dave at the dimmer board asking for help over the radio, because Ray is telling him to shut the backlight at the front of the plane, and Dave's telling Ray that he has shut it already. The confusion begins to mount between the two even though we aren't supposed to be lighting, we're rehearsing now. I hear the turmoil and recall earlier when Dave and I had been speculating about a possible dimmer problem. We came across this channel that might be errant, though it seemed to be responding. Now it was my turn to make the save.
  I sneak around the back of the set, quiet like a Ninja, because if I am heard I could be harshly scolded even though I am acting in everyone's best interest. The sooner we rectify this problem, the less we will have on our hands to light the shot. I quickly find the trouble spot and re-patch it into another channel. As I pull the 100amp stage plug, I see sparks fly, and hear Ray over the radio--
 "That's it-- leave it off!"
 Like most gaffers, Ray is unconcerned with who's doing what, what's most important is that he sees results. Then I got on the horn with Dave at the board, to let him know what was going on.
 "Dave G.-- try channel 146 for the backlight at the front of the plane..." I whisper through my headset, knowing Ray isn't even listening anymore, but I still don't want to be heard speaking.
 "Got it," comes the confirmation from Dave G., and I see a gentle, momentary illumination from the 10K in question before it fades back out, and I know we are once again in command.
 This sort of stealth running repair is timid compared to the "action saves" we are sometimes called on to make. If the camera were rolling for example, as is often the case when you experience a lighting miscue, then you don't have such secret moments to diagnose the problem. Then you're "flying in" running over dirt hills, through airplane debris, with flames leaping at your tool-belt, and you're sliding up to a baby 10K on a low turtle to flip the switch because the dimmer channel isn't working and it's responding like a hot-patch. And you're the only one who immediately knows which 10K it is, because there are eight of them backlighting the plane, and the other team members are on their own equally important missions of urgency to complete the lighting of the big picture.
 I make my way back to the set, where lighting and grip now has the floor as the actors go for touch-ups, and all chaos breaks loose. Bob starts looking around for Ray, shouting frantically "Where's Ray?! Get me Ray Peschke!!" and the AD's start a furious search for the mad gaffer, sending PA's scattering off in all different directions. That's when I cock a smile and key my radio, sending a transmission over the electric channel: "Ray Peschke to set, please. Ray-- Bob's looking for you!" I make sure the message is sent, as I get confirmation from my teammates of the illustrious Rayteam that the search for Ray is on. Not a moment later, and I see his spiky-haired figure moving toward the ruined fuselage.
 I know perfectly well he's off checking the sports scores or engaged in some mad caper or practical joke, because that's how Ray is. Unpredictable, and so it is to work with him. Plus, he's great at what he does. He helped Bob win an Oscar for JFK, and they had done Natural Born Killers together. He knew Woody from that picture, but they were also both neighbors where they had homes in Costa Rica.
 So Bob runs over to him, acting pissed. "Where the hell were you? And don't tell me you were at the bathroom again, cause you used that last time and you've been there four times already and it's only nine o'clock in the morning!"
 Ray looks away and scratches his head, averting Bob's penetrating stare. "No, I was... Looking at Stage Five, the Combine Night set, to give Dave the notes for the rigging..." and he finally meets eyes with Bob to see if he buys it.
 Bob keeps staring at the lanky gaffer to see if he cracks. "Yeah, well you better walk me over there so I can show you what I want, that way you don't fuck it up like you did last time at the airplane!"
 "What did we fuck up at the airplane? Just because--"
 "Ray, just try and be here when I need you, so we can light this movie and everyone doesn't have to be off looking for you!!"
 And then he'll storm off, pissed, shouting "JOEY!!" for the key grip to set up the crane shot. But before he does, he'll catch the eyes of the nearest innocent onlooker, and flash them a devious smile, hidden from the victim Ray. This time it was me.
 I can't hold back my laughter, this must be a rehearsed routine he and Ray do, I think. So I follow a few steps behind as Ray goes to where Bob is talking to Joey D., the key grip, about the upcoming crane shot. After they establish what the camera move will be, based upon the movements of the actors as they established in the rehearsals, Ray and Bob begin to discuss the lighting. They decide which of the hanging eight Raybeams that semicircle the perimeter of the stage will function as the moonlight for this shot. Big Wave Dave correspondingly controls the Raybeams from the dimmer board as Ray calls it.
 Each of the Raybeams fit thirty Par 64 globes-- five rows by six columns. The units are massive behemoths, reminiscent of outdoor stadium lights that bring daylight to night games. Ray had the lights custom built some time ago, and the Par 64 globes are easily accessible for interchangeability between the narrow spot, frosted spot, wide flood, and very wide flood globes. These particular Raybeams each had a diffusion frame hung on the front to soften the harshness of the spot globes, in addition to being boxed-in with 6x6 solid black teasers. These giant opaque light modification devices worked as "siders and bottomers," to keep the light from falling in places where they didn't want it to. Ray and Bob look at a few illumination variations to see which will serve them best for this camera angle before settling.
 Next Ray looks at the backlights for the crashed body of the small private plane littered on the ground before them. There are eight baby 10Ks on low turtle rollers in a channel behind the body of the plane, before the grassy uprising that is the back of the set. We space them out in pairs of four at half-spot, bashing into the back of the plane as a kicker. We add fire-colored gel variations to each pair of lights. Ray has us cross the lights at the lens so the colors will bleed together, and Big Wave Dave will work a manual fire effect from the board. Using the "bump" buttons on the dimmer, he gives a flicker effect by randomly "bumping" intensity between zero and one-hundred percent.
 Inside the plane are four smaller units on beaver-boards (a lamp "stand" with no legs so the lamp is at it's lowest operating position to the floor). The same gel flavors warms them and these lights are on their own 6K Flicker-Box, so their fire-effect is generated independently from the dimmer board.
 Ray and Bob then looked at the scene as the stand-ins took the places of the actors. Bob didn't like the firelight generated by the molepars inside the plane. Ray dispatched me, and I went into the smoky wreckage through the open exit door. He spoke to me over the radio: "Take the light off the front of the plane, the background of where they exit." I did so using the barn doors, and awaited further instructions. I could see Ray talking to Bob through the airplane window.
 Finally they came. "Turn off the two in front. Use just the back two," Ray said over the radio. I did as he instructed, tweaking the lights so that they bounced in the interior, splashing the bleeding, flickering color about the cabin. I knew the light would only be seen through the windows, so I arranged the light so that it worked most effectively on those spots. I didn't tell this to Ray; I just did it. I applied blackwrap, a matte-black aluminum foil to remove the uncolored white spill-light escaping from the lamp barndoors.
 A moment later, Ray came over the radio, addressing me: "That's good; Just like that," he said, so I knew I was doing the right thing. I finished the blackwrap and walked away.
 I exit the plane as Joey gives the word for the grips to set up two twenty-by-twenty black solids at the perimeter of the set. Ray doesn't like all the ambient fill coming from the white padded walls of the soundstage at The Culver Studios. He sometimes uses the negative-fill to maintain lowlight control; ie., placing a large dark source on one side to reduce the ambience. This saves the expense of bumping-up the highlights to maintain proper exposure control, while allowing the camera to remain in aperture continuity.
 The scene begins to look lit, as Bob works from upon the camera crane arm with the grips, rehearsing the camera move to his liking. A transmission comes over the radio; it is Ray, and he begins to sound panicky. "David G-string, where are the additional 10Ks?"
 And then the reply: "I don't know, Ray, I ordered them from the lamp dock twenty minutes ago. We'll put them in as soon as they get here. This isn't a union shop."
 Seeing other lighting technicians standing on set at the ready, I went to David G. where he sat at the dimmer board. He was running the show with his cell phone in one ear talking to a rental house making arrangements for tomorrow, with his radio in the other directing the electric crew, all the while keeping Ray at bay and operating the dimmer effects during a take. His job of best boy was a thankless task. I got information from him about the incoming 10Ks, their proposed location and accouterments, etc.  They were to work in the distant background, behind the grassy uprising that seated the wrecked aircraft. With some help from the Rayteam, I prepared the flame-colored gels, and isolated two dimmer channels so they could sequence with the other firelight 10Ks backlighting the plane. These, however, would particularly backlight the smoke and mist that blanketed the room (compliments of the Special Effects department), and further conceal the fact that this was a soundstage.
 The ADs cried out in chorus-- "Talent to set! Quiet for rehearsal! Hold the work!!" And so, once again the bustle of the craftspeople and technicians settled.
 Then David G. comes over the radio: "Jack, could you go check on those 10Ks, see if they're coming from the lamp dock?"
 Now Dave is beginning to worry, so I hurry out, responding: "Copy that-- checking on 10Ks!!" And I exit the double-doors.
 Outside Stage 3, I bump into the lamp dock guys as they shuttle over the two 10Ks. Perfect timing. I'm met by the Rayteam, and we muscle them into place behind the grassy uprising. Ray talks to us as we dial them in, observing Dave's flickering dimmer control to be working properly. It gives a smoky sunburst of depth to the scene, as Ray acknowledges and tells us to walk away. I head out front to join him, and watch final rehearsals with the talented cast.
 It is a commanding performance. The actors are more extrovert, being in costume and makeup, leaving their personal selves behind. But still they are blocking; searching for the movements and final reading before rolling film and capturing it on picture. Levinson watches and guides them along, letting them act on impulse, yet keeping them within the realm of the script.
 They are polite and considerate of each other; "Is that okay for you, Bob?" Dustin asks as he explores the character of Stanley Motts, a nebbish of a frustrated producer. Bob DeNiro is complacent, the most reserved of the group. He only lets on when the cameras roll. Anne Heche tears it up, a screeching siren, while Woody acts the weary and beaten one, retaining his keen humor all the while.
 Finally, all is in place as final touch-ups are applied on the set. My set lighting colleagues and I all stand at the ready, prepared for any last minute calls necessary to finish lighting the scene. After all, we are never done until the camera is rolling. Only then can we stop and breathe, quietly, and have moments to ourselves, should we turn our attention from the recording on film. But this was a bit too captivating.
 Then I heard the distress call of my union local number: "Seven-twenty-eight!! Seven-twenty-eight!!" It was the DP, on the set, with the talent all around. I went front and center.
 "Yes, Bob, what can I do for you?" I asked.
 "You can get me Ray!!" he says in a huff, and runs off as we go through this little game again. I shake my head in amused disbelief. Just another day in Hollywood.
 Ray finally saunters in, and Bob decides that he actually wants to light the actors with real fire. Ray tries to appease him, and beckons the FX guys to move the flame-bars in, closer to the talent. Pretty soon, we're taking these things away from them, and the electricians are using them as lighting instruments.
 They really were somewhat similar, yet archaic. The flame-bars were in a scoop shaped rather like a zip-light, a common tungsten unit used for set lighting. A hose, not unlike the thick electrical header cable we were accustomed to, snaked out and connected to a tank of propane, which could almost be likened to a ballast, the step-up transformer we utilized on halide-mercury incandescents (commonly called HMI's).
 It could have been the first-ever lighting instrument had it appeared on the scene around the right time. Bob had us turn the valves way up, so the flame filled the scoops and leaped out, giving that nice, warm, fire effect of the burning fuselage. My instinct told me to be conservative, there were a lot of people walking around not looking at what they were doing. Besides that, propane was a resource not immediately available in abundance on a film studio, as the effects guys pointed out.
 But there was Bob in the debris, before every take, shouting "Flames, HIGHER!!" like some demented medieval warlock, holding his hands up in the air, his grey locks and beard fluttering in the wind generated by the huge Ritter fans. Soon the place was filling with black smoke as there was clearly not enough ventilation for this absurd yet obligingly necessary folly. In no time we were out on another break as they would periodically clear the stage to let the noxious fumes dissipate.
 And so, the days went long, and everyone made more overtime, but not as much tonight as they would every other night. Tonight was the night all Hollywood stood still, the evening of the one event that would stop a grossly over-budget film in it's tracks; The Academy Awards.
 Tonight was particularly special for Woody Harrelson, because he was nominated for best actor in "The People vs. Larry Flynt." I had seen it just the week before-- Laura brought home a copy of the Academy screening tape.
 As I looked over the stage during this pause, there was Woody standing only steps away from me, chatting amiably with his makeup person. A moment later and she was gone, as he stood there by himself, out of character, just killing time with the rest of us while the smoke cleared.
 Ordinarily, I wouldn't think of approaching talent, especially on set. I considered myself too professional for that. Plus, I generally had nothing to say to actors, and certainly didn't want to ogle their egos-- they got enough of that. But something compelled me to speak to Woody that night, for whatever reason. Maybe I knew, when I told of my Wag experiences, I would ultimately be confronted with the question: "What's Woody Harrelson like?"
 Usually, I would just give my stock answer as to why I didn't know-- "He's an actor, a person like you or me. If they're nice, they're generally really nice, big-hearted people, gracious for where their success has taken them, and the people who put them there. And then, some are more big-headed than big-hearted, and are just not that nice at all."
 Tonight, I thought I would let Woody speak for himself. I took a few steps forward, and he reflexively turned seeing me approach. It was too late now-- I had to say something.
 "Hey, Woody-- I hope you win tonight." I said it amicably, like a well-wishing co-worker, but couldn't help feeling like a fan. Maybe that's why I normally kept my mouth shut. How much was there to say to a complete stranger besides "I like your work."
 "Thanks." He smiled as he said it, appreciatively, and looked at me. I think he was trying to figure out who I was, where he knew me from, or maybe he was trying to think of something to say. He seemed to have hit that same wall I did-- what was there to say?
 "I liked The People vs. Larry Flynt, but I really loved Kingpin." I then offered. I preferred the lesser-known offbeat story of a washed-up bowler and his Amish protégé, played by Harrelson and Randy Quaid, respectively. Now I was hitting him straight, telling him how I really felt.
 "Really?" He paused for a moment as he considered it. "I thought they cut the funniest stuff out. They said it was too raunchy."
 "Whoa." That took me aback a few steps. It was pretty raunchy as it was, I could imagine what they cut out. Then I heard some talking through my radio earpiece, which brought me back front and center. Enough idle chatter with movie stars, I had a job to do. I concluded my repartee with a casual "Right-on, well, good luck tonight, dude!" and went back about my business as the show started up again, and Woody was soon whisked off in another direction to do his job.
 He was a nice enough guy, and I felt kind of bad for putting him to the acid test like that. It's not fair, much of the criticism people in the public eye have to put up with. Then again, much of what's gotten is usually deserved.
 Woody took his acting very seriously, I gathered from his reaction to my truthful yet backhanded comment. Maybe that's how the simple barback from Cheers had come so far along in his young career. Tonight, he might be going home with an Oscar.
 I thought to myself, stranger things had happened-- hell, Ronald Reagan went from president of SAG to the President of the United States! And the last time I checked, SAG didn't have an army (although the Screen Extras Guild could provide you with several), so it makes you wonder what the qualifications for the Washington job are.
 Something was brewing here at the Culver Studios tonight, though, as the night grew long and the awards ceremony got closer. I sensed the anticipation as the champagne and other party favors were brought around and set up just outside the stage.
 There would be a surprise waiting for Woody tonight, in view of his academy-nominated role as pornographer Larry Flynt. I guess they did it because of the irony of his name. The production had baked a four-foot long cake in the shape of a penis, complete with cock and balls, iced with the tribute "WE LOVE YOU WOODY!!"
 Everyone began to assemble around the spectacle, cameras at the ready, anticipating Woody's reaction. I made sure to grab myself a good front row spot-- I didn't want to miss this. The crowd got larger, and it was curious to see peoples' reactions to the giant phallus as they noticed it, particularly the women. Each would indubitably come out of her feminine shell upon it's discovery with some indiscreet comment.
 "Gimme that knife!" one woman blurted without hesitance.
 "No, me-- I want to make the first cut!!" another challenged. So much for sexual harassment.
 That was another irony of the film business-- the whole notion of "political correctness" with regards to sex in the industry. Since the early 1990's, when someone cashed in on a huge sexual harassment lawsuit, extensive paperwork documentation regarding fair practice of sexual non-discrimination in the workplace were now mandatory filing for employment from most companies. But all that, as easily signed and accounted for, could just as easily be waived-off by an employer or employee in the right circumstances on a night like tonight.
 It is all for the protection of the company. The rights of the individual were always expendable and up for grabs in Hollywood. One thing this industry has never been is politically correct, but that must be fundamental for a thing so inherently political. Watergate happens everyday in this town, and you hear about it eventually, because everything comes out in such a small fishbowl where we all swim in the same waters. Whether it's some guy getting backstabbed out of a job, or twelve people unemployed because a cameraman quit a show to take another gig, you'd eventually find out about it.
 It was only fifty years ago that "the blacklist" was created. This was a device created as a means to circumvent accusations of communist subversion from hindering Hollywood ticket sales. As government agencies mounted investigations in the Hollywood communities initiated by the "red scare," panic was widespread. The producers, guilds, and unions formed the MPIC, a group intending to clean house of it's own suspected perpetrators. They offered up a detailed list of suspected subversives in an effort to exonerate their contingencies of any conspiratorial suspicions.
 Getting stabbed in the back was no new way to go in Hollywood, even back in 1950. These witchhunts escalated to astounding proportions in an effort to curtail the "communist problem" in the motion picture industry, so much so that over 500 people were either blacklisted or graylisted at the time. Such a consequence in many instances resulted in the end of a career, as was the case with some of the unfortunate actors of the time who were named on such a list.
 Who was president of the Screen Actors Guild then? You guessed it-- Ronald Reagan. His signature appeared, amongst others, on a statement published in Variety saying: "We are just a few of the many loyal Americans in Hollywood who have helped to bring about the complete frustration and failure of the Communist Party in the motion picture industry." In doing so, these loyal Americans flushed out the brethren they were sworn through their union by-laws to protect.
 SAG went on to persecute dozens of it's own members for not supporting the red-scare investigations, and openly denied requests from some members seeking protection from such investigations. Those who did succumb to questioning would indicate other suspicious parties as a means of exonerating themselves. It was an ugly, name-calling game where many lost their livelihoods, and even more their dignity.
 Not a popular time in Hollywood, and certainly one to not be forgotten. As quickly as you are heralded, so quickly could you be tied and flogged on a lamppost. Not tonight though-- we were in the presence of so many of the Academy's prestigious contemporaries, and well-wishing another to join the list. Today we were celebrating, we would save the torch-and-pitchfork bearing for another day.
 Mr. Harrelson finally came out to cut the cake to the clink of champagne glasses. DeNiro was there with Hoffman, all to wish Woody good luck and hope he could join their elite club. Me? Well, I had a glass and went home with no intention of watching the awards show, I was done with work for the day. I hoped Woody got the Oscar anyhow-- I'd find out about it tomorrow.
 I soon ran into that same nefarious cameraman again, as we were rigging the tank on Stage 30 at Sony for camera tests for some new picture he was to shoot. To think, I thought he was crazy for lighting Wag The Dog with flame bars.
 This time, he had to have real, frozen fog hanging low on the water. To do so, the FX guys rigged rain-towers to the permanents, and pushed pressurized, near-freezing water through a hole so small that you couldn't stick a hair through it. Of course, it was the guys I had come to know on The Lost World and later Deep Impact. We shared a laugh at how the ideas and rigs just went from crazy to stupider. This effect was "atom-crunching," or atomizing the water into a thick, icy, foggy mist that was dense and hung low, without evaporating. You couldn't see ten feet in front of you, and felt like you were wrapped in a cold, wet noodle.
 Definitely unpleasant working conditions, but that's what we get the big bucks for. As unpredictable and impersonal as this DP is, he does do good work and pushes the threshold to the limits. But, like I said, it all comes around that goes around.
 While they were shooting The Horse Whisperer in Montana, he made the grips so crazy throughout the show that they planned a special surprise for him at the end. The very last day on the martini shot (the last shot before wrapping, in this case the last shot of the movie), they grabbed him off the camera crane and threw him in to the near-freezing waters of the Colorado River.
 All part of the horseplay that relieves the stress of everyday reality. Like in professional sports, when the winning coach gets the Gatorade dumped on him-- not exactly something you want to happen to you, but you can't deny the glory in such a momentous moment. At least, I'm sure that's what he'd like to believe.
 Wag The Dog still wasn't finished yet. In light of the Clinton sexual scandal that was circulating, it seemed like the media was taking it's cues from popular films. Purportedly, film emulates and attempts to be a re-creation of life. But now life seemed to be imitating the movies. So what sort of crisis arises next? Who's wagging who?

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