Oscar Rant #57: The Jack-Nicholson-Cam

Since everyone else seems to be doing an Oscars post, I feel like I should too.  Personally, I am DEVISTATED…  Norbit was robbed, man.  ROBBED!  The Oscars are a sham!  Give me the non-political, respectable, based-solely-on-performance Golden Globes any day.  Oh well.

Only one thing saves the Oscars for me: Jack-Nicholson-Cam.  Have you SEEN him at the Oscars?!  Front and center, dressed to the nines, sunglasses indoors, eyebrows up and that million dollar grin shining from ear to ear like he doesn’t have a care in the world…  that or he’s on Vicodin horse pills.  He’s just so giddy, it delights me.  I’m straight edge, but if I were a drinker, my Oscars drinking game would be to drink every time Jack Nicholson comes on screen, because they cut to him every 30 seconds.  Old Hollywood at its finest, I love him.

Anyway, I had a great time being a pretentious film kid and trash talking the winners and losers, but right in the middle of the Best Adapted Screenplay category (NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN, WOOOO!), I got a phone call from a number I didn’t know.  Being a Production Assistant, you always answer unknown numbers, because you never know if it’s a job coming through or not.  I begrudgingly answered, even though the Coens were onstage accepting…  who in the business is calling me right now?!  Why aren’t you nerding out over the guys who brought us The Hudsucker Proxy and Fargo?!  This business demands so much of your energy, time and life, why do it if it isn’t something that you love with every bone in your being?  This particular 818 number, was from the Deal Or No Deal prop department.

Now, I’ve mentioned it before, but working for Deal Or No Deal was, by far, the worst show I have ever worked on.  I was the hair/make-up PA for a few weeks, and it was awful.  18 hour days spent catering to 30 uber-vain models comparing fake boobs whilst holding briefcases in mini dresses is NOT why I moved to Hollywood…  I can respect it as a game show I guess, but everyone who worked on it was so fucking miserable, I couldn’t stand it.

My final straw was at the season’s wrap party, which took place on the stage after taping 3 episodes…  When you’ve been up since 6am and have been on your feet all day, the last thing you want to do is be ordered to pull trash at the wrap party…  especially when that’s not even your job, because you already cleaned up the hair and make up room.  But no, I was told that if I wanted to stay at the wrap party, I had to pull trash, and if I left before I was released, then I wouldn’t be asked back next season.

Now, I’ve always run my own sets (I do, after all, aspire to more than just cleaning Howie Mandel’s eyeliner brushes) in a democratic, you-are-only-as-good-as-your-weakest-link kind of way, so I have a big problem with being spoken to like I don’t matter.  Because really, I do.  Studios are so cheap, why would they pay me if I didn’t?  My Daddy didn’t raise a girl who gets walked on.

Long story short, I left, never expecting a phone call from them again, and being perfectly ok with that.  Fast forward to the Oscars, and a phone call.

“Hi, is this Brandie?  We need a PA next week for the prop department at Deal Or No Deal…  Apparently you used to work in the make up department here?”
“Yes”
“So, are you free?”

I couldn’t resist.

“No Deal, man.  I’m already booked.”
“Alright, thanks.”

Click.

Moral of this story:  Don’t let them disrespect you, stick to your guns.  They will always call you back.  And if they don’t, then you don’t want to work for them anyway.