Moved onto a job for Radio City Music Hall and their “Christmas Special” commercials, which was my first “Stands In For or Doubles As.” Found myself again in the employ of Levinson, Israelson & Bell, and Richie Zeifman. Richie liked using me as a PA—though, I’m not sure Richie really liked anyone, or for that matter liked anything other than playing midnight tennis at one of the tonier Manhattan tennis clubs. Which is interesting because if you’d ever met Richie, you wouldn’t put a tennis racket in his hands or dress him in white shorts, a polo shirt, and wrap a sweater around his neck. A better representation would’ve been a trench coat, fedora, and snub-nosed .38. Richie walking the streets of New York at one am did make sense to me, but outfitted as Mike Hammer.
As a former dancer, working at Radio City Music Hall was a dream come true and I looked forward to meeting and working with the Rockettes, even though I’d have to decide whether I would confess to never having seen them perform.
Yes, that last statement is true.
Having an opportunity to work at Radio City Music Hall would also be a first. But in the interest of expediency, it didn’t happen and I have yet to work at Radio City Music Hall, though I did finally see the Rockettes perform their Christmas Spectacular in 2010.
Further crushing news arrived in the form of the location and cast for the job.
1. The Newark, New Jersey Opera House would Double As Radio City Music Hall.
2. Ten “Little People” would be the cast for the spot. Not the Rockettes. Oh, and Santa Claus would also make an appearance. Not the real Santa Claus, but an angry member of the Screen Actors Guild in a fat suit.
And the cherry on top:
3. Hurricane Diana scheduled herself to travel straight through Manhattan on the pre-light day, which most producers would consider a good reason to “weather” as it’s known. In theory, no one on a shoot works when a weather day is called. In reality, none of the crew, Teamsters, or actors work. However, Production looks at it as another prep day, plus a reason to hate insurance companies which invoke “Acts of God” like it’s the end scene in Hamlet, and claim there’s nothing they can do about all the dead bodies.
I didn’t even bother to look forward to a day off, because, natural disaster aside, there’s no producer like Richie Zeifman.
On the day of Hurricane Diana’s arrival, I picked up the crew at an agreed upon rendezvous point in Manhattan. I agreed upon it, but evidently the northeast corner of 42nd and Lexington meant different things to the director of photography (DP), key grip, and prop master, all of whom lived in Manhattan, including the DP who lived in Murray Hill . . . two blocks from the proposed pick-up point.
After gathering the post-adolescent nine-year-olds and putting bright green baseball caps on their heads so they wouldn’t wander off, I got the usual amount of grief from the crew about my instructions.
DP: “You said you’d park the Levinson van in front of the newspaper stand.”
Me: “And then I added, ON THE NORTHEAST CORNER OF 42ND AND LEXINGTON, because Mr. Murray Hill home address, there’s a stupid newspaper stand on every corner in Manhattan. Maybe I should’ve just said in front of the Greek diner?”
DP: “You know the other PAs say you’re a smart ass.”
Me: “Well, one of us has to be. I should’ve requested we meet at the northeast corner of 40th Street and Tenth Avenue . . . you know, right near the Lincoln Tunnel!”
Richie reached over from the passenger seat and started the van.
During the enjoyable ride to the Newark Opera House, the ninety mph winds of Hurricane Diana buffeted the van. I fantasized about a horrific accident where I was the only survivor (okay, Richie too) as the van got shoved off the New Jersey Turnpike by a “jackknifed big rig” and the severed heads of the director of photography, key grip, and prop master smash through the windshield and bounce down exit 14E on their way to Jersey City.
That did not come to pass, and, heads and all, we arrived at the Opera House. I pulled around the back of the theater and into the loading dock. The key grip took a look at the parking space.
Lazy-A$$ Key Grip: “That spot three down is better.”
Me: “For who? The grip department?”
He grumbled and exited the van. Everyone grumbled and exited the van, except for Richie. I don’t think I’d ever heard him grumble in the two years I worked with him. Maybe he grumbled on the tennis court. Or at his apartment. Or to his girlfriend, a pretty brunette. Years later someone told me she’d gotten the inside of her eyelids tattooed so she wouldn’t have to put on mascara every day.
Nothing says romance like an ink needle nanometers from your eyeballs.
We walked into the usual disorganized siege. No one in the makeup or prop departments could locate the prosthetic beard and wig for Santa Claus. It turned out Santa was an average-sized former Marine no more than about fifty years old. The fact that the crackerjack vanities department (hair, makeup, prosthetic makeup, specialty makeup for the Little People, assistant hair, assistant makeup, assistant . . . ) couldn’t locate the most crucial piece of make-up art in their purview came as no shock to me. After less than a year in the business I’d already figured out that if you wanted an extension cord (“stinger” in film lingo), the last person to ask was one of the electricians.
Soon-To-Be-Director’s-Girlfriend: “It was in a regular box,
sitting on a folding table.”
Me: “That’s a very good place for it. You say a box?”
Soon-To-Be-Director’s-Girlfriend: “YES! A BOX. ARE YOU DEAF?!”
Me: “Not yet. How big?”
Soon-To-Be-Director’s-Girlfriend: “What? I don’t know.”
Me: “Guess.”
She made a few Morse code style movements with her hands and arms, which caused one of the background extras, a former Navy SEAL, to check all the exits.
Me: “Let’s say less than a foot in all three dimensions.”
Soon-To-Be-Director’s-Girlfriend: “Dimensions?”
Me: “Gosh, a square box goes missing on a film set that contains a gigantic Christmas tree surrounded by WRAPPED PRESENTS as its centerpiece. That folding table where you placed this box wouldn’t happen to have had one of my labels on it that read “PROP DEPARTMENT ONLY,” would it?”
She evaporated and returned less than ten minutes later with Santa’s prosthetics. To her credit she did tell everyone on the crew and cast that I’d been the one to find it. No, she didn’t sandbag me that day by shouting “Eureka!”—she waited after until she’d started sleeping with the director to do it. She also insisted the cargo van drop off all the furniture we’d purchased to redecorate the director’s apartment.
While Hurricane Diana swirled outside, the cast and crew worked inside to put the set into place and run through blocking drills for camera. Richie delegated a tough assignment. It involved calling Santa’s elves, the background extras, and Santa to set. Normally not a difficult job, but the era of political correctness had dawned and calling little people “dwarves” required the set be placed in Middle Earth. The instructions to the talent coordinator, a dishwater blond named Allison, went as follows:
Me: “Six townspeople, Santa in full wardrobe, and six little people.”
Dishwater: “Don’t call them that!”
I pulled her aside.
Me: “I’m not allowed to call them elves because it gives them a bump in their pay for contractual reasons.”
Dishwater: “And why is that?”
Me: “Because we want to use them in multiple roles and if we assign them a specific character, it’s more money. Take it up with Richie if you have a problem with what I call them.”
Dishwater: “I’m not talking to Dick Tracy. He’s mean to me.”
Me: “That’s odd. Actually, it’s not odd. I think it’s odd that people think he’s mean. He’s not. Richie’s focused on his job, and if not for him, a lot of things wouldn’t get done. This ain’t an encounter group or a retreat. It’s a job.”
She walked away, but I got the little people on set.
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