Lights, Camera, Distractions!

Hollywood is producing fewer movies in Los Angeles, but amateur productions abound

The other day, I found myself on Ventura Boulevard. I didn’t know I was lost, but that’s where I found myself. I had just left Pita Kitchen, where the shawarma is on point. I wasn’t in a hurry to get back to my car, because I had earlier hit the parking lottery: A meter with nearly two hours left. A more violent man might’ve said he was “killing time,” but I prefer the term lollygagging, which has the same effect, minus the casualties.

I passed a lingerie store, an ice cream shop, and a store that sells plants at a ridiculous mark-up. Then I came to one of those new age, hippie-dippie candle stores called House of Intuition. A woman stopped me and asked if I could help her and her friend “film something.”

For comedic purposes, I always try to say yes in situations like this. But I was full from lunch and the camera adds 10 pounds, so I decided to pass, even though my agent keeps telling me “nobody passes in this economy.”

“We don’t need you to be in the video, we need you to shoot the video,” she said. “It’ll just take a minute.”

I had a minute, so I decided to give a minute.

The woman wore blue jeans and a yellow top. She was tall and thin with flowing blonde hair that ran down to her waist. I put her at about twenty-five — a sweet spot for a Hollywood actress, as WGA rules dictate that every script must have at least three female characters in their twenties.

“You know how to use an iPhone?” she asked.

It was an insulting question for 2025, but I assured her I wasn’t the San Fernando Valley’s answer to Rip Van Winkle.

“Rip Van Who?” she asked. “Never mind. Are you ready?”

She handed me her phone, then explained the set-up for the scene. Her co-star was a scruffy dude in a leather jacket. He looked like a cross between The Fonz and Ted Kaczynski. He was to play a homeless guy.

“And what about you?” I asked.

“I dance,” she said.

“So you’re a dancer?”

“No, I just dance. For a whole minute.”

That seemed like a lot of screen time without much action, but who was I to question the director?

“Places everyone,” I said.

She found her mark near a parking meter. The sunlight hit her hair just right, but with the Ventura Boulevard traffic in the background, I was worried we’d have continuity issues.

“No cutting,” she said. “It’s a single shot.”

“I like you’re style,” I said. “It’s a real homage to Robert Altman.”

“Never heard of him.”

That pained me, but since Altman’s tracking shot in the opening scene of The Player was itself an homage to what Orson Welles did in Touch of Evil, I figured I’d take another crack at connecting with the director on filmmakers that inspire us.

Sadly, she hadn’t heard of Orson Welles either. But there were bigger fish to fry, as her co-star suddenly had a thought about the script.

“I should be a musician,” he said, “not a homeless guy.”

“A homeless guy makes it more grounded,” she said. “It’s real, it’s raw, it’s true.”

“It’s depressing. If I’m a musician, it’s aspirational.”

The debate went back and forth. Without a producer on the set to settle the argument, this might’ve gone on forever, or at least until my meter ran out. We were behind schedule and we hadn’t even gotten off our first take. Someone had to say something.

“Why don’t you settle it with rock, paper, scissors?”

I figured that would 1) resolve the argument and 2) make for some compelling behind-the-scenes footage.

“That’s stupid,” she said. “Let’s vote on it.”

She voted for homeless guy. He voted for musician. I cast the deciding vote.

“Musician.”

“Democracy rules,” he said.

“Democracy sucks,” she shot back.

They were both right, but it didn’t matter, as the show had to go on.

“Action!”

We open on a musician, leaning against the window of a vacant storefront. Lots of attitude in his posture, but self-doubt in eyes. Did he make the right decision coming to Los Angeles to be a rock & roll star, or should he have stayed home in Sheboygan and become a butcher, like his dad?

A woman enters the frame. She is fresh out of fucks.

Woman: Are you homeless?

Musician: No! I am a musician.

Woman: I want to dance!

He takes out a harmonica, plays an upbeat tune. She dances — slow, writhing, almost imperceptible movements, like a sloth on quaaludes.

“Cut!”

I stopped the camera.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Why did you yell cut?”

“We’ve got to rethink the dancing,” she said. “It needs to have more energy. Maybe I should breakdance.”

“Or, maybe you don’t dance at all,” her co-star suggested. “Maybe you’re an assassin.”

“No, this is about a girl who is under pressure — from her school, from her family, from society. She’s young, and she’s on a path she doesn’t want to be on. She wants to dance.”

That should’ve settled the argument, but it didn’t. I suggested another vote, but she put the kibosh on that idea, as democracy had done her dirty. We were burning daylight, and they needed a creative meeting.

“Listen, I gotta go,” I said.

“But we need you to run camera,” she pleaded.

“You don’t need me. This is Los Angeles. Another camera operator will be along soon. Trust me: In this town, you can throw and hit a writer who knows how to work an iPhone. And when you throw that rock … throw it hard.”

GOAT Yogi

While you’re reading this, I’ll be doing yoga with goats. That’s next week’s story, thanks to the generous support of the Situation Normal community!

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Stick around and chat!

I ask, you answer

1. Have you ever found yourself? Explain.

2. Why aren’t more lingerie stores located next to ice cream shops? Wrong answer encouraged.

3. Would we better of choosing our leaders with a game of rock, paper, scissors, instead of voting? Go deep!

4. Hypothetical: You’re stuck on an island alone, and you only choose one director’s filmography to keep you entertained? Who do you pick, and why is it Robert Altman?

5. Are you a lollygagger? Tell your story.