Because I live in a neighborhood with Victorian houses, the kind that are three stories high with wrap-around-porches, chimneys and enormous doorways, the kind that look haunted, or enchanted, or like they are from New England, someone is always shooting a movie here. Or a TV show, or a commercial. You get used to it. But it is always slightly annoying: you have to park a couple blocks away, aggressive young guys carrying walkie-talkies hold their hands up to shush you when you walk your dogs down the street, or make the hand signals for “Rolling” and “Stop right there. Thank you”. Even during the time of day they are not shooting, you can hear the rumble of the generators, and smell the fumes wafting in your windows.
But it’s fun too, the “rental” cops wearing fake jodhpurs and black boots sit on their big motorcycles on the corner, staring at their fingernails. I like to chit-chat with these guys, and the teamsters, and the security guys who guard the equipment trucks as well. They know what’s going on, and though at first they pretend to be tough, “Stand back little lady, we’re doing serious work here”, they love to gossip. They are the roustabouts of the circus, the narrators of the story, and often more entertaining than some of the actors. They have privileged information and they like to give it out, one morsel at a time, but they can never be completely trusted. I remember one guy named Dennis I met on a set in NY a long time ago. We talked about the lead actor of an action movie.
Oh yeah, one of his ex’s was here last night.
Who was it?
Can’t tell ya
What? Come on.
She had a bush like a blacksmith’s apron though.
What.
Yeah she did.
Jesus Dennis …how do you know this?
Me an Cheney was watching the ah, the ah (he holds his hand up to me because someone’s talking on the walkie, they are about to roll so he whispers the rest) we was watchin some of her old videos (he raises his eyebrows at me. Twice.)
I shake my head at him before saying, well, it’s a very poetic description.
He shrugs at me like yeah, that’s what they all say.
This week, there are guards and police and teamsters, but they are not messing around, they are not chit chatty or ready to gossip about anyone’s privates. They are more like the secret service. My friend Jim, who owns two of the most beautiful houses on the street, has allowed them to film in one (something he never does despite being asked on a weekly basis), and there have been crews here since last week, fluffing the house, trimming the hedges, making sure each blade of grass is the exact same length, all with the efficiency of a beehive. Lights and cranes, cherry pickers and rain machines are parked on the side streets along with a block of Winnebagos. This is what it looks like when Clint is the director and Leo is the star.
Over the weekend, they brought in the Model Ts and draped shrubbery over the stop signs at both ends of the street. Everyone seemed polite and friendly, helpful and busy, but in a way that seemed as though they were being watched on a satellite tv and could be taken out at any second. (“Brown hair at 2 oclock, talking to the lady with the dogs” and suddenly he’d grab his neck and fall to the ground). Leo’s purple trailer, the size of a two-story house, was parked right on the street, not around the block with all the extras and the catering trucks. Clint wouldn’t even be showing up until everything was in place and ready to roll, so he didn’t need a resting spot.
By Monday the street was perfect and ready. In the afternoon the catering truck smelled like a French restaurant: sage, basil, garlic. Everyone was busy and quiet. The extras, less than 10, were dressed in clothes from the early 1900s. They were going to be driving by the house while they were filming inside, probably never even to be seen, except maybe in the shadow of Leo’s eye as he looked out the window. I realized then that I couldn’t go through with my plan. I thought I’d go down to “the set” and introduce myself to both of them, Hey Clint, Hey Leo, but when I got to the corner, I knew it would never happen. I got shy and overwhelmed. The budget was just too huge for me. Where was old Dennis? Where was old Cheney?
I don’t know why, but I felt ashamed and sneaky, a stalker in my own neighborhood.
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