| |
Living and Trying in LA
Hollywood Milieu ©2002
By Denny Dormody
|
| The Klieg lights were blazing. The paparazzi were popping.
I'm standing in line. Some male model that belongs on an Armani photo
shoot is asking me for my photo ID. Seated next to him is another
gatekeeper, a model-actress-official with a killer body. With all
the new security checks I'm hoping she demands a strip search. I'm
always hoping. You see I'm eating hope for breakfast because I'm Living
and Trying in LA to sell the great American screenplay. This is The
Hollywood Reporter, the entertainment industry trade paper and their
'Next Generation' launch party at the Max Factor Museum here in Tinsel
Town. |
| How did a humble daytime telemarketer; nighttime screenwriter
make it onto this coveted list? You don't want to know. Maybe an actor
buddy was on the catering team? Maybe I knew someone in the band?
Maybe this is a final couple of hours of payback for that community
service I'm working off for that almost-a-felony incident you may
have read about in the Tabloids? Whatever. |
| We walk along the red carpet that looks to my jaded
eyes like a long pink bath towel. I'm rubbing against the Hollywood
gliterati as News at 11-camera crews jostle for interviews. I blend
in with the background as I've done on over 70 major motion pictures
working as a background extra. Extra. That's LA-speak for an actor
with no speaking lines |
| We enter the Max Factor building. Some Fred Astaire
types dressed in Tuxedos and top hats welcome us aboard. This is Surreal.
The top-hatters deliver a song and dance hyper-spiel about Max Factor
being the greatest make-up artist in the world. Next we are escorted
to a couple of rooms complete with make-up chairs and old movie cameras.
Next a bar with martinis. I ask for a glass of water. There is none. |
| A creaky freight elevator chugs us up a few floors.
My elevator companions sip their Martinis. As we ascend, the elevator
floor shadows rake across my face. I can hear music. The elevator
stops. The beautiful people get off. So do I. |
| More pictures of Max and his make-up sirens. Lana. Eartha.
Marilyn. Costumes from before James Dean enrolled at Santa Monica
Junior College. We are all escorted up more stairs. The music grows
louder. |
| The epi-center. More beautiful people. Food! Finger
food! All the people with movie star teeth mingle with the moguls.
I scarf down a few morsels. I'll need my nourishment after the gig
for the long ride home back to the anonymity of the Hollywood milieu.
A goddess offers me Tequila something or other. How beautiful was
she? Okay, let's just say she had more curves than Ventura Blvd. |
| I wangle a small table near the music. Entertaining
is Dawn Bishop, a hip lady that belts out some great blues. I cajole
some passers-by into joining my table. More gliterati arrive. I improvise
a few profound observations with my new best friends: "Great turn
out" and "this food is great" always give me immediate credibility.
I want them to think that Im some kind of talent agent or just paroled
entertainment lawyer so they'll hold my seat as I go in search of
water. More goddesses arrive. More food is served. In the back, I
stumble onto a bar with mineral water. |
| As I navigate through the conundrum of goddesses and
business suits with my water glasses, some lady asks me if we had
met at the Texas Film Festival in Austin. The closest I've ever come
to Texas was maybe watching George Steven's Giant on cable or maybe
a CNN round up of recent Lone Star State executions that only Texans
do so well. I was once in Utah though. Park City for the Sundance
and Slamdance Film Festivals. I make a mental note to thank God for
such pleasant memories as She always comes through for me. |
| As I round another table of finger food, I notice two
imposing dudes with white shirts and sporting official looking badges.
LAFD fire marshals. They look worried. Too many gods and goddesses
for the size of the room. A PR guys takes the microphone. As I find
my seat I drink in the mineral water like a thirsty lounge lizard.
He invites everybody to 'tour the lower floors and sample the other
culinary delights.' The ploy works. Curiosity seekers and gourmets
head for the lower floors. The crowd thins out. The fire marshals
smile. The band plays. Later, I drive home exhausted to my small survival
apartment. It's just big enough to swing a cat, but it's home. It's
been a great night. A night of hope. A night of music. A night of
goddesses. Hey, Hooray for Hollywood. |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| |
| |