Parts and Labor

Hotel Paradiso!

2011-03-17T18:00:00.001-07:00

Last month, I got to fly up to San Francisco with a couple of other very funny people and do a fundraiser for a kid’s summer camp. It was extremely fun and they paid for me to do one of my favorite things in the world: Stay in a hotel!

My romance with hotels began when I was very small. My ever budget-conscious father always planned our family road trips so that if an overnight stay was required, it tended to happen in the home of any obscure relative who happened to own a sofa-bed. But occasionally, when that plan game plan failed, we got to stay in a motel! To me, these joints were magical since they not only had color TV and air-conditioning (two things we did not have at home), but beds that if you put a quarter in, vibrated and gave me that same special feeling I got while sitting on the hood of a running car.

When I became a professional actor in my 20’s, I discovered that if I wanted to rack-up enough weeks of employment to qualify for unemployment, I needed to do the occasional “out-of-town” gig. This was when I was introduced to the world of real hotels that delivered clean towels and sent a nice lady up to make your bed. I loved it.

Once when I was doing a new play festival for a regional theatre in Louisville, I got assigned to a downtown “residential hotel.” I was initially thrilled since I was young and single and it was nice and close to the night club district. I then discovered that “residential hotel” was code for “low-rent senior citizen housing.” It wasn’t that bad a place, but the hallways always smelled sort of musty and there was usually an ambulance parked out front. The low point came one night when I met a cute guy about my age in one of the local clubs and invited back to my place. When we got off the elevator, we were instantly forced to plaster ourselves against the wall as an EMT crew rolled one of my neighbors down the hallway on a gurney. This had actually happened before, but this time the guy had a sheet over his face and nobody seemed to be in much of a hurry. Talk about a buzz-kill.

A few years later, I was in Philladelphia doing one of those fancy costume dramas at a big theatre there. It was the holidays and most of the cast decided to head back to Manhattan for New Year’s Eve, but I was in a bad mood. I’d just broken up with my then-boyfriend and decided to sit out the holiday in our old, but nice-enough hotel in downtown Philly. The front desk guy discreetly informed me that "a big group" was arriving for the weekend and it still wasn’t too late if I wanted to catch the last train out of Dodge. When I asked what kind of group, he told me it was some sort of Asian Christian Conference. That didn’t sound so bad. Not wanting to re-pack all my stuff, I decided to stick it out on the 17th floor.

I stayed up long enough to watch the ball drop, then called it a night. I had just dozed off when I was jarred awake by the fire alarm going off. At first I tried to ignore it. Clearly this was some Asian kid’s idea of a good Christian joke. But it just kept ringing. Five minutes passed. “I’m not getting up,” I groused. Then I began to envision the headlines: “Promising Young Actor Killed in Tragic New Year’s Eve Fire.” Following standard fire drill procedure, I skipped the elevator and took the stairs. There I encountered an Asian family who were (to date) the most terrified people I’ve ever encountered in my life. “This is bullshit” I said to them in my best unconcerned voice. Unfortunately, my remark didn’t comfort them much since they spoke no English. We descended about five floors when, for a brief second, I thought I smelled something. It smelled like cigarette smoke, but it was enough to make a believer out of me. I picked up one of the smaller kids and we hauled ass down the next 12 flights as the headlines in my head began to read “Heroic Young Actor Perishes Trying to Save Asian Family.”

Finally, we reached the lobby which was jammed with angry people. I quickly noticed a few firemen criss-crossing the lobby; chatting into their walkie-talkies; none of them looking terribly concerned. Clearly, I had been right all along. Pissed-off, I abandoned my new Asian family and started the long climb back to floor 17.

The next day, word of my heroics had apparently been translated into English and I was being nodded to respectfully by every guest in the hotel. The front desk guy even sent up a thank you note along with some vouchers for free food, booze and a massage. Stuffed, drunk and being kneaded by a nice pair of strong hands, my New Year’s Day was spent happily luxuriating in everything the wonderful world of hotels had to offer. As I drifted off to sleep on the massage table, I remember thinking: If there is a Heaven, I hope it has room service.

Copyright 2011 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.

David Dean Bottrell is an actor and writer in Hollywood. Catch his reoccurring role on “Days of Our Lives” starting on March 23rd on NBC.

Dark Angel

2011-02-26T17:00:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago, I was sad to read about the passing of Ellen Stewart, founder of New York’s groundbreaking La MaMa experimental theatre and one of the central figures in the creation of the Off-Off-Broadway theatre movement.

Since founding La MaMa in 1961, she had, over the years, nurtured the early work of playwrights like Sam Shepard, Lanford Wilson and Jean Claude Van Itallie; directors like Robert Wilson, Julie Bovasso, Tom O'Horgan, Richard Foreman, Wilford Leach and Meredith Monk; performance artists like Blue Man Group; and actors like Al Pacino, Robert De Niro and Harvey Keitel. In more recent years, La MaMa was the home of the plays of Amy and David Sedaris, as well as countless foreign productions hailing from everywhere from Lebanon to Croatia. The musical Godspell began at La MaMa, and Harvey Fierstein's Torch Song Trilogy was developed there. But unlike Joseph Papp’s Public Theater, another downtown institution which sent many shows to Broadway, La MaMa remained firmly dedicated to the world occupied by struggling performance artists and playwrights below 14th Street.

Ms. Stewart, a striking African-American woman with a wild mane of blonde hair, was a familiar sight on East 4th Street and could often be seen sweeping the sidewalk in front of the theatre before shows. She personally introduced each performance, and endlessly hounded her audiences to shell out a few extra bucks to keep the perpetually cash-strapped theatre afloat. Ms. Stewart's tenacity was legendary having managed to keep her theatre going despite two evictions and a couple of arrests for violating the fire codes. Ever the resourceful producer, Ms. Stewart once cashed an unemployment check, then produced a play with the money.

By the time I arrived in New York in the 80’s, La MaMa was a well-established breeding ground for hip, edgy experimental work. Anything done at La MaMa had instant “coolness” attached to it. I was a naïve young acting student when I saw my first show at La MaMa. It was a kick-ass revival of Sam Shepard’s “Tooth of the Crime” that remains to this day one of the most exciting things I’ve ever seen on a stage. A hybrid of stage play and rock concert, it's about a lethal showdown between two intergalactic rock stars. The language and lyrics are vintage Shepard – hip, pissed off, heroic, poetic, smart-mouthed and other-worldly. All of it was thrilling to a young aspiring artist like myself.

Adding to the show’s sense of danger, it was performed on a steeply raked stage that constantly threatened to dump the actors (one of whom was on roller skates!) into our laps. It was heart-stoppingly exciting. I remember coming home that night and writing feverishly in my journal about how inspired, yet intimidated I felt by the performance I’d witnessed. Could I ever be that fearless? Could I ever generate that kind of electricity? To these artists, only the moment mattered. It was theatre as “experience.” It was art like I’ve never seen it before. It was perfection.

So imagine how excited I was when my laidback, “downtown” friend, Marty called and said “Hey, you want to be in this show at La MaMa? They’re looking for people.” Marty told me where to be and when. I showed up early and waited. After an hour, I called Marty. “Oh yeah. That rehearsal was cancelled. It’s tomorrow at four. I think. Can you make it?” This was the beginning of my short adventure with a show that (I think) was called “Dark Angel.”
The reason I’m a little fuzzy on that detail is that (like every other aspect of the show) the title tended to change from day to day.

“Dark Angel” was actually just a workshop. The plan was for us to "develop” the material and when we felt it was ready, perform it for Ms. Stewart. If she liked us, we would then get a shot at doing a full production on one of La MaMa’s three stages. I played one of a pack of crazed “street angels” that swooped across the stage every once in a while, singing or chanting or screaming while the main angel contemplated the best way to save mankind. If that sounds a little vague, so was the show.

In the three weeks I worked on it, I never quite understood what we were doing. Our cast members (many of whom seemed to be just people pulled off the street) came and went daily. No one ever seemed to have a current copy of the script and we spent a lot of time talking about how we felt. Our leading man would suffer at least one big weepy meltdown per rehearsal that required a big group hug from the rest of the cast. Never having done this sort of work before, it was hard for me to measure my progress as an angel. I felt my singing was as good as the other Seraphim, but sensed that my writhing and hair-pulling lacked conviction. Then one morning, I got the call. “Ellen is ready to see the show” I was told. I raced down to East 4th Street, wondering if we were ready to do the show for Ellen. When I arrived at the rehearsal studio, she was already there. Enveloping us in her warm, regal presence, she gathered us together and expressed her great excitement about the work we were about to do.

With Ms. Stewart's blessing upon us, we dove headlong into our performance; leaping, lunging, rolling, singing and screaming our way through what could best be described as a loose-knit presentation. I couldn’t stop myself from occasionally stealing little glances at Ms. Stewart, who was giving us her utmost attention. The expression on her face seemed to suggest that every moment of "Dark Angel" was rich, beautiful and positively stank with meaning.

At the conclusion of our performance, we all sat cross-legged at Ms. Stewart’s feet where she praised our courage and passion as artists and said a few other vague, but encouraging things. We were then dismissed while she gave her more specific notes to the creators of the show. Stepping out into the sunshine, I lit a cigarette. I felt exhilarated. I sort of doubted that this particular show would ever come together, but I had screamed and rolled across the stage of La MaMa. I was an artist. Nobody could ever take that away from me.

Although my plan to become one of the leading lights of the New York theatre took a slight detour when I moved to Los Angeles, my respect for those who made art out of life (and a life out of art) has never ebbed. Ms. Stewart’s achievement was even more remarkable when you consider that she was both black and a woman when there were few leaders in the theatre who were either. Her influence was so far-ranging that, in 1993, she was inducted into the Broadway Theatre Hall of Fame, the first Off-Off-Broadway Producer to be so honored. She also was given a special Tony Award in 2006. To date, La MaMa has been honored with over 30 Obie Awards.

There are some people who seem sent here just to inspire us; to remind us that if you’ve got the guts, life can be lived like a poem. In 1985, the MacArthur Foundation gave Ms. Stewart one of their $300,000 "Genius" Awards with no strict stipulations attached. Ellen could have used the money to remodel her apartment (which was upstairs from her theatre). She could have bought a BMW, a house in the country or an extremely long vacation. Instead, she used it to buy a former monastery in Umbria, Italy, and turn it into an international theatre center. I absolutely love her for that. Rest in peace, Ms. Stewart. It was a job well done.

Copyright 2010 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at http://www.partsandlabor.tv/

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You Kill Me

2010-11-21T20:32:00.000-08:00

I was 20 minutes late when I arrived at the theatre. It was a small joint carved out of an old retail space and the metal door squeaked loudly as I pulled it open. Inside, seven latecomers and an usher turned and stared disapprovingly. About twenty feet in front of us, the first performer was already on stage. The producer of this particular "spoken word" show (who I'd told I was going to be late) grabbed my arm and whispered my instructions. When the current performer finished, I was to scurry down the aisle past the MC and drop into my seat in the front row. I complied. Once there, I discreetly opened the program and discovered that I was the last performer on the bill. My heart sank.

As anybody in show business can tell you, the last performer is the one the producer is hoping will “bring it home.” It’s sort of the star spot and the pressure is on to “kill.” I began to feel a little anxious. The piece I was planning to read was very personal and didn’t feel like a real “killer.” Plus, I’d had a busy week and felt a little under-rehearsed. I tried to focus on the show. It was a great line-up with no stinkers. Several of the pieces were awesome; full of originality and self-exposure. Finally, only one piece remained before mine. The writer-performer, who was blessed with a ton of quirky charm, started reading his offbeat and stylized story. The guy was hilarious. Suddenly, the audience seemed to consist entirely of his personal fan club. He was “killing.” I was fucked.

I originally got into the spoken word circuit because several readers of this blog suggested that I submit one of my columns to “Sit ‘N Spin;” one the granddaddy shows on the spoken word circuit. Since it began 10 years ago, SNS has sort of become a rowdy clubhouse for some of the craziest, funniest people in L.A. The shows are always edgy, honest and funny as hell. The audience is about 90% comedy writers and stand-ups. They’re super smart – which is great because you can do really complex, subtle stuff and they’ll get it. They’re also a tough crowd, so you have to bring your best game. They don’t give out a lot of pity laughs at Sit ‘N Spin.

The first time I read at SNS, my piece was okay. I maimed, but I didn’t kill. Then a couple of months later, I got a call from the producer. Some bastard had cancelled at the last minute. Could I step in on very short notice? The timing was perfect. I’d just finished a piece about a rotten experience I’d had “speed dating” that I thought was a scream. The night of the show, the comedy Jesus was with me and I killed. Since then I’ve performed many times at SNS. Some nights I’ve slayed them. Some nights, I’ve left a small stain on the stage. But no matter what happens during the show, everybody always goes out to a bar afterward where we all get drunk and tell each other how hilarious we were. It’s one of the most fun things I’ve ever done in my life and I treasure my SNS family. They’re the best.

This however was not the Sit ‘N Spin show. I didn’t know this crowd. As I sat watching the quirky guy rack up his 800th laugh, I began to feel queasy about my piece. It was about acute personal desperation - a subject I am very knowledgeable about. It had seemed sort of funny before. Maybe I should put back those two jokes I’d cut out. My mouth felt a little dry.

Then, a little nugget of hard-earned wisdom dropped into place with a hard clink. It was too late to worry about it. The piece was what it was. All I could do was man up and tell the story I’d come here to tell. The MC gave me a gracious introduction. I strolled to the music stand. I looked up at the crowd and smiled.

A spoken word show is not quite stand-up comedy. It’s not quite NPR. It’s not quite theatre. It’s somebody’s story told to a crowd of strangers. Somehow, if you manage to give them the perfect amount of cleverly-observed details mixed in with a healthy dose of blistering truth, they’ll love you. They’ll laugh or they’ll listen with a soundless intensity that can make your skin tingle. The most successful performers on this circuit are the ones who manage to scare you a little while making you pee your pants laughing. The only way you can score in this arena is to be utterly yourself. Nothing less.

Lights in my eyes. My piece on the music stand in front of me. I take a deep breath and look up. Smile. Talk. Set-up. Punch line. Joke. Boom! A nice healthy laugh. We’re off to a great start. They like me. Big Smile. The next joke is more personal. It lands. Apparently, it’s my night. Making a long story short…I killed. Not only did I kill, I was a killing machine. It was a comedy bloodbath.

I wish I could tell you that I “kill” every time I read, but I don’t. It’s one of the small miracles of show business -- those nights when it all comes together; when you can do no wrong. It’s ten minutes of comedy ecstasy. It’s better than heroin and twice as addictive. It feels better than anything you’ve ever done. Laughter fixes people. Always has. Always will.

So, if you happen to be free tonight, I’m performing in a yet another spoken word show at the Road Theatre. I’m reading that story about speed dating. Stop by. I can't promise that I'll kill, but I'm definitely going for attempted murder.

Fundraiser / Spoken Word Show
MELT IN YOUR MOUTH
Monday, November 22
8 PM
The Road Theatre
5108 Lankershim Blvd.
North Hollywood, CA 91601
Suggested Donation: $20.00
818 761 8838

Copyright 2010 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at www.partsandlabor.tv

Don’t Clap For Me, Argentina!

2010-11-14T12:33:00.000-08:00

The first time I ever appeared on stage was in a high school play. I was at the time, a nerdy, nervous 15 year-old with bad skin who had only auditioned because of a terrible crush I had on a fellow cast member. As our opening night performance neared its end, I felt hugely relieved just to have just gotten through it without forgetting any of my lines. Finally, the last bit of dialogue was uttered and the stage lights blacked-out. As rehearsed, we scurried into our positions for the curtain call. Suddenly, the lights snapped back on and for the first time that evening I found myself face-to-face with the audience. I’d been told by my drama teacher to ignore the audience during the play, but now we were acknowledging them. We were looking right at them. And they were looking back at us and clapping. I suddenly felt flushed with embarrassment. I didn't think I'd been terribly good in the play and felt I had no right to be accepting this applause.

After the show, my family and a few of my geeky friends said many flattering and totally untrue things about my performance. I nodded and mumbled my "thank you’s," but it was awkard. I wanted to believe what they were saying, but knew in my heart they were lying just to be nice. Then, as I was climbing into my family’s battered Impala, an extremely shy girl from my Algebra class rushed up and slipped me a note. I stuck it in my pocket and didn’t remember to read it until late that night. In the note, she said that I was very good in the play and had “real talent.” I must have re-read that note fifty times before I went to bed that night. It thrilled me to my core; mostly because it had come from someone who was basically a stranger. To my 15 year-old ego, it was the equivalent of a rave review in the New York Times. As I drifted off to sleep, the words “real talent” rang in my ears like wedding bells. Maybe I would audition for the next play.

I did audition for the next play. And the one after that. High school plays became college plays. College plays turned into summer stock. Summer stock evolved into high-prestige, low paying New York theatre. Throughout this journey one thing remained constant: my fear of curtain calls and my inability to accept anyone’s praise. Acting in itself, felt safe. While performing, I had the protection of pretending to be a character. However, once the show was over, it was just plain old me standing up there. I knew I was supposed to enjoy this moment, but it always felt like somebody had just yanked open the shower curtain at a particularly inopportune moment.

I marveled at the actors who could embrace the crowd. I once worked with a Tony-Winner who used to throw up her arms like Eva Peron and acknowledge the cheers of her fans. Once when I was a young actor, I ducked out the back of a theater to avoid seeing friends who’d come to see me. I felt like the show hadn’t gone well and couldn’t bear the idea of forcing them to say nice (and untrue) things to me. They were, of course, extremely pissed-off since they had waited to say hello to me and let me know about it the next day. It was the last time I made that mistake. With performance comes responsibility.

For years, I wondered if my fear of face-to-face praise was rooted in my religious upbringing. Proverbs 16:18 (“Pride goeth before a fall”) is a little gem that has haunted me my entire life; the general idea being that God only favors those who never acknowledge their talents or successes; only their failures and shortcomings. In the Kentucky of my youth, the one thing you never wanted to be accused of was being “too big for your britches.” This was a fate worse than death; a slow execution by ridicule.

Lest you get the wrong idea, I’m not actually opposed to praise. I like it. Frankly, I need it. Being a creative artist requires guts and often the only reason I can stick my neck out again is because the last time I did it somebody was kind enough to say “Good job, David.”

I wish I could say that this issue has resolved itself over time, but sadly, it hasn't. Last week, I appeared on a TV show and received many more compliments than I'd expected. Although part of me was delighted that all these people took the time to call or post a comment on my Facebook page, I was so also slightly mortified. My new manager sent me a lovely email that (as opposed to being gushy) was smart and observant. I read it proudly and then instantly thought to myself “Well, she’s my manager. What else could she say? That I sucked?” So, perhaps there might be a little work yet to be done on this issue.

At the risk of sounding egotistical, I actually do believe I have "real" talent. When given the chance to work, I take it seriously and try to deliver. Do I deserve a little applause? Of course, I do. We all do. Many of us creative types grow up hovering on the fringe of things; the observer along for the ride. When we discover that all of that stored-up information can be crafted into some kind of art, it’s a revelation. Suddenly, out of nowhere, we’re the class clown. The girl who can sing. The ballsy truth-teller. It’s a little taste of the most seductive idea on the planet: that people can transform themselves. No wonder people like to praise artists - We perpetuate the idea that the audience too can change.

Performance is a comfortable coat. It’s warm and it keeps out the elements. Having to hang it up and face your fans on their terms is, for many of us, a bit awkward and unsettling. But being a performer also means being willing to be "seen" - thoroughly, truthfully, warts and all. That's not always an easy thing to do, but it's necessary; especially if you want to improve your game. I know I'm not alone in my phobia. There are plenty like me. It's ironic that so many artists, who took this path because of a deep desire to be acknowledged for their talent, try to avoid experiencing it. Take a bow, Hollywood. You've earned it.

Copyright 2010 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at http://www.partsandlabor.tv/

As Seen on TV

2010-11-07T16:21:00.000-08:00

About a year ago, I came out of “theatrical" retirement to act in a play here in Los Angeles. During the run I was interviewed by a local arts reporter who asked which medium I like better, theatre or TV and why. It was an easy question to answer “Theatre," I said. "Because I can do it without ever having to watch it.”

Contrary to popular belief, not all actors are in love with their own images. When I’m acting on stage, I get to flatter myself that not only is the acting going well, but that I also look good doing it. Plus there is the instant gratification quotient. If the ticket buyers laugh, I'm funny. If they're are absolutely silent, I'm compelling. If they're coughing a lot and dropping their programs, I suck.

I also genuinely like working for a camera, but it’s a very different beast. Since there's no audience, your focus is entirely on creating the most truthful, intimate scene possible with just the other actors involved. The camera gets nice and close to the action and trick to it is to remember that it’s not there to judge you, but to simply record the proceedings. It can be a wonderful experience, especially with a good director at the helm.

However, unlike stage acting, where you have a great deal of personal control over your work, in TV and film you ultimately have none. In the end, your performance will be constructed in the editing room and all decisions as to which takes to use will be made by the director and editor. As any working actor can tell you, some takes are better than others and it can be a little jarring when you discover that some of your less favorite ones have been used to create the performance the audience will finally see. Sometimes, when I see myself on screen, I want to scream, hide my head between my knees and withdraw from both SAG and AFTRA. Other times, I’m pleased and often wonder if my ass was saved by a smart, talented editor.

A few years ago, I was called to an editing bay to assist a friend of mine who had directed a small feature and had experienced terrible problems with one of his actors. Not having been present during the shooting, I can’t say what went wrong, but the actor seemed to trying awfully hard to be quirky and adorable (and was instead coming off as twitchy and delusional). Slowly we sorted through his takes, looking for the ones where he seemed a little calmer. We added a lot of cut-aways” to his co-star and by the end of the day, his big scene was clicking and the actor seemed surprisingly funny and charming. My advice: If you end up liking your performance, don’t forget to thank the director and the editor.

My other problem with TV and film work is sort of an embarrassing one. I know I’m a character actor, but there is still a small part of me that expects to look like James Franco on camera. That’s yet to happen, but hope springs eternal. Most of the time, I’m okay with my appearance, but occasionally a shot will flash up on screen and I’ll be completely mortified by what I see. Is that really how I look? Is my voice that irritating? Is my posture that bad? And look at those bags under my eyes!!

Obviously, all these problems could be avoided by simply never watching any of the camera work I do. There’s no law that says I have to watch. Technically, when the scene is finished shooting, my job is done. My problem is that part of what has always driven me to be an artist is a desire to get better at my job. And I can’t get better if I don’t take a look at the work once in a while.

Fortunately, I've learned a few tricks over the years to lessen the horror. The first is to, if at all possible, have at least one glass of wine beforehand and to avoid watching my work when there is someone else in the room. The second is to watch it again at some later date, since the first time is always (without exception) going to be traumatic. Don't get me wrong. I actually love acting and I’m proud that I have a job that allows me to entertain people, but it’s also a job that can sometimes leave me feeling a little vulnerable or embarrassed – sort of like being caught romping around in your Halloween costume on Easter.

About a year ago, I watched Johnny Depp being interviewed on the David Letterman show. He is one of my favorite actors of all time and I particularly like the fact that he is a fellow Kentuckian. I’d never actually seen him interviewed other than on press junkets where he’s plugging a film. Assuming what he said was true, it was sort of fascinating to find out that he basically protects himself from the pressures of Hollywood by (A.) Not living here. (B.) Only watching films made during Hollywood’s Golden Era in the 30s and 40s and (C.) Never watching his own films. Letterman seemed suspicious and questioned him as to why he had chosen to be a movie star if he didn’t like watching his films. His reply was interesting. “I love everything about filmmaking. I love the personalities; the process of it. I just don’t like seeing myself up on screen. It creeps me out. I mean…that’s ‘me’ up there.” His answer seemed genuine and it made me like him even more. How nice to discover that Johnny and I have more in common than just stunningly high cheek bones and a rustic place of birth.

Copyright 2010 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.

And in keeping with the theme of this entry… I've got a very fun cameo role on “Castle” Monday, Nov. 8th, 10 pm EST /9 pm Central on ABC. I’ll be home drunk, so don’t call.

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at www.partsandlabor.tv

Star Baby!

2010-10-31T11:17:00.000-07:00

I was anxiously looking over my bills when the phone rang. Someone was calling me via their cell phone and it was a very bad connection. “David, it’s Ogger,” a friendly, but very scratchy voice said. “Hi!” I replied, not knowing who I was talking to. “Gotta a client who needs some coaching. She’s right here. Part of a competition. Have her call you?” Clearly, whoever “Ogger” was, he was a busy man who only spoke in sentence fragments. “Sure!” I replied as I stared at my unpaid Am-Ex bill. “Have her call me!” Then “Ogger” finished by saying, “She’s the most adorable 11 year-old you’ll ever meet.”

Had “Ogger’s” cell phone connection not broken, I probably would have told him that I don’t coach children. It’s not that I don’t like children. I do. Very much, in fact. But children in show business are a different breed. More specifically, their parents are. In my experience, there is nothing scarier, or more disturbing than a parent who thinks their child has talent.

A day or two passed before a lovely, polite woman with a West Indies accent named Bernice called. She was the mother of Ariel, who was in need of some dramatic coaching on a couple of monologues she had prepared for an international children’s talent competition about to be held here in Burbank, California. Bernice, Ariel and her little sister, Tihara had travelled all the way from their home just outside London to participate in the competition. Was I free to work with Ariel tomorrow?

I decided the best way to get out of this was to price myself out of the running, so I took my usual hourly coaching rate (the one I charge for adults) and doubled it. Bernice thought that was fine, asked to book two hours of my time and inquired as to what time they should arrive.

The following day, Bernice, Ariel and baby Tihara (a stocky three-year old) showed up at my door. They were very apologetic about being only a few minutes late and explained that they were traveling around Los Angeles via taxi. Apparently, Bernice didn’t drive. I instantly felt bad for them since commuting via taxi in L.A. meant they were spending a small fortune. Once we were settled in, Bernice explained that Ariel was representing Great Britain in every category of this competition (Singing, Dancing, Acting and Spokesmodel). My job was to spruce up her monologues, of which she had four (comedic, dramatic, character & contestant’s choice). Curious about the competition, I asked a few questions. Bernice began to explain the rules and regulations of this prestigious event.

Apparently, there was an initial fee to apply, followed by an processing fee, followed by an acceptance fee which then put you in the same breathing space as many powerful agents, casting directors and talent executives – all of whom were desperately looking for the next big child star. However, if you wanted them to actually watch your child perform, there were more fees to be paid. In fact, every category had a fee. Plus, if you wanted your child to have more than 60 seconds in front of the judges, you had to pay for that time as well. It was a total racket. My heart went out to Bernice who was beaming with pride that her daughter was about to be seen by so many big time Hollywood star-makers.

I glanced over at Ariel. She was a radiant little girl, virtually bursting with enthusiasm. I asked her if she was ready to start. She was. Ariel tore into first monologue with fierce energy and lots of hand gestures. Between the speed she was going and her British accent, I only understood about a third of it. Since this was not a cheerleading competition, I tried to gradually reduce the number of hand gestures someone had clearly taught her and suggested that she might start thinking of each of her monologues as more of a story that she was telling to the audience. Ariel, in addition to being adorably cute, was extremely smart, and I could see her excitement rise each time she grasped one of the ideas I offered her. Every time Ariel make an improvement, Bernice who was seated beside me, would quickly scribble down a few notes about what I had said. While watching her daughter, Bernice would sometimes unconsciously roll her lips in and bite them to contain her joy. Tihara, meanwhile, had gotten a little bored and was busy destroying a few of my magazines.

Despite my offering, Ariel never wanted to take a break. She loved performing. Finally she launched into her fourth monologue which sounded vaguely familiar. I then realized that Ariel was playing legendary stripper Gypsy Rose Lee from the musical “Gypsy.” After she finished, I felt compelled to ask if mother or daughter was familiar with the Ms. Lee or the musical. They were not and had found the monologue on the internet and thought it was a good match for Ariel. “Can you tell me please…What is this ‘Burlesque?’” asked Bernice in her lovely Jamaican accent. I cleared my throat. “Well, Bernice…” I began, “It was a form of live entertainment where comedians told jokes to the audience and then women came out… and sort of danced to the music while removing their clothes.” Bernice’s face went blank. So did mine when I saw over her shoulder that Tihara was about to pull one my plants down on her head – which she did.

Once Tihara stopped crying and the mess was cleaned up, I assured Bernice that “Gypsy,” the character her daughter would be playing, had revolutionized the Burlesque industry by not taking her clothes off, but instead performing behind large feathered fans, etc. Bernice looked relieved. I told her that the material was not considered racy here in the States and would be fine for the competition. Secretly, I wondered how many ambitious little girls would be playing strippers, junkies or prostitutes in the competition tomorrow.

Over all, Ariel was a pro. Not only was she talented, but she was very charming to watch. When I asked her to perform all four of her monologues back-to-back at the end of the session, she didn’t forget a single note I had given her. The child was an entertainment machine. It was time for Bernice to pay me. As she counted out the bills into my hand, I felt horribly guilty. These sweet people were clearly being taken for a ride by the event promoters and part of me wanted to hand the money back to Bernice. Bernice, however was delighted with what I’d been able to achieve with Ariel in such a short time. “You are so much better than her teacher in New York?” “New York?” I inquired. I then learned that for the last two years, Bernice and Ariel had been flying from London to New York once a month so Ariel could have a short lesson with an acclaimed children’s acting teacher there. Suddenly, I didn’t feel so bad. I folded the bills and tucked them into my pocket. “I’m sure Ariel is going to dazzle them tomorrow,” I said. I shook Ariel’s hand and reminded her that the most important thing she could do tomorrow was to not worry about the judges or any of the other contestants and to have a great time! “You’re very good, Ariel,” I said, “And no matter what happens tomorrow, you’ll always be very good.” She beamed and thanked me for my help.

Two days later, I got a call from Bernice. Ariel had gotten second place in the singing competition and “honorable mention” in the acting division. Plus she had been approached by two agents and a manager. Bernice nervously asked if I knew anything about them. I didn’t. I could hear the anxiety in her voice. I told her that all she had to do was go to these meetings and see what they had to say. I told her to ask lots of questions and not be shy. I also urged her to particularly ask about any and all financial arrangements. “Oh…okay,” she said quietly. I heard a little scratching noise as she added that piece of advice to her ever-expanding notes. I suddenly felt bad for Bernice. Reality was beginning to set in. I suspected that the dream of Ariel making it big in Hollywood was starting to look awfully expensive and complicated. I also knew it was her unwavering love for her daughter that had taken them this far. “All she wants to do is perform in front of people, Bernice,” I offered. “She can do that anywhere. She has her whole life in front of her.” “I guess you’re right,” answered Bernice tentatively and sighed. “We’ll go. We’ll see what they say. Right?” “Right,” I answered. Then there was a small crash in the background and Bernice had to go. Her younger daughter, Tihara (who I suspect might have a big career ahead of her in women’s wrestling) had just knocked over a lamp in their hotel room.

Copyright 2010 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at http://www.partsandlabor.tv/

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You Don't Have to Live Like a Refugee

2010-10-23T20:53:00.000-07:00

Once when I was a young actor in New York, a casting director recommended me to an agent. I was very excited. The agent was well established and had a nice office. I felt sure that if I could convince her to represent me, I’d be well on my way to stardom. I was maybe 22 years old at the time and had very little experience with the “business” side of show business. At that tender age, I didn’t know how to recognize the first signs of trouble. Like for instance when I was kept waiting for 40 minutes in a waiting area directly across from the agent’s office. Her door was open and I could clearly see she was cleaning out her purse and occasionally staring out the window for a few minutes at a time. Every time her assistant alerted her that she had an incoming call, the agent would simply say “Take a message.” A couple of times the assistant glanced at me with a look that, in hindsight, was probably her way of trying to warn me that if I valued my dignity, I should leave now. Finally, I was summoned in.

The agent glanced over my resume. “You were in ‘The Rimers of Eldritch?’” she asked. “Yes!” I replied enthusiastically. She frowned. “I don’t remember you.” “Oh,” I said, a little hurt. “Actually, I was one of the leads.” “Uh huh,” she replied sullenly. Her eyes returned to my resume where she could find nothing that interested her. Finally, she looked up at me with a resentful glare. “Look, “she said bitterly, “I go to the theatre six nights a week and I only represent people that I have a very special feeling about. And frankly, I don’t have that feeling about you.” I was stunned by her frankness. “Oh, okay,” I said awkwardly and started to stand. “Well, thanks for seeing me…” “Wait!” she bellowed, clearly irritated by my thoughtless interruption. “Have you got a monologue? Close the door and do it for me.”

Being young and desperate for an agent, I closed the door and performed my monologue for her. When I finished, she stared silently at me with glassy eyes. Thirty seconds passed. Finally, I cleared my throat. “I’m done,” I said cautiously. “So, you’re good,” she said in a voice as flat as paper. “Does that mean I should represent you?” Slowly, I began backing toward the door. “It’s okay. Really! You don’t have to represent me.” “Sit down!” she commanded. I sat down. “I could if I wanted to…” she said. “You could what?” I asked. “I could represent you, without having that ‘special feeling’…” This time, my innate human instinct for survival kicked in and I managed to escape, all the while thanking her repeatedly for her time and swearing on my grandmother’s grave that I would “be in touch.”

The following week, an ambulance was called by her coworkers and the agent was removed from her office and taken to the local psyche ward where she spent the next few weeks. This was my first experience with "show business crazy."

Nobody truly knows whether show business attracts crazy people or simply takes fairly normal people and makes them crazy. I know that crazy happens in every profession, but the difference is that in my business it often goes unaddressed for years at a time. If the crazy person is a star who is making heaps of money, you can bet that there will be at least one person (if not many) whose job it is to clean up the messes and spin the nutty behavior as boring run-of-the-mill eccentricity. But once your client is found hiding in the bushes without their teeth or hurling racial slurs on YouTube, crazy gets a little hard to sell. Sadly, there are sometimes drug or alcohol problems involved. If not addressed, truly nutty behavior eventually overwhelms any and all goodwill the celebrity may have amassed over their careers. Just this week, MegaMess Mel Gibson (who never met a minority group he didn’t loathe) was yanked from a tiny cameo role in “Hangover 3” because cast and crew members refused to work with him.

But Hollywood Crazy reared its head in an even more spectacular way on Friday when it was announced that veteran character actor Randy Quaid and his wife, Evi are now seeking refugee status in Canada. The Quaids were arrested Thursday in Vancouver after police responded to an "incident" on a street corner. Given the couple's long and loony history, one can only guess what went down. Mr. Quaid, brother of the wonderfully-sane Dennis Quaid and a once-terrific actor in his own right, has a resume that includes many notable films like “The Last Picture Show,” “Paper Moon,” “The Last Detail,” “Midnight Express,” “National Lampoon’s Vacation,” “Brokeback Mountain” and the cult favorite “Kingpin.” He also holds the almost-unheard-of distinction of being one of the few actors ever thrown out of the stage actors union, Actors Equity for disruptive and violent behavior toward his fellow cast members in 2007.

And what were the Quaids doing in Canada? It might have something to do with the fact that they are currently wanted on $500,000 bench warrants for allegedly squatting in their former home in California back in September (and doing $5,000 worth of damage to the property). This follows walking out on a $10,000 bill at a luxury hotel in Santa Barbara, resisting arrest and ducking their subsequent court dates. When they finally did appear before the judge, Randy, for reasons no one could quite explain, brought the Golden Globe Award he won for playing former President Lyndon Johnson with him.

When asked by Canadian authorities why they were seeking asylum, the Quaids replied that they feared that a group of “Star Whackers,” (a shadowy group of assassins the Quaids claim are responsible for the “murders” of Heath Ledger and David Carradine), were now after them. Evi Quaid told the CBC that "Randy has known eight close friends murdered in odd, strange manners ... We feel that we're next.”

I suspect that what’s next for the Quaids is a very, very long stretch of unemployment. This recent string on insanity is nothing new for Mr. and Mrs. Quaid. 15 years ago, I knew a couple of people involved in a film project the Quaids managed to sell to a major Hollywood producer. The pitch (called “The Debtors”) was about a group of people who checked into luxury hotels and used credit cards to purchase shit they couldn’t pay for. Sound familiar? Gradually, Evi took over the writing of the script and eventually assumed the duties of the director as well; occasionally directing in the nude. When a group of extras filled a suit, claiming that their personal clothing was ruined in a scene where fake semen was sprayed on the crowd, the film’s investors removed the Quaids from the project. This, however, didn’t stop the couple from stealing the original prints and taking them to Canada where they re-edited the film, ignored the American “cease and desist” orders and managed to show the film in the Toronto Film Festival under a different name. God bless them. The Quaids have enjoyed a long run as one of Hollywood’s scarier running jokes, but I think that ride is over now. Never fear. This is show business. Someone will soon arrive to take their place.

Several years after the incident with the agent that I referred to earlier, I saw her at a party. I valiantly tried to avoid her, but she eventually cornered me at the bar. “I know you from somewhere,” she said. I had no ax to grind with this woman so I chose my words carefully, saying we had “met once” when she was at her former agency. I saw a flicker of recognition in her eyes, but she didn’t flinch. She apologized. She looked great, having lost easily 20 pounds and she no longer had the look of a haggard slaughterhouse employee. She was again working in the industry, but not as an agent. “It wasn’t for me,” she said. I congratulated her. It was (is) nice to be reminded that show business is filled with human beings; all of us a little nuts; but most of us capable of bouncing back with a little care and reevaluation. Good luck, Randy and Evi. And goodluck, Canada.

Copyright 2010 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at http://www.partsandlabor.tv/

Farewell Mrs. Clever

2010-10-18T10:47:00.000-07:00

Barbara Billingsley (1915-2010)

I was very new to Southern California in 1993. In fact, I wasn’t even sure what I was doing here. In theory I’d come here to work as a writer, but so far nothing much had happened on that front. Just as I was about to give up hope, a play I’d written and had some success with in New York was scooped up by an independent L.A. theatre producer who wanted to stage it at a gorgeous venue in West Hollywood. I suddenly felt better. At least, I had a reason to stay.

I’d recently made connection with a director whose work I admired from New York. He was also a recent transplant to L.A. and was not particularly busy. With Ken onboard, I felt like the show was in good hands. By February, most of the play had been cast. However, we still hadn’t found an actress for the peach role of the nutty, born-again aunt who tries to run everyone’s life, particularly her ne’er-do-well son’s, by using literal advice taken straight from her Bible.

Our producer (an L.A. theatre veteran) knew that West Coast audiences rather like seeing exhumed stars from yesteryear and started applying serious pressure for us to cast a celebrity in the role. I had no problem with that idea, except that we couldn’t get any name actor’s agent to return our calls. The play paid very little; but it was a nice showcase for a comic actress. Finally, the producer convinced us to audition her old friend, Barbara Billingsley.

Like everybody else of my generation, I remembered Ms. Billingsley as “June Cleaver” the supernaturally perfect mother from the classic TV sit-com “Leave it to Beaver.” The character of “June” was iconic and had somehow created the illusion that American housewives everywhere prepared dinner and vacuumed the house wearing high heels and pearls. The original run of “Leave it to Beaver” was a bit before my time, but the reruns were on five days a week when I was a kid. I knew Ms. Billingsley's work well. I adored her, but was having a hard time envisioning her as a tough as nails Southern matriarch. Under heavy pressure from our producer we agreed to audition her the following week. Then the rains came.

This was my first experience with the legendary El Nino rains that sweep through Southern California every few years. I had never seen anything like it. They felt ominous and (for lack of a better word) “Biblical.” For reasons, I don’t really remember, it was decided that instead of asking Barbara to drive in during the storm, the director, my co-writer and I would drive out to her home in Malibu to audition her in the comfort of her own home.

The morning of the audition it was pouring. There was a nasty wind whipping up and the driving conditions were terrible. As we snaked along the PCH, we twice encountered fresh rock slides that had only recently come hurdling down the hillside. Twice, we considered turning back, but decided that meeting Beaver’s mother was a once in a lifetime opportunity. It took some doing. We were almost 30 minutes late by the time we finally located Barbara’s home which literally sat on the edge of the Pacific Ocean.

Unable to find a convenient space, we were forced to park some distance away and just as we started trekking back to her house, the wind whipped up; blowing the rain at an almost horizontal angle. By the time we reached Barbara’s front door, we were all soaked. At this point, I no longer wanted to be in L.A. I was a wet, angry New Yorker who felt utterly jerked around. The director rang the bell and a few seconds later, the door opened. And there stood June Cleaver.

Barbara, who must have been in her seventies at the time, looked gorgeous. Tall, trim and beautifully coiffed, she was dressed in a stylishly coordinated sweater and slacks. And although she wasn’t wearing pearls, she was wearing a necklace that looked like pearls. A look of surprise swept over her face when she saw us. It was as if she had been utterly unaware that it was raining outside. “Oh my goodness!” she gushed, “Come in this minute and get out of those wet things! I’ve made some muffins.”

The next hour was somewhat surreal. To say that Ms. Billingsley was a warm and gracious hostess would be a huge understatement. Hanging our coats by the fire, she served us coffee and warm muffins right out of the oven and gave us a short tour of her lovely beach front home where she had lived since her “Beaver” days. Post-“Beaver” she had steered clear of acting for many years and chosen to focus on life with her husband who had been a successful attorney. It was only after his death that she had begun to inch back into acting, beginning with her brilliantly hilarious turn as the “jive-speaking” translator in the classic movie “Airplane.”

Finally we settled into Barbara’s cozy living room. Since I was going to be playing the role of her son, it only made sense that I would read with her. It didn’t go terribly well. Barbara was not great at accents and the play took place in a mythical southern town. Plus, her timing seemed a bit off and most of the jokes weren’t landing. The director praised her first effort, then made a few suggestions. Barbara was very game, but her second reading wasn't much different. Not wanting to rush to judgment, we read an additional scene from later in the play, but it failed to take flight either. It was no reflection on Barbara. Performer and material simply didn't match. After a little more chit chat, we gathered up our wet coats, telling Ms. Billingsley that we had agreed to audition one more actress that day (a total lie) and that we would be in touch. I don’t think we fooled her for a second, but she couldn’t have been more generous and lovely.

On the drive back, nobody said anything about the audition for a while. Instead we oddly started talking about our mothers and how they had stacked up against the legendary “June Cleaver.” Finally, Ken, the director sighed. “Well, I had hoped that would work out.” I agreed. But Barbara was not really a theatre actress by trade or experience and it seemed like we wouldn’t have been doing her (or ourselves) any favors by casting her.

Eventually, we offered the role to a veteran Broadway character actress who could wrench a laugh out of even the grumpiest of audiences. Barbara came to see the play and stayed afterward to speak to every single member of the cast (including the actress we chose over her). Once again, I was struck by her grace and generosity. Everyone was thrilled to meet her. She was particularly kind to me and had nothing but high praise for the script. It was my first time meeting someone whose image had flickered across the TV screen for my entire childhood. I’ve since had this experience a few times (most recently with William Shatner). It’s one of the perks of living and working in Hollywood, and for me it’s never less than thrilling. As a lonely kid, these people represented a world of possibility that was just on the other side of my TV screen. To have Captain Kirk clap me on the back and say “Welcome Aboard” or have Mrs. Cleaver offer me warm muffins on a rainy day, are moments I can’t help but feel extraordinarily grateful for.

Copyright 2010 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at http://www.partsandlabor.tv/

I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and, doggonit, people like me!

2010-07-12T17:43:00.000-07:00

Every once in a while, people in my business need a little pep talk. Over the past few years, I’ve given a fair amount of them via a mentoring program that I helped found a few years ago. Every few months, I seem to find myself seated across from some very talented young writer who feels like they are never going to catch a break and are looking for a little guidance.

I’m flattered to be asked. Mostly because it casts the illusion that I know what the hell I’m talking about. These sessions are relatively easy for me since the young people I’m seated across from, although very talented, are still somewhat unformed as artists. Anything could happen. But at this stage of the game, they have very little experience and don’t yet underrstand that your career shapes you and not the other way around. My pitch is always the same: Keep your eyes and ears open. And keep plugging. Eventually opportunity knocks and the adventure begins.

The more challenging pep talks are the ones that we “more established” people occasionally need to have with each other. I’ve recently been helping a friend of mine get a little perspective on a particularly challenging writing assignment. Believe it or not, the major task has not been so much giving him notes on his script as much as reminding him how talented he is and what excellent instincts he’s been blessed with. These things are surprisingly easy to forget.

Recently, I called a talent manager to recommend a young actor that I think could have a very good career ahead of her. During the conversation, the manager told me that she wasn’t interested in repping any “developmental talent” at this time. Then, quite surprisingly , she began to grill me about my own acting career. Had I had been seen for this movie? That guest shot? Thus and such pilot? When I answered “no,” to every question, she became sort of incensed. Out of the blue, she offered (demanded) to manage me.

A cloud of confusion swept over me. Here was an established, hard-working manager with good clients, who was asking to rep me. Without thinking, I blurted out, “Why the hell would you want to represent an unpopular middle-aged character actor?” There was a short, shocked silence on the other end of the line. “Is that how you see yourself?” the manager replied. I began to wonder if perhaps I was in need of a little attitude adjustment.

As luck would have it, I was scheduled to have dinner the next night with a good friend who writes for a highly successful TV show. He and I have known each other for a very long time. Over the years, we’ve seen each other through various career highs and lows, health scares, broken marriages and a easily a dozen other major life decisions. When he noticed that I kept deflecting his questions about how I was doing, he pinned me to the wall. I confessed that I was beginning to wonder if I might be suffering from a slight case of battle fatigue. Even seated opposite one of my oldest friends, I still didn’t feel like I had the right to complain.

After all, it wasn’t like I hadn’t booked any work in the last two years. I just hadn’t booked a ton of it. In fact, it seemed like the universe was conspiring to give me the absolute, bare minimum of employment needed to keep a roof over my head and my union dues paid. I had gotten oddly used to walking this tightrope month-by-month. Luxuries like sampling that new hot restaurant that everybody’s talking about, had sort of fallen by the wayside. The truth was that working in Hollywood had not been quite so glamorous lately.

Even as the words came out of my mouth, I felt like a whiner. Everybody knows the business is full of ups-and-downs and that even in the best of times, we have second thoughts and regrets. I knew my friend was a much better writer than the show he was working on, but he also has two small kids and a mortgage. When I told him about my experience with the manager, he stared flatly at me over his wine glass. “Let me get this straight,” he said. “You’ve got someone who’s established, hard-working, with good clients, who's offering to help you… And you said no?”

The next day, I took a quick inventory of all that I had going on in my professional life. I then thought about how much more I could handle. I then asked myself how much more I wanted. Then I picked up the phone. I now have a new manager who I adore. In the three weeks we’ve been working together, she’s been endlessly optimistic and energetic in her approach. On my end, I’ve done my best to pick up my pace, stay focused and remember that unlike my young protégées, I do have a track record that has not gone completely unnoticed.

Although the business is not always good to me, it’s always good for me; reminding me of the biggest lesson of all: To love the life you’ve chosen and press forward with some faith. Although you might not be in the spotlight this week, that doesn’t mean you’re invisible. Patience + perserverance = payoff.

Copyright 2010 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at www.partsandlabor.tv
Follow me on Twitter: http://twitter.com/QuitcherBitchyn

Our Next Guest

2010-06-29T19:45:00.000-07:00

Oddly, I often get requests for interviews. Not from big deal newspapers or magazines, mind you. Mostly from websites and bloggers. I’m always sort of surprised to be asked since I’m not exactly a glamorous or notable person in the entertainment industry. I actually consider myself more of a “survivor” who’s had a few interesting jobs and occasionally rubbed elbows with the famous and powerful.

Interviews are always a little dicey since sometimes one’s off-the-cuff remarks can backfire. The first interview I ever gave was when I was a young actor doing a play in upstate New York. The play was a limited run and toward the end of the interview the reporter asked, “So what’s next for you?” Being a novice in the world of print media, I took it as a sincere question on his part, so I answered “Absolutely nothing” (which was the truth). I then launched into a short, heartfelt explanation of how I was hoping for another job, but not sure when or where it would come from. But alas, this was the life I’d chosen for myself and gosh, I hope it all worked out. Sadly, the reporter decided to use a few of those remarks in his article and, quoted out of context, I sounded like the most neurotic, self-involved jerk in the world. Lesson learned. The next time that question came up on a local talk show, I smiled coyly and said “There are a couple of things pending, but I’m not supposed to talk about them until they’re definite.” So for future reference, if you ever see me interviewed and I say anything like that, it actually means I don’t have a fucking thing going on.

My least favorite interviews are live TV interviews. I always have this horrible fear that I’m going to start a sentence and then have no idea how to finish it. The most bizarre TV interview I ever did happened shortly after I had been on “Boston Legal.” I was invited to appear on a cable talk show hosted by a 70’s TV star. The show, I was told, was the flagship of a new, soon-to-be-launched cable network geared toward people of retirement age. Despite the fact that there was no studio audience, I was instructed to act like there was one. Apparently, canned applause and a laugh track were cheaper than installing actual seats in the studio. My hostess was amazingly good (some might say disturbingly good) at working with our make-believe audience. At key moments during our interview, she would actually look out at the imaginary people, smile and say things like “Wasn’t he wonderful on that ‘Boston Legal?”

The most fun I ever had being interviewed was around the same time when I was asked to do a “radio tour.” I was delighted to find out that one can do a radio “tour” without leaving your house or even getting dressed. All that was required was that I be awake and ready to talk on the phone at 4:30 in the morning, so all the east coast stations could each grab an 8-minute interview with me during their morning “drive-time” shows. The point of the 3-hour tour was to talk to as many stations as possible; gradually working your way west, time zone-by-time zone. An engineer would break in between interviews and tell you the call letters and location of the next station, but that was all the information you got.

On the appointed morning, I parked myself at my desk, armed with a giant mug of coffee. Sure enough at 4:30 on the dot, the call came in. I, for one, am not very used to talking about myself before the sun comes up, but my first DJ was an aggressive, fast-talking New Yorker who was determined to wrench as many answers out of me as possible in the 8 minutes we had together. As my “tour” worked its way into the midwest, I noticed that I was suddenly talking to lots of “teams” of chatty “morning personalities” who seemed to really get a kick out of hanging out with each other. So much so, that they would occasionally forget that I was even on the line. Somewhere around Colorado, one interview began to blur into the next and serious déjà vu started setting in. By this time, I’d answered the question “So what was it like to work with Candice Bergin?” about seventeen times and I couldn’t remember which charming anecdote I’d told to whom.

As my “tour” moved over the Rockies, the character of the interviews began to change erratically from one station to the next. One minute I would be on with “Bobo and Meathead in the Morning” (where I was competing with air horns and whoopee cushions). The next I’d be on with some classical NPR station in the Pacific Northwest, speaking with a woman so calm she sounded like she might drift off to sleep at any moment. The one thing nobody had thought to mention was that the “tour” had no scheduled no bathroom break, so by the time we had reached the third hour, I was seriously considering putting my office trash can to use. Thankfully, it didn’t come to that.

Interestingly enough, my radio tour resulted in more fan mail than I received during the entire time I was actually on “Boston Legal.” One of my interviews was with a station in Lexington, Kentucky, about sixty miles from where my family lives. I had alerted them to be tuned in that particular morning, but panic struck when they discovered that for some reason the kitchen radio was not picking up the station. Desperate to not miss my voice on the airwaves, they camped out in their car (with the engine running) for the next two hours, armed with a cassette tape recorder, determined to not only hear my 8-minute interview, but record it for posterity. I ask you…How could I ever consider quitting show business when I've got fans like that?

Copyright 2010 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at www.partsandlabor.tv

Shameless self-promotion: http://daviddeanbottrell.blogspot.com/2010/04/thank-you-los-angeles-times.html

Maybe Tomorrow

2010-06-21T13:02:00.001-07:00

There’s a project on my desk that I need to finish. It’s a good project. In fact, I think it might even be a great project, but after doing a couple weeks of work on it, I tucked it into a file on my computer and I haven’t touched it since. What's odd about that is that I'm really excited about it. So excited that I can’t seem to return to it. This has led me to thinking about the subject of procrastination. In fact, I’ve been meaning to write a blog post about on this subject for some time, but I keep putting it off. Ironic, no?

On my worst days, I can really beat myself up pretty viciously about this flaw in my character. I ask myself why I’m such a self-defeating wretch and have even been known to call myself mean names like “loser” and “coward.” After all, people who stall don't wind up with stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, now do they? But then, I have to pay attention to the fact that many of the most successful projects I’ve ever been involved with were the ones I put off until the last possible second.

Wondering if maybe there was a little method to my madness, I decided to go online and see what some of the great minds have had to say on the subject of procrastination…

“Anyone can do any amount of work, provided it isn't the work he is supposed to be doing at that moment.” -- Robert Benchley. This really spoke to me since the other day I managed to get an amazing amount of trivial bullshit done, while thinking about all the writing I needed to be doing. The “odds-and-ends” excuse always works amazingly well for me and I’d like to highly recommend it to anyone seeking to avoid important work that might actually further your goals. You see I would have worked on my script, had I not needed to check my Twitter account, return a few emails, call my agents, read the paper and do every piece of laundry in my house. Whew! Now that that’s out of the way, I can start writing… First thing tomorrow!

“We shall never have more time. We have, and always had, all the time there is.” This comes from Arnold Bennett, British novelist, playwright, critic, and essayist. Leave it to the British to come up with such a pithy way of shattering my favorite illusion -- That there is (and always will be) plenty of time. As anyone past the age of forty can tell you, time has an odd way of speeding up the longer you live. Contrary to popular belief, it’s not an unlimited resource and the big surprise is that if you’re going to spend it well, you better spend it wisely. In the words of self-help guru, M. Scott Peck: "Until you value your time, you will not do anything with it."

“I like work: it fascinates me. I can sit and look at it for hours.” – Jerome K. Jerome. Although I’m a little suspicious of anybody with the same first and last name, I did like this one. Believe it or not, I actually enjoy writing. But sometimes I like to tell myself that “thinking” about writing is an essential part of the process (which it isn’t). Only writing is writing.

Occasionally I justify stall tactics by assuring myself that at least the project is half-done, so that means I’m “working” on it. After all, it’s a great idea! So great that it will almost certainly finish itself. Unfortunately, the American humorist Will Rogers disagrees: "Even if you're on the right track - you'll get run over if you just sit there." But then there’s the issue of uncertainty. Can’t it wait until I have a clear vision of where I want to go with it? Not according to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr: "You don't have to see the whole staircase, just take the first step."

I was already feeling the noose tightening around my neck, when these last two quotes really did it for me. The first is an old proverb: "If and When were planted, and Nothing grew." Coming from a semi-agricultural background, that one sort of hit home. And finally this (from author Denis Waitley) which made me realize that everybody who tries to create something probably feels the same pressure: “Procrastination is the fear of success. People procrastinate because they are afraid of the success that they know will result if they move ahead now. Because success is heavy and carries a responsibility with it, it is much easier to procrastinate and live on the “someday I’ll” philosophy.”

So friends, as much as I’d like to keep finding worthy reasons to fart around, I actually do need to get back to work now. Well, maybe not right now. But after lunch for sure.

Copyright 2010 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at http://www.partsandlabor.tv/

Shameless self-promotion: http://daviddeanbottrell.blogspot.com/2010/04/thank-you-los-angeles-times.html

As Luck Would Have It

2010-06-14T11:50:00.000-07:00

My best friend, Tom is a real estate agent. Although real estate and show business are vastly different industries, we are in agreement that both share one universal (though maddening) truth: Any idiot can be successful if they happen to be standing in the right place at the right time.

The subject of luck is something that gets talked about a lot in show business circles. We love it. We dream about it. We worship it. And we do all sorts of nutty things to try to lure it into our corner. The latest craze in L.A. has been “visioning,” where those looking for a break, spend valuable time imagining themselves being hit by a tsunami of success. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with imagining what it would be like to be hugely successful if that helps you build self-confidence, but luck in show business is largely earned.

The most legendary story of luck is attributed to Shirley MacLaine. A struggling chorus girl / understudy, she had just given notice that she was leaving the show, when she got the call that the leading lady had sprained her ankle and would not be able to perform that night. Shirley was under-rehearsed and nervous about going on, but had little choice but to bluff her way through. At one point, she had to do a dance number where she tossed her hat into the air and then caught it. She missed the hat and as she went chasing it across the stage, audibly muttered, “Shit!” which brought the house down. Shirley kept plugging and demonstrated to the audience a quality that would serve her well throughout her career – her willingness to be vulnerable and to put on a good show, no matter what. As luck would have it, a talent scout from one of the studios was seated in the audience. And the rest, as they say, is history.

When I look at my own less glamorous history in the business, I’m struck by how many times luck has played a part in the proceedings. I was once in a general meeting with a producer and for some odd reason, I wound up mentioning that I was from Kentucky. Two years later, his associate (who had also been in that meeting) was working for another company and called me up because her bosses were looking for a writer with some knowledge of Appalachia. That gig turned into the single most lucrative writing job I’ve ever had. I met my current agent at a mixer – a mixer that I almost didn’t go to because frankly I hate mixers. I recently booked an acting job because I happened to post a funny comment on Facebook. Ten minutes later, I received an email from a film producer who'd seen the comment, inquiring about my “availability.”

As much as we'd all like to crack the genetic code of luck, it can't be done. Although, I now do my best to go to more mixers, I can tell you that 99% of them lead to nothing except one more vodka tonic. In my experience, luck is attracted to a moving target; meaning you’re more likely to run into it if you’re out there pursuing your goals. Staying “out there” is the name of the game. And not everything that looks like luck, actually is. Every time I think, “This is it! This is the big one that’s going to change everything” – it never is. Almost every piece of luck I’ve had has come from some small, oddball occurrence; some totally unpredictable conversation or encounter that then led to an opportunity.

Over the past few years, a number of highly regarded institutions have done studies on luck and they’ve all pretty much come to the same conclusion. Luck is a numbers game and it favors the open-minded. Unfortunately, creative people are an impatient bunch and most of us want to get on the super highway to success and gun it. The problem with that approach is you may well speed past the very exit you were looking for. While the obsessed and inflexible types usually experience a lot of exhaustion and frustration, those who come at their goals with a sense of fun and adventure, tend to be more observant and seem to spot small opportunities everywhere.

It’s also good to keep in mind that a detour is not necessarily bad news. Those side streets frequently offer quirky, unique chances to show off your talent, gain experience and meet people who can become allies and or even employers somewhere down the line. For years, I refused to make any "lateral" moves. Every time I got a job, my attention was firmly focused making sure my next gig was a "better" job. I fell for the biggest fallacy in the business - that anyone's career path makes sense.

My luck improved vastly once I got back to what had attracted me to the business to begin with - simply working creatively with people who had entertaining, fun ideas. It's turned out to be an excellent policy that's served me well. Consistency is a good idea, but forcing your will on the universe is not. Creative people who actually enjoy the act of creating something are enormously attractive to the industry. In the words of a writer who never made a dime in Hollywood (a guy named Bill Shakespeare): “Fortune brings in some boats that are not steered.”

Copyright 2010 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at http://www.partsandlabor.tv/

Follow me on Twitter: http://twitter.com/QuitcherBitchyn

The Old and the Restless

2010-06-07T11:52:00.000-07:00

Like a zillion other people, I tuned in a few weeks ago to watch the venerable Betty White host Saturday Night Live. Having grown up watching Betty, I was excited, but also a little concerned. I felt protective of her. She was, after all, eighty-eight years old and about to host a 90-minute live TV show. I just didn’t want to see her embarrass herself. Rumor had that she was only going to be in a couple of sketches and that a whole slew of female SNL alumni were being brought back to fill in the blanks. As it turned out, they could all have stayed home. Not only was Betty in every sketch, but she killed. It’s rare to see any SNL host (must less a host Betty’s age) step into so many different roles and inherently “get” the style of each sketch. It was one of the best editions of SNL I’d seen in years. It made me think about some of the other older performers I’ve worked with over the years.

Just last week, I was doing an episode of a sit com, when I noticed the name of a character actor I also remembered from my childhood on the “guest cast” list -- Jack Carter. I’d always thought he was funny, but he was no kid when I’d seen him on the Dean Martin Show many, many years ago. I was downstairs in the green room, when Jack arrived and I was instantly unnerved. He seemed extremely frail and I found myself rushing to the aid of the young P.A. whose job it was get him down the stairs and unto one of the sofas. As it is with most sit-coms, there’s a lot of sitting around, so I decided to hang out with Jack for a bit. I got him some food from the craft services table and settled into one of those uncomfortable chairs that green rooms always seem to have. Part of me was dying to ask a bunch of questions about some of the legendary performers he’d worked with, but I’ve found that not everybody likes to reminisce about times gone by. The TV in the green room was tuned into the Discovery Channel which led us to a conversation about Jack’s love of fishing. Then we got onto the subject of the French Open. An avid tennis fan, Jack confessed he had been staying up ‘til two in the morning to watch the semi-finals.

At one point, there was a lull in the conversation, and as I sat watching Alaskan fishermen hauling supernaturally huge crabs into their boat, I began to notice that Jack was mumbling a bit to himself. At first I was concerned. What he was saying didn’t seem to make much sense until I realized he was quietly running his lines for the scene he was about to rehearse. Occasionally, people involved with the show would stop by to “check in” on Jack; which he was very gracious about. “Yes, I’m still alive,” he replied pleasantly to one of the producers. Later in the day, when everyone was assembled on the sound stage for the run-through, it quickly became clear that none of us had anything to worry about. Although walking was a bit of a challenge for Jack, being funny was not. He was sharp as a tack and landed every joke like a champ. He’d even added a couple of bits and suggested a couple for the two young actors he was working with. “It’s funnier, this way. Trust me.” He was right. It was funnier.

A couple of years ago, when 80 year-old Cloris Leachman won her 12th Emmy, she was quoted as saying, “If you can keep yourself together, you can still work.” I suspect that luck also has a little to do with it. In truth, you don’t see a lot of older singers (and pretty much no older dancers) who can keep working because time is not terribly kind to the vocal chords or the knees. Acting, however, is a different beast. Acting is an art form that radiates from the imagination and the power of the imagination is an awesome thing to behold.

Many years ago, I was in a play with an older character actress named Georgia Southcotte, who took a tumble one day while en route to the theatre to do a matinee. When she arrived it was clear she’d pretty seriously injured her wrist, but she insisted on going on. An improvised sling was created and despite the fact she was clearly in a lot of pain, she was surprisingly spot-on in every scene. In fact, it was the best performance I’d seen her give in weeks. As soon as the curtain came down, she was whisked away to the emergency room where they discovered she’d broken her forearm. When I came back to the theater for the evening show, I was floored to see Georgia sitting in the green room with a cast on her arm; already in costume. Chipper as could be, she was sipping a cup of tea; ready for the evening show. When I asked her if she wouldn’t prefer to take the night off and let her understudy go on, she looked at me like I was insane. “Why on earth would I do that?” she replied with a slight hint of indignation in her voice.

As the years go by, and I slip deeper and deeper into middle age, I sometimes wonder about my future in this business. Given that the entertainment industry is ruled by the young, I know I’ll have fewer and fewer opportunities, but I remain hopeful. It’s enormously heartening to me to see older performers who can still deliver -- And deliver with a skill and precision that only time and experience could have taught them. I’ve never seen an older performer treated with anything less than enormous respect in a professional setting. I think even younger actors instinctively "get" that they are looking into the eyes of their future. Speaking for myself, as long as I can remember the lines, I’d like to keep going. Despite the fact that I tend to think of myself as being extremely young (35 at most), I’ve decided to take Cloris’ advice to heart, and do my best to “keep it together” for the long haul. I guess that means I need to quit typing now and go to the gym. Wish me luck.

Copyright 2010 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at www.partsandlabor.tv

Shameless self-promotion: http://www.bangstudio.com/streep-tease

Follow me on Twitter: http://twitter.com/QuitcherBitchyn

Stunted

2010-05-25T12:37:00.000-07:00

Last weekend, I met a young guy at a barbeque who had just relocated to L.A. When I asked him what had brought him here, he was a little vague at first, but eventually confessed that he was interested in possibly doing some stunt work. I wished him well. Being the bookish, indoorsy type, stunt work has always seemed about as appealing to me as working on a bomb squad. Although, I truly admire the people who do it.

Over the years, I’ve worked with some terrific stunt coordinators who were great at making actors feel confident while keeping things safe and fun. I’ve also worked with a couple of guys who were not so much fun. My first unhappy experience came many years ago when I was doing a truly awful off-Broadway play. At one point in the show, I had to attack one of the other actors, who then had to beat me into submission. This was followed by a scene where we played Russian Roulette with a loaded pistol. Like I said, it was an awful play.

The minute I laid eyes on the stunt guy (who we’ll call “Bill”) I sensed I wasn’t going to like him. He was as big as a house and had an ego to match. He’d been working on some movie and seemed to think he was doing us a favor by even being there. When I confessed that I wasn’t exactly the rough-and-tumble type, he seemed to take it as a challenge to his authority. For the next two hours, he proceeded to choreograph a fight that was like something out of a James Bond movie. His idea seemed to be that my character was a glutton for punishment and that no matter how many times the other actor punched me in the face, kicked me in the stomach or kneed me in the groin, I just kept coming back. Finally, when Bill suggested that it might be fun if the other actor used a chair to knock me over the sofa, I felt compelled to point out that if his character really did all this to me, I’d be dead. This got a huge laugh in the rehearsal hall which made Bill dislike me even more.

Finally, the director stepped in, suggesting that maybe something a little less spectacular would work better for me. Bill, clearly miffed, shrugged his shoulders and agreed to pare the fight down to “something this guy can handle.” I was instructed to stand off to one side as Bill and his assistant demonstrated “the backhand.” I had to admit Bill was good. Every time he smacked his assistant across the face, it looked and sounded painfully real. In an effort to drive home the finer points of the backhand, Bill repeated it rapidly, over and over! Smack! Smack! Smack!

Suddenly, I heard a pop. My vision went a little blurry. I wanted to say something, but my brain couldn't formulate any words. The only thought I could crystallize was that I'd been shot in the head - which didn't make any sense. All of a sudden, the director was in front of me asking if I was okay. “No,” I answered as my knees started to buckle. Grabbing my arm, he steered me into a nearby chair. That’s when I was informed that Bill’s bulky metal wristwatch had come loose while he was demonstrating the rapid “backhand” and it had struck me in the forehead going about sixty miles an hour. Within seconds, a huge goose egg popped up over my right eyebrow. Somebody found some ice and gradually my ability to form words came back -- as did my ability to feel intense, searing pain! Rehearsal was called off for the rest of the afternoon and when I next saw Bill a few days later, he was much nicer to me (probably because he feared a law suit). In the end, most of the fight wound up occurring behind a conveniently-placed sofa where my fellow actor punched a pillow and I made a bunch of “Oooff” sounds.

My next scary stunt moment didn’t come until many years later. I was shooting a scene in a TV show where I had to sneak up on a lovely actress named Jill while she was seated on a sofa having a phone conversation, and hit her in the back of the head with a shovel. It was meant to be funny, but Jill and I were both anxious about it – and rightfully so. The “stunt shovel” was made out of rubber -- so, although it wasn’t deadly, it would certainly hurt if it made contact.

As planned, I wasn’t actually going to hit her with it. I was just going to swing at her, then jerk the shovel back at the last possible second. In order for everything to fit into the shot, I had to hold the shovel at the very end of the handle which made it heavy and awkward to manipulate. Plus, I had to step into the shot, hit my mark, and somehow time the whole thing out so I popped her just as she finished her phone call. It was tricky and the first few takes didn’t go well; mostly because Jill and I were both so nervous.

Tony, the stunt guy, was very nice and encouraged us to just relax and “go for it.” Finally, we got one decent take, but Tony wanted to try for one more. Feeling a little more confident, I again snuck up behind Jill and raised the shovel, but this time she hesitated in her lines. I wasn’t sure if she’d dropped a cue or was taking a pause. Following Tony’s advice, I “went for it” and took the swing. But unfortunately the timing was off. Jill moved her head and I accidentally smacked her in the back of the skull; knocking her off the sofa. Needless to say, I was mortified and apologized profusely. Thankfully, Jill was very gracious about it, but also made it clear that she didn’t want me on the other end of the shovel anymore. The director wisely chose to finish up with a couple of tightly-framed pick-up shots (with Tony wielding the shovel off-camera instead of me). When the episode aired, they wound up using the take where poor Jill actually got hit -- which I have to say did look pretty funny.

For a wimpy character guy, I’ve surprisingly been punched, slapped, stabbed, kicked and head-butted quite a few times on stage and screen over the years and so far have lived to tell the tale. I always give it my best shot and try not to look completely terrified when I realize I’m about to go rolling across the floor. And I’m always grateful to the camera guys and editors who somehow manage to make it look real. Just last week, I got offered a small role in an edgy little thriller in which I get to be shot in the head and fall over a chair. I can hardly wait!

Copyright 2010 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at www.partsandlabor.tv

The Celebrity Story

2010-05-17T15:24:00.000-07:00

Living in Los Angeles has a lot of advantages. We’re blessed with an incredibly diverse population, a dynamic creative community and perhaps the best weather on the planet. We also have the added bonus of celebrities in our midst! Celebs (just like regular people) sometimes go out for lunch, pick up their dry cleaning and walk their dogs which allows the rest of us to get a quick, up close glimpse of the actual person who has dazzled us on TV or film.

When I first came to the City of Angels, I was wowed by every celebrity sighting and couldn’t wait to get home and call up some friend to report that I actually stood in line at the Starbucks behind Jodie Foster or rode in an elevator with Warren Beatty. But soon, I discovered that my friends, who’d live here longer than me, weren’t all that impressed. Apparently, in order for one’s “Celebrity Story” to have weight, you had to have had a more intimate, dramatic or quirky encounter with a star. These tales then become useful ice-breakers at cocktail parties; and the odder they are, the better.

My best celebrity encounter story dates back 20 years when I first came west to try my hand at this mysterious thing called “pilot season.” Being new to L.A. I never had any idea how long it would take me to get from “point A” to “point B,” so I tended to leave very early for every appointment. One day I was scheduled to meet with an agent and found myself at his office building a full 30 minutes before my scheduled meeting. Not wanting to look too desperate, I bought a newspaper and decided to kill the time, loitering in front of the building.

It was about 5:00 pm and rush hour was in full swing. The building was on Sunset, close to the famous “Strip” where the boulevard gets a little curvy. Even at rush hour, the curves didn’t seem to deter the drivers from going as fast as they possibly could, which I found a little unnerving. For some reason, I happened to glance up and spotted a guy on a motor scooter swerving through traffic. It looked like something might be wrong. Either the guy was being a little reckless or he didn’t really know how to operate the bike. Suddenly, he lost control and the scooter slid out from under him, sending him sprawling onto the blacktop just as a huge wave of cars were barreling around the curve. Panic surged through me! Dropping my newspaper, I rushed out into the street and began waving my arms to divert traffic. Luckily, the crush of cars was able to divide on either side of us and mercifully, neither the scooter guy nor I were killed.

I whirled around and saw the guy was trying to get to his feet. Sensing we had a few seconds before the next wave of traffic would hit us, I took a step toward him. “Are you alright?” I yelled. “Yeah, I’m good,” he replied as he pulled off his helmet and turned to face me. Suddenly, I was standing in the middle of Sunset Boulevard, face-to-face with then heavyweight champion of the world, Mike Tyson. I almost swallowed my tongue.

The first thought that popped into my head was to mention that I had just worked with his ex-wife, Robin Givens not two weeks prior on an episode of “Head of the Class.” Then it occurred to me that this man could easily snap my neck like a twig, so I switched back to Good Samaritan mode. “We need to get this bike off the street,” I yelled as the next barrage of traffic swept by us. “Thanks,” he replied. As we pulled the bike upright, I took him in for the first time. When I’d seen him fight on TV, he’d looked immense and terrifying; a force of nature that could barely be contained. In person, he looked shorter and more compact. “I don’t know what happened,” he murmured, sounding a little embarrassed. “Nothing,” I replied, “It think it just slid.” Once the bike was up, the champ informed me that he was okay to ride again. Climbing on the bike, he waved to me and sped away, leaving me to make a mad dash back through traffic and onto the safety of the sidewalk. The whole encounter had lasted maybe 90 seconds.

Oddly, the sidewalk was now lined with people who had streamed out of the lobby once word had spread that Tyson was sprawled in the street. The crowd began asking me what had happened and what he’d said. I suddenly felt very uncomfortable and decided to duck into the building and go to my appointment, early or not. Once inside the agent’s office, I couldn’t help but spill the beans about my bizarre chance encounter with the champ. The agent smiled slyly and said “You should call the National Inquirer. They’d probably buy the story off you. You might get ten grand for it.”

Being a poor young actor at the time, ten grand sounded pretty good to me. But as I drove home, I kept wondering if the story was really worth that kind of cash. I began to consider the possibility of juicing it up a bit. After all, nobody had been present at the scene except Mike and me. I could say anything. I could say he smelled of alcohol (he didn’t) or that as he lay dazed in the street, he was calling Robin Given’s name (he wasn’t). Then I remembered that Mike Tyson was at the time, a powerful multi-millionaire with an infamous temper who might well be able to track me down and beat the living shit out of me. I decided to let the story go. Perhaps, I’d just chalk it up to my good deed for the day and leave it at that.

Imagine my surprise when, two weeks later, I was standing in the supermarket line, leafing through the National Inquirer and spotted a short article about Mike Tyson taking a spill on his motor scooter. Apparently, one of the onlookers who’d observed the whole incident from the safety of the sidewalk had called it in. There was no mention of the skinny, white guy who’d rushed into traffic to protect and aid the champ, but that was okay, I told myself. I hadn’t known it was Tyson when I ran into traffic. I just thought it was somebody was in trouble.

That odd little memory came back to me last week when I happened to catch Tyson appearing on, of all shows, “The View.” Quite a lot had happened in his life in the last twenty years and much of it had not been good. Barbara Walters couldn’t help bringing up her much-talked about interview with Mike and his then wife, Robin Givens and even had the balls to ask the champ if that interview had caused the collapse of his marriage. It was also clear that a few of “The View” ladies didn’t seem to be too happy to be seated so close to a convicted rapist and domestic abuser. But the strangest moment came when Tyson admitted that he was now completely broke. It was an awkward admission on a talk show that largely likes to skim over the surface of unpleasant topics. Barbara, who had very much assumed the lead up to this point, tried to segue gracefully into a commercial, but the camera was still on Tyson’s face. Never the most polished media personality, Tyson looked somber, but not sorry to have rocked the boat with a little dose of reality. His crimes, his arrogance, his regret and the consequences of his misplaced trust were all on display for the world to see.

On the rare occasions I tell the story of Mike and me, I never open with “Did I ever tell you about the time I saved Mike Tyson’s life?” Maybe the oncoming traffic would have spotted him and swerved out of the way with no help from me. Who knows? I’m just glad I did it. And I’m glad that I occasionally get to cross paths (even in the strangest of circumstances) with those people who fascinate, infuriate or seduce us with their exploits and abilities. It’s one of the coolest parts of the life and the city I chose for myself. Have a great week, Hollywood. Keep your eyes open. You never know who you might see.

Copyright 2010 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at www.partsandlabor.tv

Getting It Straight

2010-05-08T12:17:00.000-07:00

A couple of days ago, a friend sent me a link to a piece published on Newsweek.com by an openly gay entertainment reporter that really pissed me off. It was a piece basically claiming that casting openly gay actors in heterosexual roles simply never works.

As a gay guy trying to make a living in Hollywood, this is, needless to say, is a subject that hits close to home. I’m generally not big on writing letters to the editor, but this particular piece inspired me. I shot off both a letter to the editor of Newsweek and an Op-Ed version to the L.A. Times. However, since I suspect that neither of them will see the light of day, I thought I’d use my modest internet platform to share my personal opinion with those who might be interested. Here is the link to the original article: http://www.newsweek.com/id/236999 And here is what I wrote in response:

Dear Newsweek Editor:

I recently read with great interest an article published in Newsweek’s online edition entitled “Straight Jacket: Heterosexual actors play gay all the time. Why doesn't it ever work in reverse?” by Ramin Setoodeh (an openly gay writer). In the article, Mr. Setoodeh expresses his opinion that openly Gay actors are simply not believable in “straight” roles, then goes on to grade the “believability” papers of actors Sean Hayes, Portia de Rossi, Neil Patrick Harris and “Glee’s” Jonathan Groff. Their scores were not good, but he did allow that some of them could pull off straight people as “broad caricatures” but not as “realistic characters like the ones in Up in the Air or even The Proposal.” Funny, I saw the “The Proposal” and I don’t remember there being any realistic characters in that film.

I kept asking myself, "Is this guy joking? Speaking as an openly out professional actor, I can assure you that there are a great many gay and lesbian actors who have spent pretty much their entire careers playing "straight." Trust me. If they weren't convincing, they wouldn't still be working. I also couldn’t help noticing that Mr. Setoodeh didn’t bother to express his opinion on the "believability" of say, Emmy winner, Cherry Jones ("24") or Academy Award nominee, Ian McKellen ("Lord of the Rings," "The X-Men"); two openly out actors who have rarely played "gay" characters, but have enjoyed long and extraordinarily distinguished careers. Does he find them convincing? How about Dan Butler as “Bulldog” the macho sports caster on “Frasier?” Did he buy Jane Lynch as Meryl Streep’s lonely straight sister in “Julie and Julia?” How about Lily Tomlin as the presumably heterosexual matriarch of the Tobin clan on this season's “Damages?”

Of course not every actor is right for every role. That's a given. But to add fuel to the ever-smoldering fires of Hollywood’s casting homophobia is sort of a small-minded pot shot, if you asked me. I have tremendous admiration for actors who come out. Everyone knows the risk. Everyone knows there will be people like Mr. Setoodeh who will not be able to resist calling you too "queeny" or too "butch" to be believable playing a straight person. That's all that's required to subtly shift the focus of nervous producers and casting people away from your actual abilities and onto your private life. I've seen it happen. "Let's keep looking" is code for "I really don't want any grief for this decision."

Believe it or not, most actors (straight or gay) come to our profession not because we want to be rich or famous, but because of a very real desire to experience, even for a short time, the lives of other people; people braver, smarter, sexier, richer, poorer, meaner, kinder or funnier than we will ever be. It a tough gig. Many are called, but few are chosen. And those who are chosen struggle to do their work well and stay employed in a highly competitive and very skittish industry. It would be nice, if those who write about the entertainment business had a little respect for those realities -- especially in these days and times when gay and lesbian actors often find themselves caught between staying employed or joining the urgent and historic fight that’s going on right now for the basic civil rights long denied to our community.

Sadly, there are still a few very well-established (and in some cases, quite famous) actors, musicians and even news anchors, who have not yet come out as being gay. And that’s their business. As much as I personally would appreciate their going public, opinion pieces like this one make it clear why they don't. I'm not sure why Newsweek would publish something like this since it seems to further no one's agenda except maybe Mr. Setoodeh’s, who I'm guessing wants to be considered a "cool gay”; someone who has the guts to point out the “elephant in the room” as he puts it. Personally, I think the “elephant” here is actually Mr. Setoodeh, whose tone seems to suggest he rather enjoys playing the role of long-awaited “truth-teller,” when in fact, his article comes off as little more than a thinly-veiled, juvenile attempt to embarrass some very accomplished and quite courageous people.

Sincerely,
David Dean Bottrell

Copyright 2010 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at www.partsandlabor.tv

Twitter: http://twitter.com/QuitcherBitchyn

Sign Language

2010-05-03T11:53:00.001-07:00

After several anxious months, the Hollywood community breathed a collective sigh of relief last week when it was announced that the land above the world-famous “Hollywood” sign had been saved from the clutches of developers who had planned to construct a series of luxury homes along the sight.

When the plan to build "McMansions" around one of L.A.’s only recognizable landmarks was announced, there was a panic. The Trust for Public Land quickly launched a campaign to raise the 12.5 million needed to save the hillside. I remember being in my car when I heard the news and vowed that the second I got home, I was going to write a check for the “Save the Peak” fund. However, when I got home and looked at my bank balance, I decided that perhaps I should leave saving the sign to some of Hollywood’s more famous and better-funded citizens. After all they had saved the sign once before in the 1970’s when it had fallen into terrible disrepair. Surely, this would all be resolved by the end of the week.

It wasn’t. Things started getting serious. A deadline was announced and gradually a few heavy-hitters started chipping in, but it wasn’t looking good. However, this being Hollywood, there was a happy ending when last week Hugh Heftner stepped up (at the last possible second) and saved the day, donating the final $900,000 needed to purchase the adjoining land. As my friend, Phil put it, “Ah, the power of naked women.”

When I heard the good news, I was again in my car on the east side of town, so I decided to swing over to Gower Avenue which when you’re traveling north, has a spectacular view of the sign. I flashed back to my first (and only) real encounter with the sign back in the mid-1980’s. It was my first scouting trip to Los Angeles. I was a young idealistic guy who’d put down roots in the theatre community in New York, but the allure of L.A. was hard to ignore. I’d decided to check it out.

I was staying in Laurel Canyon with an old roommate of mine who, unlike me, was always up for an adventure. It was the morning after one of her famous kick-ass parties and several of the party guests were still there; sprawled out over on various couches and chairs, when our hostess announced that, hung-over or not, we were all going to hike up to the Hollywood sign. Being new to these parts, I had no idea what that entailed.

As it turns out, you’re not actually supposed to hike up to the sign. There are fences and sternly-worded signs that make it pretty clear that the steep footing around the sign is not safe and the city is uninterested in hauling your broken corpse up from the canyon at taxpayers’ expense. That however, didn’t deter my friend or her posse. Up we went.

Once there, I have to admit it was pretty magical. The view was amazing and to a young, but already jaded East Coaster like myself, the whole concept of movie-makers having come to this rugged landscape, and carved out an empire was sort of thrilling. A couple of members of our party managed to climb up into the “O” next to the “H” and pictures were taken. It was then decided by our fearless leader that we would continue up the hillside to explore what appeared to be a radio station at the very top of the peak.

Just as we reached it, one of our party took a tumble and got a nasty gash in his leg. As we leaned him against the chain link fence around the station to examine the wound, I began to notice signs posted on the fence that were even more ominous the ones we’d already ignored. These signs were bigger and used phrases like “penalty of law” and “you will be arrested.” Then suddenly, a loud electronic voice blared at us; warning us that we were trespassing and that the police had been called. This scared the shit out of us, since the small “station” appeared to utterly unmanned. Clearly, we were being watched on hidden camera. My former roommate, never one to be easily intimidated, yelled back at the disembodied voice that one of us was injured and he needed to “cool his jets” (a phrase that was popular in the 80’s).

As we tried to determine if our friend was going to be able to hike back down the mountain, a figure emerged from the station and approached. If we were anxious before, this guy took things to a whole new level. Disheveled and overweight, with stringy, longish hair, pasty-white skin and beady little eyes, he looked like something out of a horror movie. His appearance could best be described as “mole-like.” Covering his eyes with his hand, he squinted at us as if he hadn’t seen human beings (or the sun) in quite some time. Ambling up, he began to quiz us from his side of the fence in a strange gravely voice.

We explained our situation and said we’d be off the property as soon as our friend (who was suddenly feeling much better) could walk. Pasty man began to back off his defensive stance within a minute or so, and launched into a rather lengthy explanation of the history and purpose of the station – an explanation none of us had asked for. Apparently, it was one of several underground, emergency communication centers for the city of Los Angeles and was staffed 24-7 in case of a big disaster like an earthquake or a terrorist attack. I remember at the time, thinking “terrorist attack?” But this was the 80’s when such things seemed utterly ludicrous to most Americans. To me, the guy seemed a little lonely. He was clearly the only person on duty and appeared glad just to have somebody to talk to.

Eventually, we got our injured soldier on his feet and started back down the hillside. Pasty waved at us, then oddly stood at the fence, his hands jammed in his pockets, and watched us for quite a while as we made our way down the hillside. The image of the station, the weird pasty guy and the towering letters spelling out “Hollywood” sort of embedded themselves into my consciousness. I wondered if I could ever really fit into such a strange place; a town almost entirely made up of optimistic newcomers. A place without much history and no discernable weather. An arid patch of mountainous desert slammed up against a massive ocean. A teaming city of cars constantly in motion; going somewhere; in pursuit of something. And all of this nuttiness perched atop a massive ever-shifting fault line that could reduce it all to rubble at any moment. I told myself I’d have to be crazy to move here. Six years (and two failed attempts later) I did. Eighteen years later, I’m still here. Still a newcomer. Still optimistic. Still nervous.

Copyright 2010 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at www.partsandlabor.tv

Shameless self-promotion: http://daviddeanbottrell.blogspot.com/2010/04/thank-you-los-angeles-times.html

Without a Doubt

2010-04-25T20:44:00.000-07:00

I can’t believe it happened again. But it did.

Our story begins 18 months ago, when I had an idea for a new spec script. The concept felt fresh and timely. Plus, it was a tent pole movie. A big flashy $200,000,000 action-adventure flick based on an obscure folk tale. A quick check on IMDB revealed that nobody had come near the source material in over twenty years. I quickly knocked out a treatment! My version was a total reinvention. I loved it. This idea would reinvigorate my writing career and put me in the big leagues.

Then, I showed my treatment to my manager and a producer friend of mine. Neither of them exactly gushed with enthusiasm. They seemed to see a number of problems with the basic concept of the film and felt the timing was bad for the source material. Although in my heart, I disagreed with their assessment, my enthusiasm began to wither. The treatment was quietly sent back to my “drafts” file to molder away with a few other aging ideas. I moved on, in search of another blockbuster; something more in line with what the “market” was seeking.

Then finally last week, I made a decision. I would dig that treatment out and write it! It was a great idea, Goddamn it! I knew it in my gut. This would be my new spec for 2010! With great bravado I announced my intention to write it to a producer-friend of mine, who informed me that I was a little late. An identical idea based on the same source material had just been sold with some major players attached. It had just been announced in the trades.

I wanted to shoot myself in the head.

The streets of Hollywood are littered with clumps of hair that writers like myself have ripped from our own scalps when we discover that our brilliant idea -- the one we've been mulling over for the last two years -- has been yanked out from under us by some other schmuck who got there first.

We all want to think we’re the talented ones. We’re the ones with our finger on the pulse. We’re the innovators, the mavericks, the trendsetters. It stings when the wet towel of reality slaps us in the face and we’re rudely reminded that there are a great many smart, ambitious people out there who are also plugged into the entertainment zeitgeist.

Goddamn it.

Sadly, this is a lesson that I seem to be destined to learn over and over again. I’ve often allowed a small doubt (especially if expressed by someone else) to blossom into a roadblock. Even more sadly, I have no one to blame but myself. Entertainment is a risky business. Representatives and business associates, when asked for their opinions, tend to err on the side of caution. I get it. Nobody wants to be blamed for having steered a friend or client in the wrong direction, causing them to waste a ton of time on an idea that might never sell. For many of us, all we need is the slightest shadow of a doubt and - bang! - we abandon our idea and go searching for something more commercial, more perfect, more safe.

What is so infuriating about these situations is that we should all know better. The most successful projects I’ve worked on were all born out of an impulse; a flash of brilliance that seemed to come out of nowhere. Each of these projects seemed to instantly possess it's own vivid, truth-filled life. All that was needed was someone to commit it paper. Almost without exception, when I listened to that impulse – and ACTED on it -- the project seemed to do itself.

If you are in possession of what you think is a great idea, I have a piece of advice for you: Don’t talk about it. Instead, treat it like a new toy. Take it out of the box and start playing with it right away. Squeeze it. Bounce it against the wall a couple of times. If it breaks, it wasn’t such a great idea after all. But if it continues to keep you engaged and entertained; if it gets bigger; more vivid; more full of possibilities, you might be onto something.

And why do I advise you to not talk about it? Because unfortunately, being creative means living in a perpetual state of insecurity. We are all a little scared of taking responsibility for our talent. We all want some reassurance that we’re clever and deserving of success. Talking about your ideas to your friends can actually create that warm, fuzzy feeling. Having your buddies serenade you with a few choruses of “Wow! That’s a great idea!” will satisfy your ego and your ego could care less if you ever write that script.

Mark my words, friends. Praise for an idea is nothing but a hand job. It’s nice, but there are better things out there.

If you truly think your idea is good, make it better. Then, make it great. Just do it.

Being ballsy is a gift. Most of the true innovators in this business possess an extraordinary ability to say “yes” to their own ideas when those “in the know” are busy saying “that'll never work.” Do the names Tarantino and Cameron ring a bell? The good news is that being ballsy can be learned. Not to get too spiritual about this, but having talent means that for reasons no one fully understands, you are connected to an ever flowing stream of ideas. They are not just “product” for the studio. They are your reason for doing this with your life. Treat your ideas like your offspring. Conceive them. Grow them. Deliver them into the world.

In case you’re wondering why I’m delivering this little pep talk, it’s because apparently (based on recent events) I need to hear it myself. Over and over. As many times as it takes until I learn to stop farting around and start saying “yes.”

Copyright 2010 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at www.partsandlabor.tv

Shameless self-promotion: http://daviddeanbottrell.blogspot.com/2010/04/thank-you-los-angeles-times.html

"STREEP TEASE" has been extended through May 22nd.
TICKETS: http://www.bangstudio.com/streep-tease

Forgiveness, Folding Chairs and Ms. Goldberg

2010-04-18T21:22:00.000-07:00

Recently, something happened in my show business career that truly pissed me off. For reasons that will soon become apparent, I’m going to stay vague on the details.

Basically, it wasn’t so much what went down, but how it was handled. Happily, there were a couple of other disgruntled parties involved, so soon the emails and texts were flying around like mad. A few backs got stabbed. A couple of characters were assassinated. And lots of pointless, upsetting drama was created. In the end, it all worked out reasonably well and everyone involved consoled themselves by saying those magic words, “It’s just business.”

Show business has never felt much like “business” to me. No matter where you are in the pecking order, from powerful executive to “background extra,” show folk tend to take things very personally. I guess that’s because here in Hollywood, Monday’s powerful executive is only one flop away from being Tuesday’s has-been -- while Wednesday’s background actor can quickly become Friday’s mega-star. In the entertainment industry, such things actually happen, so when shit goes down, we can get a little tense; sometimes causing us to say and do things we later regret.

I wish I could tell you that I, David Dean Bottrell, have always stayed blissfully above the fray, but that would be a big fat lie. A couple of times, in the heat of battle, I’ve behaved like less than a gentleman and in hindsight, there are a few moments in time I wish I could take back.

Like for instance that time I was trapped in a very unhappy collaboration with another writer who I thought was my friend. We were both young – well, we weren’t that young -- but we were inexperienced and our script was getting some heat. Unfortunately when that heat turned into a boil, we ceased to agree on anything and our friendship got scalded to death in the process. Things got ugly and the whole thing culminated with me leaving a long, horrible, expletive-filled message on my collaborator’s voicemail. It felt fantastic at the moment I was doing it. Not so fantastic ten minutes later.

So why did I act like such a butt-hole? Because no matter how much we try to laugh and be philosophical about it, you can only take so many hits in this business before you start to crack a little. Catching a break isn’t easy and when you start to think somebody is fucking with your break, screwing with your carefully-crafted work or in general, derailing a career you’ve starved and bled for, it can easily bring out the “kill or be killed” instinct.

Over time, I’ve gotten pretty good at cleaning up my messes and making amends where needed. Bad moments, if not properly jettisoned, can turn into a part of our history. That phone message still haunts me, mostly because what came out of my mouth that day was deeply personal, really hateful and totally uncalled for. In my defense, the other party involved was not exactly on their best behavior at the time and had for 18 months forced me into an untenable position and then blamed me for everything that had gone wrong as a result. Although, I later appologized face-to-face for my outburst, I was not forgiven. And that made me even madder. The importance of letting go of past grievances arrived for me one day in a very unexpected way.

A movie I had written was in pre-production and I had been invited to a meeting with the director, the producer and star of the film. The star was Whoopi Goldberg; an actor I’d always admired. I'd never had a meeting with a star before and was more than a little nervous about it. When I located the old production building where the meeting was to be held and climbed the dusty metal stairs to the assigned room, I found Ms. Goldberg patiently waiting by herself in the hallway. Apparently, both the director and the producer had been delayed and the room was locked.

I apologized profusely (even thought it wasn’t my fault) and managed to flag down one of those guys with keys on their belt to open the room. Once inside, I discovered it was completely empty except for a stack of folding tables and chairs shoved against the far wall. Again, I apologized to Ms. Goldberg and assured her that if she would just give me a minute, I would set up the room for our meeting. Surprisingly, she offered to help me. “What else am I doing?” she said with a shrug.

Soon, I found myself on my knees beside Whoopi Goldberg; both of us unfolding table legs as if we were doing some low-paying catering job. Gradually, our conversation drifted to the script and she asked me why I had written it. I told her the truth which was that the story was loosely based on my family’s history and my goal had been to write about the subject of forgiveness. As we settled, slightly winded, into our chairs, she nodded, saying that this was exactly what had attracted her to the script. “Until you forgive,” she said slowly, “You’re not really free.” I was stunned by the simplicity and accuracy of the statement. Suddenly, in my eyes, not only was Whoopi Goldberg a fabulous actress, she was also a Saint.

Once we got into production, I would learn that Whoopi was not a saint. She was a human being who had mostly good days, followed by an occasional bad one. But even then, I saw her move through the rough patches with professionalism and no small amount of grace. Grudges were not her style. She practiced what she preached.

In a business where we are constantly tested and forced to compete for even the crappiest of jobs, it’s hard not to harbor some resentments. It’s tough to let go of what was planned (even if it was only planned in our imaginations). Blame is a sloppy thing to fling around. It can often splash back on ourselves; filling us with sharp regrets about some decision we made or project that never came to be. Ms. Goldberg was right in recognizing how simple the equation is. Forgiveness for the lost job, the bad boss, the “not-so-talented-but-more-successful” peer and most importantly -- forgiveness for ourselves is the key to achieving any kind of real success; personal or professional. If you can lay down the stone, you’re hands (and heart) are at last free to create. Amen.

Copyright 2010 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.

Bio:
David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at http://www.partsandlabor.tv/

Twitter:
http://twitter.com/QuitcherBitchyn

Shameless Self-Promotion: http://daviddeanbottrell.blogspot.com/2010/04/thank-you-los-angeles-times.html

Sweet Charity

2010-04-12T15:22:00.000-07:00

There have been a lot of news stories lately about celebrities showing up to raise awareness and funds for some of the areas of the world that have been ravaged by natural disasters. Most major diseases and political causes can usually count on a celebrity or two to fill the seats at a $1,000 a plate dinner. But what about smaller charities? Where do they turn when they need a name to put on the poster? They turn to people like me.

Let's make something clear right up front. I’m not a celebrity. I have no delusions about that. I’m just a guy who was on a TV show for a short while. According to IMDB.COM (a website that tracks how many hits a particular celebrity gets on a weekly basis), my “Star Meter” rating is 31,129 – meaning that there are at least 31,128 people more famous than me. Considering how many names there are in the data base, that ain’t bad. But I’m a long way from having my name above any titles.

Most of the charity events I’ve attended as a “name” have been small affairs. We’re talking “street fair” kind of events usually with paper name tags. Some have been nicer, in that there was an actual roof over our heads and the dinner was served on real plates. They’re usually fun and I don't think I've ever said no when asked.

A few years ago, I was invited to be the grand marshal of the Seattle Gay Pride parade and help raise some funds for a couple of Gay charities. I’d never been to Seattle, so I was excited. That is until I arrived and discovered that I had actually been invited to be "the guest of honor" at the Seattle Pride “March” which was a whole other deal.

The “March” was a much smaller, competing event that had sprung up because of a rift among Seattle’s Gay community involving the course of the parade route. Instead of sitting on a float or perched on the back seat of a convertible, I would instead be riding a segway through the Capital Hill section of town, followed by a half a dozen drag queens (also on segways).

Five minutes before show time, each of us received a quick tutorial on how to operate one of these wacky devices. We were strongly advised to stay far from the crowds lining the street in order to avoid any unfortunate accidents involving bystanders. Although I managed to hover toward the middle of the street, my royal court began to get cocky after the first block or so and started riding backwards and doing figure-eights, much to the delight of the crowd. Everybody loved it, but as my mother used to say, “It’s all fun and games until somebody gets hurt.” Let me tell you, you haven’t lived until you’ve witnessed a 3-drag queen pile-up.

Last summer, my friend Pauley Perrette (a gal who does way more than her share of charity events) called me up and asked if I would be her co-host at a Sunday afternoon fundraising event for an organization that offered “Equestrian therapy” for disabled kids. The event was deep in the valley and I was sure Pauley mostly wanted some company for the drive up and back. I was happy to tag along.

The fundraiser was held on a large patio of a local restaurant that I would later learn had been a popular hangout for the Hell’s Angels in the 70's. Neither of us knew until we arrived that the event was scheduled to run for five hours. Every hour on the hour, our job was to mount the stage, where an Eagles cover band was playing, and auction off stuff for the cause. After the first couple of beers, we got pretty good at it. In fact, when we ran out of stuff, we starting pulling things out of Pauley’s slightly messy car, which she would then sign; magically turning an old T-shirt or a coffee-stained "NCIS" script into a valuable prize!

In between sets, we mingled with the crowd. Everybody treated us like visiting royalty. Well, they treated Pauley like royalty – which was no surprise given how popular her show is. Plus it wasn’t really a “Boston Legal” crowd. There were lots of families and quite a few children with disabilities. Then they showed the video of these young people learning to ride horses at the equestrian therapy stables. To see these kids experience such freedom and joy on the back of a horse was tremendously moving. Pauley and I stayed to the bitter end and sold everything that wasn’t nailed down.

On the ride home, we talked about how grateful we are for the lives we’ve been granted. Not only do we get to entertain people for a living, but we are the beneficiaries of this great storehouse of unearned affection and loyalty. This allows us to ask our “fans” (AKA people we don’t even know) to come out for an afternoon, enjoy themselves and contribute to the lives of others less fortunate. I’m not a guy who has a lot of spare cash lying around, but I've learned something in the last few years. Although I can’t print money, I can actually make time. And time can mean quite a lot to the lives of other people. As long as I’ve got it, I’m happy to share it.

Copyright 2010 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at www.partsandlabor.tv

Follow me on Twitter: http://twitter.com/QuitcherBitchyn

Shameless!

2010-04-04T20:08:00.000-07:00

When I was a young actor I was pretty damned determined to “make it.” To me this meant I had no choice but to nag the hell out of any and all potential employers. Every time I booked a job, I made sure every living person in show business knew about it. I mailed zillions of flyers, photocopied reviews and used a yellow highlighter to make sure that any favorable mentions I got were easy to spot!

Between acting gigs, I had an ongoing gig managing a hectic Manhattan real estate office. This was the 80’s when the property market in New York was exploding, so the atmosphere in that place was utterly insane. This made it quite easy for me to steal prodigious amounts of office supplies. I'll no doubt rot in Hell someday for all the envelopes, paper and postage I crammed into my backpack every week. Somehow, I managed to rationalize my thievery by telling myself I was “allowing” these money-crazed brokers to make an inadvertent “donation to the arts.”

In the privacy of my studio apartment, I was a one-man P.R. factory, constantly reminding every agent, casting person and artistic director on the east coast that I was the new voice of the American Theatre and that they should hire me now – while they had the chance! Amazingly, it sort of worked. I can still remember booking a job at a regional theatre in Philadelphia where I'd wanted to work for some time. On the first day of rehearsal, I spotted the artistic director in the lobby; a man who had been on my mailing list for well over a year. Brown-noser that I was, I strode over, shook his hand and said how pleased I was to be working for him. He smiled patiently at me and said “You were very good in your audition, but basically I hired you, so you’d stop sending me things.”

Over time, I learned to relax the manic self-promotion. First off, it became pretty clear that I was not the new voice of the American Theatre. I was just another energetic player on the field. Also, I became a writer and endless glad-handing tends to make people wonder when the hell you have time to do any writing.

Memories of my self-promoting days have been flooding back lately, due to my recent return to performing live again after a very long hiatus. Live performance is not (and never has been) a big cash cow. But it’s fun and it’s important for artists and audiences to get together in the same room once in a while and say hello. It also allows creative types to stretch and redefine themselves. One of the major reasons I’ve been doing these shows is to hopefully convince a few people in the industry that I might be able to play something other than a drooling psychopath.

Much has changed since my days of stealing office supplies. Now, we have email, Facebook and Twitter. For a borderline OCD sufferer like myself, this is something of a nightmare. Now the number of people I can harass has shot into the thousands! Of course, I fully understand that most of these messages and postings get deleted the millisecond the recipient spots them in their inbox. So why do it? Because it works.

I once got a powerful producer to read (and option) a script of mine because of a random email I sent her. I once got an acting job on a TV show because I sent a postcard to the casting director I'd never met – a postcard! Another time, I got my short film into a big deal festival because I happened to have a business card in my pocket at a party. For the thousand “messages in a bottle” that we cast out into the ocean, occasionally one of them actually washes up on the right shore -- at the right moment in time.

When I mentor young actors and writers, I talk about the importance of keeping busy, but I also talk about the importance of letting people know that you are busy. For a lot of us, the whole idea of self-promotion is mortifying. I understand, because at our core, most artists are shy. And there is, of course, a fine line between promoting yourself and coming off like a self-aggrandizing asshole -- a line I may well have passed over once or twice in my career. These days, I have a few hard and fast rules about promotion; the first one being that I don’t promote myself; I promote what I’m doing - and there is a big difference between the two. Second, I never promote anything that’s boring or a piece of shit – and yes, I’ve done some shit in my day. I also try to be light-hearted about it and make my promotions entertaining and not repetive. And the final (and most important) rule is that I never expect my promotions to have any effect whatsoever. That way if someone does respond, it’s quite a pleasant surprise.

Entertainment is one of the few businesses where talk is not cheap. In fact, it’s a highly valuable currency. The business lives on chatter. If you don’t have an agent or manager (or if you’re not happy with the number of appointments you’re getting) then you need to find a way to join the conversation. It’s not that hard. Just find something to do – hopefully something that, even if it’s not immediately profitable, is at least fun for you. When you run into a potential employer at a party and they ask what you’ve been up to, you don’t want to say “Absolutely nothing. How about you?”

It somehow seems fitting that I should end this particular entry by ever-so-casually mentioning that I just happened to be appearing in a very funny show called “Streep Tease” at the Bang Comedy Theater here in Los Angeles through April 24th. I guess it might be pushing it to say that the Daily Beast called it “Side-Splitting” and BroadwayWorld.com deemed it “A Gem of a Show.” Too much? Okay, well maybe I'll just close by providing you with this handy link where you can order tickets! http://www.bangstudio.com/streep-tease/

Have a great week, Hollywood! Make a dent!

Copyright 2010 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at http://www.partsandlabor.tv/

Follow me on Twitter: http://twitter.com/QuitcherBitchyn

Checked Baggage

2010-03-28T20:10:00.001-07:00

Dear Readers -- It's been a crazy week and I've got lines to learn for a short film I'm shooting tomorrow, so instead of the usual "Parts and Labor" entry, I'd like to offer you the POV column I wrote for this month's Travel edition of Metrosource Magazine. I'll be back next week with more fun tales from Hollywood. -- D.

I hate to admit it, but I’m not a great traveler. It’s not that I don’t like seeing fabulous new places, I just don’t like the process of getting there. I tend to over-pack; thinking that I might actually need seven changes of clothes for a three-day trip. Airports, which I never liked much to begin with, have now become nightmarish with all the new security precautions. Plus being a bit of a hermit, I’m not a big fan of mingling with the general public.

Adding to the anxiety is my somewhat unlucky track record as a traveler. I’m the only person I know who has been in both a train derailment and an emergency aircraft landing. The first instance happened when I was a college student. A bunch of us had gone on a hell-raising trip to New Orleans and after 24 hours of non-stop drinking, we boarded a train back to school. Around 4:00 AM, just outside of Memphis, I was standing in the aisle chatting up some cute sophomore, when suddenly, the train jumped the tracks. Having been blessed with long, monkey-like arms, I grabbed the two luggage racks and swung back and forth until the car finally embedded itself in a patch of swampy ground. It was scary, but at age eighteen, the idea that we all might be about to die, never occurred to me. It felt more like a ride at Six Flags that had ended too soon.

Ten years later, I was aboard an airliner that flew into a violent storm. When the flight attendants strapped themselves in, I knew we were done for. Turning to the utterly silent Asian woman next to me, I launched into a lengthy monologue in an effort to assure her (and myself) that everything would be alright. As I yammering on non-stop for about an hour, I was comforted by my travelling companion’s steady gaze and occasional sympathetic nods. It was only after we touched down that I realized she spoke no English and hadn’t understood a word I’d said.

Despite these experiences, I continued to travel as needed. But the truth is that every time I boarded a commercial aircraft, I was fighting hard to suppress thoughts about death -- Horrible fiery death complete with charred debris scattered over some cornfield. I thought I had conquered my fear until about five years ago when a new complication appeared.

The sun was shining as I boarded my fight from Regan National headed back to L.A. Settling into my aisle seat, I cracked open my copy of People magazine. I felt perfectly relaxed until the flight attendants closed the cabin door. Out of nowhere, my chest tightened. I couldn’t breathe. All I could think about was how there couldn’t possibly be enough oxygen in here to last for the next five hours! I struggled to reason with my panicking brain. I had been on a great many flights. Sure, they sometimes ran out of peanuts, but they had never run out of air.

Forcing deep breathes into my lungs; I held them for a count of three before slowly releasing them. My life began to flash before my eyes. And happily, it had been a very good life indeed. I’d had loving parents and a good education. I’d blazed a trail for myself in a very tough profession and had, over the years, managed to make a good many people laugh. I’d volunteered for charities, made wonderful friends, eaten delicious food and had more than my share of sweaty, mattress-pounding sex. What else was there to life? If this was the end, I’d at least spent it well. Finally, after about 45 excruciating minutes, my breathing began to return to normal; fueled by a flimsy promise that if I got off this plane alive, I’d never fly again.

I, of course, did fly again. I’m flying home next week to celebrate my father’s 80th birthday; something I wouldn’t miss for the world. I’d be lying if I said I no longer get nervous about it. Like many, I do occasionally think about mechanical failures, wind shears and if perhaps the guy next to me is wearing exploding underpants. However, the metaphor of leaving the ground is not lost on me. We all need to relinquish control at times and remember that fear (rational or irrational) is something every human being walks through from time to time. Victory lies in the deep breath and the knowledge that most of the situations we face in our journeys are quite survivable. Let’s face it. In the end, to withdraw from life is a fate much worse than death.

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at www.partsandlabor.tv

Come see L.A.’s newest underground comedy sensation, “STREEP TEASE: An Evening of Meryl Streep monologues performed by an all-male company.” Saturday nights @ 8 PM. Bang Comedy Theater, Los Angeles. Cast: David Dean Bottrell, Roy Cruz, Drew Droege, Steve Hasley, Ron Morehouse, Taylor Negron, Mike Rose, & Trent Walker. Tickets: http://www.bangstudio.com/streep-tease/

Magic Envelopes!

2010-03-21T11:54:00.000-07:00

I’m usually upstairs in my office when the postal carrier arrives, but the second I hear the creak and clank of the mail slot opening, I bound down the stairs like an Olympic sprinter to see if maybe, possibly today’s mail has brought me that which every entertainment professional hopes for: A magic envelope!

The magic envelopes I’m referring to are residual checks; wonderful little reminders that your work is still being seen on cable TV or sold on DVD, etc. Last week, I got not one, but two magic envelopes. One was for a HBO movie I did seventeen years ago. I only had one line, but I got to deliver it to Matthew Modine, so it felt like a big deal at the time. The scene also featured Lily Tomlin, Phil Collins and Sir Ian McKellen, so it was hugely fun to hang out with them between takes. Apparently the film is still being shown somewhere since the production company felt obliged to issue me a check for 43 cents - one cent less than the postage required to mail it to me. That’s okay. I’ll take it.

The second check was for the first network rerun of an episode of "Criminal Minds," I did about a year ago. First reruns on network TV are the bomb because they represent a much larger chunk of change. I have nothing but happy memories of filming that episode since I got to play an emotionally unstable scientist who was trying to plant an Anthrax bomb in a D.C. subway station. It was very fun to shoot the big confrontation scene because I got to scream the one line that all actors live to say: “Don’t come any closer or I’ll blow us all up!”

Occasionally, I get magic envelopes from an ancient episode of “JAG” where I played a white-trash convict, who along with a couple of other bad guys, escaped from a military prison and kidnapped the leading lady of the series. Our getaway vehicle of choice was an old bus - which didn’t make much sense, but was incorporated into the story because the producers happened to have some file footage of a similar-looking bus going off a cliff. Given that nobody in the cast could follow the extremely convoluted plot, it was sort of ironic that when the episode got behind schedule and my big death scene was cut, my character was shot off-screen because I “knew too much.”

Since I also have a career as a writer, magic envelopes can also come from screenplays and stage plays I’ve written over the years. Although, I’ve never gotten rich from residual checks, they are always a welcome sight. And I thank my two wonderful unions, SAG and the WGA for having made these magic envelopes possible.

Although the original thinking was that artists should participate in the profits being earned by the recycling of their work, the most revolutionary outcome of this plan was that for the first time in the history of show business, it became possible for lesser-known artists working in TV and film to actually become respected, middle-class citizens. Finally, instead of living like vagabond gypsies, one could buy a nice little place in the Valley and raise some kids.

Without residual income many of us would be forced into having “day jobs” to make ends meet. Not that there’s any shame in that, but at a certain point in your career, you don’t want to be going over the specials with impatient diners. You need to start feeling (and living) like a professional. Residuals dignify a business that can be pretty rough on its rank-and-file workers.

As we approach the next round of SAG-AFTRA-WGA negotiations, we will need to keep a close eye on the future of residuals. Our new employers, most of whom now fall into the mega-corporation category, are none too keen on the old system of sharing the wealth with the drones who originally built the castle. Tough shit, I say. If our bosses want their products to remain even marginally entertaining, they need talented, experienced professionals to pull that off. And talented, experienced professionals have got bills to pay.

At the top of this post, I’ve included a photo of the smallest residual payment I’ve received to date. It’s a check for three cents I got a couple of years ago for an episode of a sit-com I shot in back in 1989. It was a horrible traumatic experience that drove me out of acting for a number of years -- mostly because I didn’t understand at the time that show sets are only as happy as their stars allow them to be. The check is framed and hangs in a place of honor on my office wall. It's there to remind me that my work, good or bad, happy or sad, is always worth something!

Copyright 2010 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at http://www.partsandlabor.tv/

Follow me on Twitter: http://twitter.com/QuitcherBitchyn

The Waiting Room

2010-03-14T19:51:00.000-07:00

I’ve never been a particularly patient person. I came from a family of slow-moving people who seemed to think that life was something that just unfolded on its own terms and our job was merely to roll with the punches. Even as a kid, I hated that philosophy and became determined to force a little excitement into my life. I suppose that willfulness is what initially attracted me to show business. From where I was sitting (far, far from the action) I got the impression entertainment was a fast-moving lifestyle where talented people (like myself!) bounced from one glamorous project to the next.

In my early years, I tried hard to be patient. It was kind of fun to fantasize about my big break. However, my willingness to wait for fame and fortune was firmly rooted in the idea that I wouldn’t be waiting for long. Once the powers-that-be got wind of what brilliant dynamo I was, my dance card would be filled until death. It wasn’t until I was well into my 30’s that I became aware of “The Waiting Room” – the rarely talked-about place where we creative types spend quite a lot of our time.

Recently, I was asked to teach a workshop at AFTRA on the fine art of auditioning. As I looked out at the crowd, I saw a remarkable cross-section of faces; young, old, optimistic, beaten-down; plus a few folks who appeared to have been recently lobotomized. In an effort to address the often anxiety-producing subject of auditioning, I jauntily reminded the crowd that auditions were actually just an opportunity to act -- something we all liked to do! When that didn’t get quite response I’d hoped for, I stuck my neck out a little further and tried to point out why it was important to seize any opportunity to act -- even if it was only for a few minutes in a casting director’s office -- Because most of our careers are not spent acting. They are spent trying to act; hoping to act; waiting to act. I got a few nods from the crowd, but mostly what I saw were glossy stares. Apparently, nobody likes to hear the truth. Not even at a free AFTRA seminar.

Downtime is the toughest part of working in the entertainment business. It can eat away at our confidence; make us feel unwanted, unloved, untalented and unworthy. And sometimes it can lead to some really bad behavior. The healthiest members of our community learn to make peace with The Waiting Room. No matter what we do with our time, some part of us continues to hover impatiently; hoping for our name to be called; our script to be read; our project to be greenlit.

Oddly enough, even if you are employed with some consistency, it doesn’t mean the “waiting” is over. Throughout my 20’s I worked quite a bit as an actor. I was what was known as a “juvenile character type.” I know this because that was what the label said on the filing cabinet where my agent stored my photos. Three or four times a year, I’d cram my laundry into a duffle bag and hop a train to some grimy east coast city where I’d spend a couple of months doing a low-paying theatre gig. The jobs were fun, but not exactly inspiring. I began to wonder how exactly some big deal New York director was going to pluck me from a production of “You Can’t Take It With You” in Buffalo and put me on Broadway. Then one day, my phone rang. A young star had dropped out of an off-Broadway festival of one-act comedies and a “juvenile character type” was quickly needed to replace him. The part fit me like a glove. The festival wound up being reviewed in the New York Times and the critic assigned to it was kind enough to call me “funny and engaging.” Adding to the excitement, the review featured a picture of me in which I actually looked “funny and engaging.” I thought my ship had come in! And in a certain sense it did. Little did I know however, that I was about to be sent back to The Waiting Room – where I paced the floor for another two years before the next decent role came my way.

When I relocated to Hollywood to become a screenwriter, I again thought the wait was over. A wacky script I’d written called “Sacred Estates” was blasting down doors for me all over town. It seemed like all of Hollywood was shouting en masse “Where the hell have you been?!” It was hugely exciting! Finally, I was in the enviable position of creating jobs instead of waiting for them! At last, the chains were off my ankles. I was going to make movies! Since that time, I’ve written a great many screenplays and been paid well for my time. To date, only one of those scripts has ever been made.

I have one project that I sold on a pitch in 2002. In the last eight years, there have been four directors and two movie stars attached. It has gone into turn-around three times and has been announced in the trades at least twice as being “in production.” At one point, an actual production office existed with people sitting at desks – that is before the studio pulled the plug at the last second. Two years ago, I was summoned back to rewrite it as a musical, because musicals were back “in.” For a while, things were looking good. Then as I watched the dreary box office numbers roll in for Rob Marshall’s adaptation of the musical “Nine,” I began to wonder if my project was again headed back to The Waiting Room.

Creative people were born to create. Not fulfilling that instinct can be deadly. I constantly badger my students to stay engaged in some form of creative expression at all costs. And I try to practice what I preach. The last thing you want is to be slumped in your chair, sodden with self-pity when the door opens and your name is called. We are gamblers. And gamblers live on faith. A few weeks ago, I asked my new manager if he thought that particular, now 8 year-old movie would ever see the light of day. My manager is a smart guy; a true Hollywood veteran with an almost legendary reputation of moving scripts and writers through the studio maze. “Yes,” he answered, “I think it will eventually get made.” “Why?” I asked. “Because it’s too good an idea. And too many people have almost made it.” Bewildered, I asked what, if anything, I could do to further its cause. “Nothing,” he answered. “You just have to wait and see what happens.”

Copyright 2010 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at www.partsandlabor.tv

Follow me on Twitter: http://twitter.com/QuitcherBitchyn

Pushing the Envelope...

2010-03-06T09:12:00.000-08:00

For those of us who live anywhere near the intersection of Hollywood Boulevard and Highland Avenue in Los Angeles, this is a trying time of year. For the last week, traffic has been snarled for blocks in every direction. Helicopters hover overhead day and night. Busloads of tourists jam our favorite lunch places. Yep, it’s Oscar time again.

I suppose all these petty annoyances are a small price to pay, considering what the Academy Awards do for the entertainment industry. Those little Golden Guys can pump up the box office and restore many flagging careers. They are good for business and God knows we all want business to be good again.

Despite the onslaught of lesser award shows in the past few years, the Oscars are still the granddaddy of them all. Through some tragic oversight, I personally have never been nominated, but I’m not bitter about it. And even though I’ve never even been invited to the ceremonies, I still remain a loyal fan. I don’t think I’ve missed a single telecast since I first discovered the awards when I was about 12 years old. Sadly in the past few years, viewership has started to decline. Not that that should be a big surprise to anyone. Why the hell should it take three hours (or more) to present 24 lousy awards?—Only 5 of which anybody in the viewing audience gives a damn about.

Although it’s pretty clear what and whom will be winning most of the awards on Sunday, there are still a few categories with some suspense hovering around them. This year, I decided to pretend like I’m a big deal entertainment columnist and shoot my mouth off like everybody else seems to be doing. So, working my way backwards from the categories that nobody understands to the big ones people actually stay up to see, I give you my 2010 Oscar predictions:

For “Best Short Film” (“Animated” and “Live Action,” respectively), I predict the winners will be 'A Matter of Loaf and Death' (because it stars Wallace and Grommit) and “China's Unnatural Disaster: The Tears of Sichuan Province.” Truthfully, I haven’t seen either film, so that’s a total guess on my part.

Most of the big tech awards will of course be split between the two most talked about films of the year. The visually groundbreaking “Avatar” will take home “Best Cinematography,” “Best Art Direction,” “Best Visual Effects” and “Best Sound Mixing” and while “The Hurt Locker” will score wins for “Best Film Editing” and “Best Sound Editing” since a major part of that film’s bone-jarring impact was in its brutal, in-your-face editing. For “Best Make-up,” I’d have to go with “Star Trek” since the other two nominees are relatively obscure movies that few people saw, while “Young Victoria” will no doubt take “Best Costuming” because of the Academy’s enduring love for really big dresses.

“Best Foreign Language Film” is always a little tricky to call, but I’m going with Germany’s entry “The White Ribbon” because it’s gotten the most press. Short documentary will go to “The Last Truck: Closing of a GM Plant” while “The Cove” will take the feature doc award. Why? Because we here in Hollywood all feel very bad about the demise of the U.S. Auto industry and nobody likes seeing dolphins being killed.

Although this year’s “Best Animated Feature” category is crammed with excellent options, I suspect that “Up” will take the prize because it’s a terrific flick that continues Pixar’s stellar record of producing fantastic films that anybody of any age can enjoy. I also predict that “Up” will win “Best Score.” “Best Song” will go to “The Weary Kind” from “Crazy Heart” because it’s the only tune nominated that anyone remembers.

As you probably expected, I’ve got some strong feelings about the screenwriting categories. Although I think that Geoffrey Fletcher should win for his amazing adaption of “Precious,” I suspect that the “Best Adapted Screenplay” Oscar will go to Jason Reitman and Sheldon Turner for “Up in the Air.” This will act as a sort of consolation prize since it will probably be the only award that “Up in the Air” will win on Sunday. A similar fate will befall Quentin Tarentino’s “Inglourious Basterds” which will no doubt win a much-deserved “Best Original Screenplay” statuette. In my humble opinion, if “Basterds” had been released in a non-Avatar year, it might well have gone home with shitload of major prizes. I know Tarrantino is not everybody’s thing, but I thought this film was genius.

The best supporting actor and actress categories are no-brainers. In the last few weeks, Mo’Nique (“Precious”) and Christoph Waltz (“Inglourious Basterds”) have bagged every major prize in sight – and for good reason. Both of these actors turned in performances that redefined how a “villain” can be played on screen. It’s no easy thing to put a human face on despicable behavior and then (at least in Mo’Nique’s case) make the audience feel genuine sorrow for the perpetrator. Congrats to both.

Despite the best attempts of a few hardworking press agents to create a “Meryl vs Sandra” horse race, Sandra Bullock will win “Best Actress” for “The Blind Side.” Ms. Bullock has, in her years in Hollywood, been a real team player and has also managed to generate about 45 million in box office revenues this year alone. Plus, she’s terrific in the film and elevates what could easily have been little more than a limp movie of the week into something genuinely moving. I do feel a little bad that Meryl keeps having to get dressed up year after year to show up for these presentations; this being her sixteenth time. But she already has two statuettes (both for iconic performances), plus she’s still working at the top of her game at age sixty. So it’s okay.

The “Best Actor” award will finally, finally go to Jeff Bridges for “Crazy Heart”; a so-so film that’s held together by his beautifully calibrated and utterly honest turn as a fallen-from-grace country singer struggling for redemption. This guy should have been given an Oscar 25 years ago when he was knocking out truly terrific performances in films like “The Fabulous Baker Boys,” but better late than never. I gotta hand it to the Academy, in that sometimes they do double back and right their wrongs.

And now for the juicy stuff! For the first time in the history of the Oscars, an ex-husband and ex-wife are competing for the “Best Director” Oscar. And guess what, kids? It’s going to go to Katherine Bigelow for “The Hurt Locker.” We elected a black president. Now, we’re going to pick a woman as “Best Director.” About time! I wasn’t a huge fan of the script, but Ms. Bigelow skillfully took us right to the front lines of a gritty and unwanted war that most of us have only experienced in sound bites. “The Hurt Locker” was the first American film about Iraq that managed to avoid preachiness and instead offered us a good, sickening, up-close look at what we reap whenever we chose to wage war on one other. Bravo.

However, we need not shed any tears for Ms. Bigelow’s former husband, James Cameron whose visionary work, “Avatar” will take home the big prize for “Best Picture” (as well it should). I went to see “Avatar” kicking and screaming, because I generally hate films that depend heavily on CGI to dazzle us. I went totally expecting to be underwhelmed. Boy, was I wrong. Mr. Cameron’s 15-year wait for technology to catch up with his vision turned out to be well worth it. Amazingly, his movie – which takes place on an Eden-like imaginary world - actually managed to make audiences think a little about their own planet. Impressive. And the box office wasn’t so bad either! The guy’s quite a showman and I can’t wait to see what he does next.

So, my friends, that wraps up my predictions for the 2010 Oscar race -- and the timing is perfect because (even as I finish typing this) yet another freakin' helicopter has stationed itself over my house with its cameras trained on the Kodak theatre – and the damn awards don’t even start until Sunday afternoon.

Copyright 2010 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at www.partsandlabor.tv

Follow me on Twitter: http://twitter.com/QuitcherBitchyn

He's Got a Ticket to Ride, But He Don't Care

2010-02-28T00:44:00.000-08:00

Recently, I was reading in one of the entertainment rags that in 2009, Steven Spielberg was paid $50 million dollars by Universal for theme-park royalties based on his movies. It made me wonder if Steve (as I like to call him) might be interested in designing a ride based on my life.

About a month ago, something happened to me that I wasn’t really expecting. I was struck with a very real bout of despair. I’m not talking about the to-be-expected mood swings that come along with being in the entertainment business. I’m talking about an uncontrollable freefall into the ninth circle of hopeless hell.

I’d just come back from visiting my oddball family, which to be honest, can sometimes put me in a vulnerable place. Dropping my luggage just inside the door, I gathered up my unopened mail and began to sort through it. Among the restaurant menus and union magazines that I never read, were two unexpected bills. I supposed “unexpected” is the wrong word, in that I knew they would be arriving at some point, but I didn’t think they’d arrive on the same day. And I didn’t realize just how frighteningly huge they would be. 2009, although very fulfilling in a number of ways, hadn’t exactly been a banner year in the money department. As I stared at these two ginormous invoices, both of which were marked “due on receipt,” I had absolutely no idea how I was going to pay them.

In order to avoid a panic attack, I did what I always do -- I applied a nice thick layer of denial over the whole situation. “Oh, it’ll all work out,” I heard myself say as I tossed the offending bills on the dining room table, but something about the statement sounded hollow and unconvincing. A cloud began to form over my head and for the next two days, I couldn’t shake it. Then midweek, as I sat at my desk, eating a chicken salad sandwich, the earth opened up without warning and I tumbled into the abyss. There was no denying it. I had failed.

Just a few hours before, I had been a working artist. Not famous. No genius, but clever enough to make a living in Hollywood and remain vaguely optimistic about my future. Now suddenly, I was a middle-aged flop. What had happened? Instantly, my mind went leapfrogging backward to my early days when all I wanted in the world was Timothy Hutton’s career. He’d just won the Oscar for “Ordinary People,” playing the same kind of sensitive troubled young man I knew I was born to play. And why hadn’t I been cast in “Mask” instead of Eric Stolz? I was really good in that audition. They’d said so! Surely, if I’d gotten that part, I’d have lots of money now. Plus I’d know Cher.

Having opened the wound, I couldn’t stop pouring on the salt. Why hadn’t I moved to L.A. when I was still young and cute? Why had I clung to that stupid New York actor dream for so long? Or maybe I should never have left New York in the first place! Who knows? By now I might have been a big deal Tony-winner (like my friend Julie White). The slide continued into the following day. Why hadn’t I signed with Agency A instead of Agency B? Why had that guy I used paint apartments with become an A-List writer instead of me? How come my former neighbor was now a gigantic film star and I couldn’t even get a lousy audition for one of her movies? Maybe I should have had children. They’d be young adults by now and could support me. And why hadn’t I won a fucking Emmy for “Boston Legal?” They give out a truckload of those things every year! They couldn’t spare one? Suddenly, I was neck-deep in that awful feeling I'd when I was a kid and it was time to “choose up teams” in gym class. Bespectacled and utterly un-athletic, I was always the last to be picked. Here I was again, standing against the wall. The last to be picked. What the hell had happened to me? What had gone wrong?

Clearly, it was time to take action. I might not have enough money to pay my bills, but I sure as hell had enough to purchase a pint of Häagen-Dazs, a bag of Cheetos and a pack of American Spirits. As we all know, bad behavior never solved anything, but sometimes it can provide the perfect string section for the symphony of despair. As I sat watching a rerun of a talk show -- that I’d already seen – at one o’clock in the morning -- I tried to desperately to scrape up some forgiveness. Yes, it had been rugged lately. I’m not a born juggler. It doesn’t come naturally to me, but over time, I’ve learned to keep tap dancing; to keep tossing pebbles at the palace windows until somebody opens the latch and screams, “Okay, you can come in for a minute.” But on this particular evening -- at one o’clock in the morning -- covered in Cheeto crumbs, I felt like I’d run out of tricks. There are worse things than failing, I told myself. I didn’t have cancer. I wasn’t living in a cardboard box (yet). Many people I knew were struggling. Maybe I could have a garage sale. Maybe everything would look better in the morning.

It didn’t. That is until the mail came and there, in among the flyers for shows I have no intention of seeing and offers to sink myself further into debt, was one extremely large royalty check for a play I wrote almost twenty years ago. I had virtually forgotten that the play even existed, much less that it was still being performed somewhere out there in the hinterlands. But happily, the play had not forgotten me. Suddenly, things weren’t so bad. That sad, broken, hopeless wretch who hadn’t showered in two days was quickly replaced by a still energetic guy who might have a few more tricks up his sleeve. I was fine. Better than fine. I was a show business professional.

Funny how dreams never really die. Thirty years after having bought my first ticket on this ride, I still like it. Every time the car whips around the track at breakneck speed, forcing my stomach into my throat, I swear that I’ll never get on it again, but I always do. I haven’t been near a real roller coaster in more than a decade, but I still remember that dizzying sensation when you are hurtling down toward what feels like certain death, only to be jerked up and out of harm’s way at the last possible second. I always loved that moment of salvation, but my favorite part was what came next; that long slow climb back up the tracks as your heart fills with anticipation. Up you go, while anything resembling the earth slips from your peripheral vision. You can still hear the music and the crowd, but they are so far below you. All you can see is big blue sky. And you just keep getting closer and closer.

Copyright 2010 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.
http://www.daviddeanbottrell.com/

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at http://www.partsandlabor.tv/

Follow me on Twitter: http://twitter.com/QuitcherBitchyn

A Happy Anniversary

2010-02-21T20:52:00.000-08:00

Shortly after I published last week’s entry, I realized that I had missed an odd little anniversary. Two years ago, in mid-February 2008, I began writing this blog. At the time, the Writers’ Strike had just been resolved and I found myself with extremely mixed feelings. On the one hand, I was glad that the strike was over, but on the other, it was clear that the entertainment industry was entering into a new phase. Some big questions were on the table including whether or not my being in show business was going to remain a viable way to make a living. Even after months of walking the picket line, I still wondered if I was the only person who struggled with the ups-and-downs of being a “creative” in what appeared to be an increasingly uncreative business. Not knowing what else to do, I decided to write about it.

“Parts and Labor” was launched as an experiment. I thought I'd give it six weeks. Maybe less. But to my surprise, almost immediately my inbox was jammed with messages from people in the business admitting that they too struggled with many of the injustices and tough decisions that I wrestled with. Many of these folks saluted me for acknowledging the elephant in the living room and encouraged me to continue. Buoyed up by this wave of enthusiasm, I kept the blog going a little longer.

Before I knew it, an entire year had passed and readership had grown substantially. Many of the people reading P&L weren’t even in show business, but related to the tales I was telling. Although that was flattering, it was also intimidating. I began to worry that I’d run out of stories or that the struggles of a none-too-famous actor-screenwriter would get old. Did people expect a happy ending? What if I never achieved any more professional success? Would this turn into a blog about being a big fat failure?

As my anxiety rose, I began wondering if it might be in my best interest to gently back out of this commitment. I wrote an entry hinting that I was getting awfully busy and might not be able to continue the weekly posts. Overnight, I received a ton of messages urging me to keep going; that “Parts and Labor” was a source of inspiration to many of those who toiled in artistic vineyards of Hollywood. Guilt forced me to keep typing. On I went.

Then last week, I was amazed to realize that a second year had passed. Unbelievably, my adventures in show business had again provided me with just enough material to choke up 52 more entries – 52 more tales of small triumphs and minor tragedies. Two entries published in 2009 did however, provided me with something I’d never received before: Hate mail.

The first instance occurred when I published an essay that contained a small reference to rags-to-riches singing sensation, Susan Boyle. In the post, I made the mistake of saying that although I didn’t think she was the greatest singer in the world, I was hugely charmed by her courage, modesty and openness in front of an audience. Well, apparently, quite a few of Susan’s fans have Google alerts up for her name, because by sunrise of following day, I was on the receiving end of some extremely nasty emails. Let me warn you, Hell hath no fury like a Susan Boyle fan scorned. An international network of middle-aged ladies ripped me a new one for having the nerve to criticize their beloved hero. Many of these ladies got extremely personal, calling me an “Shithead," an "Ignorant Twit” and saying that I clearly didn’t have an ounce of the talent that Ms. Boyle possessed – and those were just the nice ones! Stunned, I actually responded to a couple of the more vehement messages and invited them to take a second look at what I’d actually written. This proved to be mistake, because their responses made it plain that I was in the Susan Boyle doghouse for good. Hopefully all these ladies felt justly vindicated when Susan’s debut album sold more than 400,000 copies the first week it was released – more than any other female recording artist in history. And before I get any more nasty emails, let me reiterate once again, I like Susan Boyle. She seems like a terrific lady and I’m very happy for her success.

The second uprising came when I wrote a piece about the ratification of the recent SAG contract and the ridiculous chain of events that had led up to it. Truthfully, I was simply fed up. Acting is a business that struggles for dignity and I was pissed that the leadership of our union had for 18 months waged a very public civil war that had made us look like a bunch of bickering idiots. I posted it just before the SAG elections and made it clear that I, for one, felt it was time to let go of what “was” and to start thinking more creatively about how we could protect our future. To date, that entry scored the highest readership of anything I’ve ever written. Once again, I was treated to some very angry emails from disgruntled SAG members who seem to be accusing me of everything from being in bed with corporate America to having no compassion for old people, orphans or dogs. Thankfully, a few of the more progressive SAG members liked my piece and I even got invited to a big celebrity-laden party where I was clapped on the back and congratulated by a great many actors I deeply respect (not only for their talent but for their intellect and discernment). Although the final election results did not rid us of all the loons and nutcases, I remain hopeful that the next round of negotiations (scheduled for later this year) will include a few more concrete and realistic maneuvers that might preserve our financial future; a future that I care very deeply about.

As I’m sure you know (assuming you read this blog with any regularity) I try to avoid being preachy. I also try to avoid complaining and self-pity. I’m not always successful, but I do try. I’m consistantly very grateful for the feedback I received each week and hope that you’ll continue to send me your thoughts and ideas. And like all performers, I really enjoy praise, so feel free to keep that coming as well.

The goal of this blog has always been the same: To document one guy’s odd, but not unhappy journey through the world of entertainment. As a lifestyle, show business doesn’t always make a lot of sense. The rewards are often quite personal and tend to arrive at irregular intervals (sort of like residual checks). But when they do appear, they are as sweet and satisfying as rain in the desert. A very good friend of mine, who is now a big TV star, recently came to a comedy show I’m currently doing and the next day sent me a very kind email reflecting on the fact that we’ve now known each other for over 25 years. It included this very lovely quote: “So glad we’ve shared the dream for this long. They are years well spent.” I couldn’t agree more. Have a good week, Hollywood!

Copyright 2010 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at http://www.partsandlabor.tv/

Follow me on Twitter: http://twitter.com/QuitcherBitchyn

I'd like to thank the Academy... If they'd just let me.

2010-02-15T10:03:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago, the Oscar nominations came out and I was shocked to see that my name was not among the nominees. I suppose there’s some logic to this, given that I haven’t really worked in over a year, but still. Sadly, awards season is usually a little rugged for me. It always leaves me feeling crabby and neglected. I guess it’s because my initial introduction to show business sort of started off with the Oscars.

I still remember the first time I saw them when I was about 12 years old. Nobody in my large and argumentative household was too keen on the idea of sitting through a 3-hour televised award show honoring movies they hadn’t seen, so I had to put up quite a fight just to keep the TV tuned to the right channel. Truthfully, I hadn’t seen any of the movies either, but I had seen the ads for them in the local paper and sensed that this was somehow a momentous occasion. Even now, after many years in the business, that feeling still persists for me.

For many of us, award shows gave us our first glimpse into the seemingly glamorous world of show business. They offered a sexy, tantalizing view of celebrities at the peak of their success. Jesus! Who wouldn’t want to be a part of that club? Apparently, once you were in contention for some major award, it separated you from the pack. Even if you didn’t win, you at least got to become an indelible footnote in the cultural history of entertainment. It’s a pretty seductive image – especially for newcomers. The idea of having the word “nominee” attached to your name would certainly impress your family -- or at least shut them up for a while.

Of course, once you’re in the entertainment business for a few years, you begin to realize that the majority of anyone’s career is not spent standing on a red carpet with a microphone in your face. Most of your time is spent doing what all people in the business have to do: hustling for work and waiting for something wonderful to happen. Keeping the dream alive requires some imagination or maybe more accurately, some daydreaming. And what better to daydream about than the idea of finally being recognized for the time and energy you’ve put forth.

As embarrassing as this sounds, I have over the years, composed a great many acceptance speeches in my head. I find they come in handy when I’m stuck in traffic or on the days when I find out that I didn’t get a particular job I was hoping for. There’s something sort of medicinal about that imaginary moment of hearing your name called. It washes off the dirt of failed auditions, scripts that didn’t sell and the people who sort of abandoned you at key moments in your career.

I’ve noticed that my imaginary acceptance speeches have sort of evolved over the years. This probably stems from the growing realization that as I mature, such a spectacular windfall is pretty darned unlikely. My early speeches were filled with dreamy, naïve excitement, but lately they have become more of a statement of purpose; a self-awarded merit badge for having carved out a path of myself and stuck with it. Plus, they help me shed regret and celebrate what I actually do love about the business.

And so my friends, I’d like to offer you my acceptance speech. It’s a little generic since I wear a couple of different hats in the industry and could (in theory) be nominated in several different categories. But first, let’s set the scene.

In this particular fantasy, I look fantastic. I’m fit, trim and am wearing slim-fitting tuxedo that I actually own. Seated beside me is my smokin' hot date (with whom I’m going to have sweaty, rapturous sex later in the limo on the way to the governor’s ball). When my name is called, my date gives me a quick, affectionate little kiss before I bound down onto the stage with youthful and athletic grace. I am handed my award by a gorgeous celebrity who shakes my hand and pats me lovingly on the shoulder. While waiting for the thunderous applause to die down, I do my best to appear humble and composed, nodding my head shyly and smiling at the cheering crowd.

And then I open my mouth…

“First off, I’d like to say thank you for voting for me. I know you have many choices when voting for award nominees and I appreciate that you picked me. I’d like to assure you that you made the right decision. I promise to carry out all my official duties as an award winner this year with class and dignity, upholding all that the academy stands for. Obviously, there are a many people to be thanked. So many in fact, that I’m not going to attempt to do it in the thirty seconds I’ve been graciously allotted by the network. Instead I’d like to say a little something about gratitude. When I came into this business, I was quite young and all I really wanted was some glory. And I’m happy to report that along the way, I’ve been granted a little. Initially, I thought my job was to satisfy some highly personal need to be the center of attention, not realizing that no one gets to occupy that spot for long. It took me quite some time to realize that my job was actually to be of service; to entertain others. To give people a break; make them laugh; or invite them turn over a few of life’s rocks and see what’s underneath. I guess that might sound a bit pretentious, but I do think that audiences appreciate what we do. God knows, it’s an unusual and sometimes costly way to spend one’s life, but it’s not without its rewards - the primary one being love. And I don’t mean that in any sappy, all-encompassing kind of way. It’s not like I’ve loved everything I’ve done or that I haven’t worked with some real assholes along the way. I mean that unlike many people, I will be able to go to my grave saying I enjoyed the ride. I truly loved what I did and I gave myself to it fully. It was fun. And it had meaning. Believe it or not, even if you had not given me this lovely statuette (which will look great on my mantelpiece, by the way) I would still feel the same way. This has been a terrific way to spend my life and I am indeed very grateful to be able to say that in the time I was given, I “entertained” for a living. Thank you! Thank you very much!”

Copyright 2010 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at www.partsandlabor.tv

Follow me on Twitter: http://twitter.com/QuitcherBitchyn
Or on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=687619572

The Fun Factor

2010-02-07T21:58:00.000-08:00

Last July, I was in the gym, huffing and puffing away on the treadmill, when a guy I barely knew approached me and asked if I would be interested in appearing in a show he wanted to produce at one of the local comedy theatres. The premise, he explained, would be an evening of monologues from Meryl Streep movies - all performed by men. I instantly laughed. It was certainly an original idea and God knows there are plenty of Streep movies to choose from. However, having been burned a few times in my semi-illustrious career, my guard sprang up.

“Is this a drag show?” I asked cautiously. “Because if it is, I don’t really think…” My friend quickly broke in, assuring me that it wasn’t. The hour-long show would be “sort of homage" to a great actor; the key words here being “sort of.” Not yet convinced, I asked my next key question: “Who else is in it?” After recognizing the names of three actors I knew and respected, my force field began to lower a bit. My friend continued his pitch, explaining that each of the eight performers would choose their own monologue. There would be no director and the show would have a casual “open mike” feeling. Mildly intrigued, I then asked which movies had already been spoken for. As my friend rattled off the list, I noticed that one of my favorite Streep movies, “Out of Africa” had not yet been picked.

For a millisecond, my resistance slipped, and I found myself agreeing to appear in the show (tentatively entitled “Streep Tease”). By the time I got home, I was already wondering what the hell I had just agreed to. As described, this could either be really clever or really embarrassing. I consoled myself with the knowledge that this is L.A.; a place where people are always talking about doing stuff, but rarely follow through on it. In fact, within a few weeks, I’d totally forgotten about “Streep Tease” – that is until I received an email announcing the first rehearsal. A knot formed in my stomach. My mind instantly went to work, concocting a really good lie that could get me out of this. However, before I could come up with one, I discovered that not only had a first rehearsal been scheduled, but a theatre had been booked and a poster (with my name on it) was being printed. Guilt overtook me. Apparently I was going to be appearing as the Countess Karen Blixen, like it or not.

Sucking up my guts, I rented “Out of Africa” and watched it a couple of times. I’d forgotten how much I loved it. A sprawling epic in which the plains and mountains of Kenya almost manage to steal the movie from Streep and her co-star, Robert Redford, the film is also a sad reminder that Hollywood simply doesn’t make movies like that anymore. There are no more directors like Sydney Pollock and no studios who would dare finance such an eye popping, romantic saga. As I watched, I also started wondering how the hell I was going to break off a small chunk of this huge movie and have it make sense on a tiny stage on Fairfax Avenue.

There was also another problem. As an actor, I needed something to grab onto. Oddly, Karen and I seemed to have very little in common. Finally, it occurred to me that the Baroness Blixen (AKA Isak Dinesen) was a storyteller as am I. Once that penny dropped, I started forming an idea that I hoped would fill, but not exceed the six-minute time limit imposed on each performer.

When I arrived at the first rehearsal I was a little anxious. There were some extremely funny performers involved and the last thing I wanted was to stink up the joint. One by one, each guy got up and staggered through his piece. Some were hilarious. Some were genuinely touching, but what I was most struck by was how much affection for the iconic Ms. Streep had been woven into each piece. Feeling more confident, I trooped up onto the stage -- where I promptly bombed. Well, that might be a slight exaggeration, but it was clear that easily a third of the piece didn’t work. As I drove home, I started rewriting it in my head; streamlining it and bringing it more in line with the dignity that Streep had infused into her character in the film. At the next rehearsal, I killed. Still, I remained suspicious.

Time has taught me that “Rehearsal laughs” are not to be trusted. What may crack up your overworked cohorts doesn’t necessarily fly in front of an audience. In the meantime, my friend who had dreamed up this little entertainment had been working overtime, virtually wallpapering West Hollywood with posters announcing the show. Then an article came out in Variety and within 24 hours, every ticket was sold. Whatever it was were doing, we were going to be doing it in front of a full house of paying customers.

The first performance of “Streep Tease” remains, for the most part, a blur. I remember walking up on stage. I remember the lights in my face and I remember the first laugh; a laugh I wasn’t expecting to get. After that, it was (like all performances should be) a rollercoaster ride – scary, incredibly fun and over way-too-soon. Luck was with us. The entire evening fell together amazingly well. We managed to put on a hilarious and oddly touching little show. Word spread.

A few weeks later, the “Streep Tease” company reassembled for another show. It also sold out. Then another. Same story. Last Saturday, we opened a four-performance run that will take us to the end of February. There have been a few cast changes and a little backstage drama, but the latest incarnation of the show seemed to satisfy the ticket-holders in a big way! On a personal note, I’m very glad I said yes to this. There are few things better than sharing the stage with people who can crack you up, over and over again. I doubt that “Streep Tease” will be moving to Broadway anytime soon; nor do I suspect that any Hollywood powerbrokers are going to walk in the door and swoop us away to stardom -- Although, wouldn’t that be great if it happened?? It’s just one of those quirky underground comedy shows that pops up at the right moment with the right people involved. It's remains a hilarious, but heartfelt tribute to an amazingly talented performer by a few of her funny, but less-famous fans.

It’s strange how often those of us in show business lose track of why we’re in it. Somehow, in the crush of scrambling for our next job (or obsessing over our IMDB rating) we tend to lose sight of the only logical reason to be doing this with your life: Because it’s fun. It’s fun to entertain people. I’d now like you to notice how seamlessly I segue into the following plug...

So, if you’re looking for a little fun on any Saturday night in February, please stop by and see “Streep Tease” at the Bang Comedy Theatre in Hollywood. If you'd like tickets, I'd suggest you act fast! http://www.bangstudio.com/streep-tease/ And if Meryl herself should show up, run around to the alley behind the theatre. If you hurry, you’ll get to see eight grown men jumping out the back window.

Copyright 2010 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.
www.daviddeanbottrell.com

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at www.partsandlabor.tv

Voice Print

2010-02-01T10:30:00.000-08:00

A few years ago, I was mentoring a young screenwriter in a program I helped found, when I complimented him on his “voice” as a writer. He looked sort of puzzled and asked what I meant by that. I realized I was talking to a 22 year-old who had written, at this point, exactly one script. Although he had a few problems with story structure, it was clear he was talented and had a distinct, quirky sense of humor that genuinely popped off the page. I did my best to explain what I meant by "having a voice.” It was like a thumbprint, I explained and that I suspected that if I were handed another of his scripts with no title page attached, I would still be able to recognize it as his writing. He smiled a little and I could see a tinge of pride in his eyes.

Finding your voice as an artist takes time. I learned this gradually. When I was new to writing, I was plagued by self-doubt. I’m still plagued by self-doubt, but now it’s more of the professional variety. I can remember booking a writing job early in my career and then being overwhelmed by the fear that I didn’t know how to execute it. I knew virtually nothing about the subject matter (rap music and feminism) and had sort of bluffed my way through the pitch. Gripped by a growing terror that I was going to finally be found out for the fraud that I was, I did what all highly gifted, professional writers do. I procrastinated.

I’ve developed a great many talents in my career, but procrastination is probably the one in which I can take the most pride. Over time, I’ve developed it into something of an art form. Occasionally, I can grab the reins and get right down to work, but often there is an extended period of dancing around the task at hand. The reason for this is simple. I fear sucking. I dread typing the first couple of pages because I know how it will make me feel – like a big fat loser who can’t string even a few coherent sentences together. It becomes almost impossible to hold my mind in the present since my imagination is already skipping into the future when the producers will be reading this piece of shit and wondering why the hell they ever hired me.

Eventually, when the self-loathing reaches an unbearable pitch, I sit down and the work begins. I stop worrying about what might happen and start trying to carve out a story that might be slightly entertaining to watch. My big moment of revelation came when I shamefully admitted to another writer that I was sort of paralyzed on the rapper project. The writer asked me how I had gotten the job. I recounted how I was approached by the producer with the initial story idea and how I had pitched it to the studio. “And they are paying you, how much?” the writer asked with a certain parental tone in his voice. “The most I’ve ever been paid,” I answered guiltily. “Well,” the writer continued, “Nobody held a gun to their head and made them do it. You must have told them a very entertaining story. They’re not stupid.” For a moment, I wondered if he was right.

The writer sighed. “David, they hired you for your take on the story. You must have brought something into the room that made them see what you had in mind. Now, all you have to do it write it.” I began to relax as a few things finally dawned on me. There was no way to second guess what my employers would be expecting. Everything in this business is a crap shoot. My job wasn’t to write the ultimate rapper comedy. It was to write my version of a rapper comedy. Yes, I needed to educate myself, but I didn’t need to become the subject of my story. I was there to do what I do well; be funny, instill a little heart into the proceedings and keep things moving.

Happily, the script I finally delivered was pretty darn funny. The second draft was (in my humble opinion) even funnier. Sadly, for a myriad of reasons, the movie never got made. Despite that, the whole experience remained a good lesson. What all writers are paid for is their point of view; their “take” on the story. Their voice. Developing a voice only happens by using it and by paying attention to how others are using theirs. Mimicking what worked for the last guy or gal rarely results in a strong career. Bringing your particular humanity, life experience and imagination to a project is always your strongest suit. And truthfully, it’s nice to have a certain awareness of who you are and what you’ve got to offer. It builds confidence and with that comes a little courage. These days the challenges of any assignment provide me with more surprises than anxiety; although anxiety plays (and will always play) a certain defining role. I don’t kid myself about that.

I’m happy to report that the young man I mentored a few years ago is now a produced screenwriter. Although his movie wasn’t a mega-hit, he’s now in the game and once in a while, we grab lunch and catch up. I’d like to say that he reminds me of myself at his age, but he really doesn’t. He’s very much his own person with his own unique way of looking at things. I could never in a million years write what he is going to write in his career and by the same token, he will never write anything like me. Although I envy him his youth, I’ve got plenty on my plate to keep me busy until retirement. What I really hope is that we will all get to benefit from seeing more of his particular “voice” back on screen -- sometime soon!

Copyright 2010 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.
http://www.daviddeanbottrell.com/

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at http://www.partsandlabor.tv/

By the way, I need subscribers!! The subscription box is in the sidebar to the right. It's very easy!

The History of Drama (Part 9): A Serious Man

2010-01-25T12:44:00.000-08:00

"The History of Drama" is sort of an on-line memoir I'm writing about how I oddly became an actor and writer. See previous chapter links in the right hand side bar.

Last night, I sat and watched the students in my acting class do some very good work. I’ve been blessed with a very gifted and unique group this time out and for me, there’s no more pleasant way to spend an evening than working with talented artists. As I walked home, I couldn’t help but flash back on my days as an acting student. It seems impossible that it's now been over twenty-five years since I first studied, but it has. From an emotional standpoint, it still feels like yesterday.

I had only been in New York for about a year when I first got wind of the legendary acting teacher William Esper. Bill was the heir apparent to the even more legendary Sanford Meiser and getting into one of his classes was no easy feat. There was no audition process. Instead you had to interview with him and even getting the interview was tricky. I started calling his studio and leaving numerous messages until finally a somewhat unfriendly assistant returned my call. To say this guy had an attitude would be an understatement. Apparently not just anybody got in to see his majesty. Only the “serious” need apply.

In those days, I tended to meet attitude with more attitude, so I made it plain that my intention was to schedule an interview with Mr. Bill Esper, not to be quizzed on my seriousness by some loser-assistant. However sensing I was about to be hung up on, I finally knuckled-under and did a little song and dance about how dedicated I was to the craft of acting. Blah, blah, blah. Three days, later I got a rather condescending message from the assistant informing me that I'd been granted an audience with the Pope -- and to be on time.

Up until this point, I had been operating on sheer ego. All I knew was there was some kind distinction between me and this class of “elite” acting students and I wanted to crash through it. I was a spunky kid, but my track record for finishing the things I started was sort of spotty. The other problem was that I was working at a rather low wage job and didn’t even know how much the classes would cost. However like Scarlett O’Hara, I decided I’d worry about that tomorrow. First things first.

When the day of my interview arrived, I wanted to make a good impression, so I carefully dressed in the worst looking T-shirt I owned and jeans that had paint stains on them. This was part of my tortured, young, “I-don’t-give-a-fuck” persona and I felt it would make me look more “serious” in the eyes of Mr. Esper. I had also heard on the grapevine that he didn’t take students under the age of 25 and I was only 22 at the time. So to get things off to a great start, when I arrived and was handed an application to fill-out, I lied about my date of birth, inching my age up to 24. In hindsight, I doubt I was fooling anybody. At the time, I was six feet tall, weighed about 140 pounds and looked like I might be a junior in high school. (see photo to the right!)

When my name was called, I was suddenly swept over with a case of nerves. Acting teachers in New York are almost required to have guru status so I wasn’t really sure what to expect. As it turned out, the great Esper was a chunky, 50ish man with a slight New Jersey accent. Seated behind his battered desk, he seemed more like a working class regular Joe; a gentle soul who sort of reminded me of my father. I instantly relaxed when I discovered that the interview had nothing to do with the lofty art of acting. Instead, it merely consisted of a series of easy-to-answer questions like where I was from? How long had I lived in New York? How did I like the city? etc. In fact, it all seemed too easy. I began to get suspicious.

Feeling I needed to make a stronger impression, I started steering the conversation toward my lofty goals as an artist and how badly I wanted to get into this class. Bill smiled patiently and instead of addressing any of my concerns, got down to brass tacks. The class met twice a week. I would be expected to put in rehearsal time with my scene partner and the class would cost $160.00 a month. Would I be able to afford that? A small knot formed in my stomach as it occurred to me that I barely had the subway fare to get home from this interview. I smiled weakly. “Yes,” I lied. “Sure. No problem.”

Then the great one shifted his weight back into his chair and looked directly into my eyes. It was the first time I would experience the legendary Esper “gaze.” Hard to describe, I can only say that Bill had a unique gift for conveying the non-verbal message "Let’s cut the bullshit here.” “Why do you want to be an actor?” he asked. Out of all the questions he could have asked me, this was the one I was least prepared to answer. Fear swept over me. A lump formed in my throat. I was getting my first taste of why Bill was such a tremendous teacher. It wasn’t so much what he had asked me, but “how” he had said it. Suddenly, the question had weight. Here I was, asking for admission into the world of being “a serious artist” and I’d never been serious about anything in my life. Now, I was being asked the big question; the one that would determine everything. I felt like I was on an elevator that was plunging to the bottom of my 22 year-old soul – a place I would later learn, where all truth is stored. I cleared my throat and a completely unexpected answer came out of my mouth. “Because I don’t like being myself.”

A small, almost imperceptible smile curled up the side of the great one’s mouth. I couldn’t tell if he was pleased or bemused by my answer. Turning his eyes back to my application, he scribbled a note in the margin and mumbled something about how his assistant would be contacting people later in the week regarding who would be admitted into the class. Clearly, my interview was over, but I couldn’t move. For the first time in my life, I’d revealed myself, but had no idea whether it had helped or hurt my cause. Unable to take the suspense, I asked, “Did I get in?” Bill gave me a fatherly, non-committal smile and stood up. “We’ll see,” he said and shook my hand. The walk from his desk to the office door felt like an eternity. I had never been so relieved to hear a door "click" shut behind me.

Two days later, I received a call from the now less-haughty assistant. I had been accepted into Bill’s class and would start my training as a professional actor the following week. I felt like I had won the Lotto! – That is until the assistant reminded me that in this particular sweepstakes, I would be the one paying them. A check for $160.00 would be due on the first day of class. I called everyone I knew and bragged about my victory. That night I celebrated with Top Ramen noodles and a beer. I had separated myself from the pack. I was “serious” now.

Copyright 2010 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.
http://www.daviddeanbottrell.com/

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at http://www.partsandlabor.tv/

Short and Sweet

2010-01-18T16:50:00.000-08:00

I recently discovered that a short movie I wrote and directed a few years ago, had actually been viewed by over 100,000 people on YouTube. This sort of floored me, mostly because it the odds against that little movie even being made were enormous.

Our story begins in the summer of 2005 when my life as I knew it had capsized. Without going into all the gory details, I’d fallen in love and followed said love back to the east coast. The move wasn’t entirely motivated by l’amour. My work life in L.A. had taken a few hits and I was beginning to wonder if maybe I should consider a mid-life career change. Then without warning, the bottom dropped out of the love boat when I discovered that the object of my affection had been rather busy every time I'd left town on a business trip.

On August 11, 2005, I found myself back in L.A. standing at my kitchen sink at 8:00 AM, wondering what the hell I was going to do now. I was broke, agent-less and emotionally devastated. Everything that was supposed to have worked out; everything that I’d tried so hard to manage and cajole out of my life had evaporated. I knew in order to rebuild on this dung heap, the first thing I needed was a job. However, landing a job meant finding a new agent. Finding a new agent meant writing a new spec script. Writing a new script would require an enormous amount of time, commitment and energy (and a very good idea). None of which I had at the moment. I was fucked.

Then as I stood there wondering if I could scape together enough parking change to purchase a handgun, something very strange happened. A story idea popped into my head. It was something that had been rattling around in my head for a while, but it had never fully taken shape until that moment. It was a clever concept for a mistaken identity comedy. I knew it wasn’t enough to sustain a full-length movie, but it could easily make a nice little short film. As the plot began to crystallize in my mind, something even more remarkable happened. I laughed. I laughed out loud. Something I hadn’t done once in the three weeks since returning to L.A.

For the next few minutes, I stood frozen at the sink, fighting off the idea. Short movies were for film students, not reasonably mature writers like myself. Plus, I didn’t know where next month’s rent was coming from; how the hell would I pay for it? The agony I was already experiencing spiked as I realized how miserably trapped I felt. Anger rose up in me, and out of nowhere I heard myself shouting “Jesus Christ, David! What the hell else are you doing today? Go upstairs and write the fucking thing!” By 10:00 pm that night, I was staring at a 15-page script for a short film called “Available Men.”

Sitting in my darkened office, I now had a script; and a pretty damn funny script, if I do say so myself. But given how emotionally wrecked I was, I wondered if I was deluding myself. Maybe it was crap. To test my theory, I emailed it to three writer-friends and fell into bed. When I got up late the next morning, all three of my friends had replied; and each had essentially said the same thing: “You should make this film.” I stared at the responses and considered all the daunting budgetary and logistical problems -- the biggest one being the fact that I’d never actually directed anything before. However, by nightfall, I found myself repeating those fateful words again: “Jesus, David! What the hell else are you doing?”

A chain of small miracles began to occur. One of the writers who had encouraged me called the following day and offered me five grand to make the movie. I was floored, but realized that I was being offered a lifeboat and I could either take it or drown in indecision and doubt. A few days later, the deal was sealed when an unexpected residual check arrived. I began to believe that I might now enough cash to make a bare-bones version of the script. I felt excited, but insane. I was spending money I might need for groceries next month. But given how utterly desperate the situation was, I literally had very little to lose. Apparently, I was now going to make a movie. My movie.

I got on the phone. And I stayed on the phone, begging and borrowing, conning and cajoling until thirty days later, I found myself on-set, sitting in the director's chair. I was surrounded by an all-volunteer cast and crew made up of both old friends and total strangers. Miraculously, I’d managed to corral a very talented group of producers, designers and actors (most of whom were far more qualified to direct this film than me). As each one joined the team, I had laid my cards on the table. Wearing my ignorance on my sleeve, I'd made it clear that there would be only one rule during our extremely brief two-day shoot. They were allowed to ask me anything they wanted as long as it was a multiple choice question. I would live and die by my decisions, but there was no time for me to magically gain directorial expertise before we started shooting. That turned out to be the single most important and best decision I could have made. Ninety-five percent of the film was shot in one grueling 13-hour day and I’m still astounded that we pulled it off. The next day we shot the exteriors in less than 6 hours. That night as I collapsed on my sofa with eight mini-cassettes of digital film in my lap, the whole thing felt like a dream. But the job was far from over.

I put my head down and with a will of iron, hammered through editing and post-production. Ninety days later, I screened “Available Men” at the Sunset Screening rooms with an invited audience of friends. To make a long story short: They laughed. I cried. And the next day, my phone started to ring. Over the next 18 months, “Available Men,” would screen in over 130 film festivals and win 17 awards. It received distribution, brought me a new manager, a new screenwriting gig and inadvertently was responsible for my winding up with a reoccurring acting gig on a TV show. It got me in the running for two directing jobs and reinvented me as a comedy writer. Considering its final budget was a paltry nine-thousand bucks, it was money well spent.

When I watch it now, all I see are the mistakes, but I remain proud of it (especially the hilarious work done by the cast, who couldn’t have been better). Making the short represented a turning point for me personally and professionally and reminded me of the transformative power of creativity and the importance of occassionally sticking your neck out. At the time I shot it, I didn’t think the story of “Available Men” had anything to do with what was happening with me personally at the time. Now, it couldn’t be clearer what was subconsciously being worked out through the making of the film. Just like the characters in the movie, sometimes you walk into a bar, looking for something (love, money, power) that you truly believe will make you happy. And sometimes those dreams crash and burn, but if you pay attention, out of the ashes can come some deeply hidden, but personally liberating truth. And truth will right the ship every time.

If you've got 15 minutes and would like a couple of good laughs, check it out on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Og-9HYAC-mk Have a good week, Hollywood.

Copyright 2010 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.
www.daviddeanbottrell.com

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at www.partsandlabor.tv

2009: My Year in Review

2010-01-03T14:45:00.000-08:00

Last year, I celebrated New Year’s the old fashioned way; in that, I went out to a club, drank too much, danced my ass off and woke up the next morning in bed with a stranger. I hadn’t done anything like that in several decades and was sort of shocked that it was even still possible. This New Year’s was spent at home with a close friend, gorging on leftover Christmas cookies while watching “Dick Clark’s Rocking New Year’s Eve” and thinking how amazingly quick a year a year can go by.

The other day, when I was standing in line at the grocery store, flipping throught the pages of People Magazine's "Year in Review" edition, I had a surprisingly deep thought. It occurred to me that the whole concept of time is something we humans made up. Our lives aren’t really measured in calendar days, but in how we spend those days. This, of course, led me to think a little about how my 2009 was spent. If measured by accomplishments or financial gain, it wasn’t that great, but if measured in change, it was one for the record books.

In January, I read a piece I'd written at Sit N Spin, a writer’s showcase at the Comedy Central Stage and luckily for me, I knocked it out of the park. Over the past year, I’ve become sort of a regular there and it’s now one of my favorite things to do. When you write screenplays for a living, you get somewhat detached from your audience. Sadly, I’d forgotten the importance of actually hearing people laugh. January was also the month I started teaching an acting workshop. Although I was initially of terrified of the idea, it turned out to be enormously rewarding. I didn't anticipate that teaching would offer such an amazing opportunity to learn. Who’d have thunk it?

February brought a bunch of meetings, mostly on TV projects that never went anywhere. My goal was to crack the ever burgeoning cable market, but I found pitching TV shows elusive particularly since nobody wanted any new ideas. On Valentine's Day, my book agent emailed me to say that my artfully-crafted proposal (based on this blog) had been turned down by yet another publisher. This was the first of six or seven similar emails she would send me during the course of the year, all of them saying that the editors had “really enjoyed my writing” and encouraging me to send them "my next idea."

In March, I did a little mentoring with a very talented young writer who I met in a workshop a few years ago. By year’s end, I wound up doing quite a bit of this sort of thing with several different writers. I’m always shocked to be asked my advice, but do my best to step up, since long ago, more experienced writers did the same for me. The acting monster reared its head around St. Patrick's Day when I was cast as an Anthrax-spreading psychopath on “Criminal Minds.” It was an odd gig since you didn’t hear my voice or see my face until the end of the episode. The good news is this allowed me to do some wonderfully subtle acting using my only back, shoes and hands.

April and May brought more meetings, more pitches and a couple of personal milestones including my 50th birthday. Turning 50 was one of those things I never really thought would happen to me. Some part of my psyche dug in its heels around age 35 and I’ve never quite dislodged it. Happily, according to the results of my annual physical (which I always have around my birthday) I’m in great shape and have the body of a 48 year-old, so that’s good news. Odd to think, I’ve lived half a century, but apparently I have.

June was a big month for being “in attendance.” Weddings, funerals, union meetings (which can sometimes feel like funerals). Plus, I lent my face and voice to a PSA in an effort to help repeal the heinous Prop. 8 which, when it passed in 2008, rolled California’s civil rights record back a few decades.

In July, I acted in an independent movie which will probably never see the light of day and went to a screening of another independent movie I shot back in 2008 (which will also probably never see the light of day). I taught an on-camera workshop in Michigan and sat on a film festival jury where I gleefully passed judgment on the work of others. July also brought a very unhappy event when my literary manager called to tell me he was leaving the business.

August was mostly spent in denial. I hate looking for new representation. It pushes all my buttons and makes me crazy, so I distracted myself by co-writing a comedy short with a friend and got all political again; this time campaigning vigorously for a moderate slate of SAG candidates (about half of which won). August also brought me a miracle comparable to the virgin birth, when not one, but three reasonably large residual checks all arrived on the same day!

By early September, a terrific new manager was in place and for the first time in eons, I auditioned for (and was cast in) a stage play. This coincided with a friend inviting me to participate in an underground comedy show called “Streep Tease” where male actors performed monologues from Meryl Streep movies. The latter proved to be a huge sold-out hit and is coming back in February for a four-week run!

In October, I had one of those odd “first-time-for-everything” experiences when the director of a script I’d written asked me to read his rewrite of it and give suggestions. After mulling it over for a day or so, I decided to do it. It was an oddly emotional experience, but time has taught me that letting go of what you originally had in mind is the only path toward progress. Since I do care about the project’s future, I sucked it up and managed to give a few reasonably objective notes on how to sharpen up the material before it went into the studio.

By November, my new manager had me firmly back on the meeting circuit and I now had several pitches to prepare. A scene from a script I’d written was read in a showcase at the WGA and went over like gangbusters. By mid-month, I was asked to lend my face and voice to short promo for the SAG foundation that will be broadcast during the SAG awards. Don’t blink or you’ll miss me.

2009 wrapped up two final surprises. The first one came when my acting agency did a little end-of-the-year housecleaning, and I was swept out the door with a few other "low-earners." It was a bit traumatic at the time, but within two days I was at a better agency, so it all worked out. The second surprise came when I decide to reenter the dating market and on my first attempt, met someone very nice that I’ve hanging out with for about a month now. It’s a little soon to be sending out the wedding announcements, but it's been nice to have my faith renewed that such things as mutual attraction still exist. Even at age 50.

This morning, I sat in the pew of my wildly progressive Methodist church and listened to our minister give a really lovely sermon on the subject of resolutions. She made several great suggestions about things to consider in the New Year, but the one that truly struck me was “Carpe Diem.” Like a lot of people, I can be guilty of regretting the past and frequently waste valuable time fantasizing about how great the future could be if everyone would just cooperate with me. So after some consideration, “Seize the Day,” is the only resolution I’m making for 2010. And I’m feeling quite happy about that.

Copyright 2009 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.
http://www.daviddeanbottrell.com/

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at http://www.partsandlabor.tv/

A New New Year

2009-12-27T23:38:00.000-08:00

I recently posted a question on my Facebook page asking my creative friends if they were making any New Year’s resolutions for 2010. I was a little surprised when the majority of them said no and pointedly added that in their opinion, resolutions were just a recipe for disappointment. As a guy who's spent my entire adult life in the entertainment business, I can certainly relate to the disappointment part, but personally, I depend on a certain amount of self-delusion when a new year arrives. Without a little reimagining on my part, I’m not sure I’d have the balls to keep going.

When 2008 came to an end, I remember raising my glass and gleefully bidding “good-fucking-riddance” to the worst year I’d ever had in the business. I reveled in the idea that I’d never have a year that rotten again – that is until I encountered 2008’s ugly twin sister, 2009. Happily, in the last few weeks of this year, a couple of new developments sprung up that have given me some real hope that the new year (and decade) might be a little better. And I’m not alone in that thinking.

As I made my rounds at the usual holiday parties, I found quite a few people who shared my new found optimism. After all, for the first time in three years we will be operating without the threat of any major strikes. Several new cable channels are starting up and as you might have heard, the movie business has been doing rather well lately. So as I prepare to toss out last year's calendar, I’m doing what I always do at this time of the year -- weeding the garden.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that both art and life require some maintenance. Old ideas often need to be uprooted. Game plans and personnel that didn’t work out so well have to be replaced -- no matter how anxiety producing that might be. Chances have to be taken. Long-neglected soil needs to be tilled and watered. And bitterness, which grows quite beautifully in Southern California, has to be replaced with something a little more likely to blossom and bear fruit in the New Year.

Before I go too far with my botanical metaphors, let me get down to brass tacks. I’m starting 2010 with new representation on both the acting and writing fronts and have done my best to reinvigorate my work ethic. After busting my ass to separate myself from the pack, I’m now in the running for two terrific screenwriting gigs. There are still several hoops to be jumped through before these gigs become reality, but I know what got me this far - hard work - so I’m just going to keep plugging -- which brings me to the next thing that needs to be plucked from the garden – imaginary guarantees.

I’m about to start teaching my acting workshop again on January 10th, so I’ve naturally been overrun with the usual flurry of anxious emails from new students trying to figure out (without actually taking the class) whether or not it is right for them. I do my best to address their concerns, but I unfortunately can’t offer these people what they are looking for – some sort of reassurance that studying with me will help jump start their careers. What I want to say to them is that if you're looking for a solid career decision, I'd recommend buying a funeral home or opening a liquor store.

A career in entertainment requires a lot of skills, but believe it or not - the primary one is optimism. And when I say optimism, I don’t mean the airy-fairy metaphysical brand that’s gotten so popular lately. I’m talking about the optimism that comes with knowing that the entertainment industry actually needs you. Any terrific script or eye-popping performance that makes it to the screen exists because somebody wouldn't stop storming that Bastille. These people found a way to stay in the game because they believed in their talent or ideas. I realize that can be hard to do after you've been slapped around and spit on a few times, but without that energetic belief that your number will be called next, you're dead. Simply put, success in show business largely relies on being able to grow a new hymen every so often. In my experience, protecting your optimism is as essential as paying your rent. Ideas which, let’s face it are our stock and trade, rarely survive without some enthusiastic naivete to fertilize them.

Years ago, I read an interview with one of the great show business survivors of all time, the late George Burns. George, whose career was pronounced DOA at least three times during his 80 years in the business, was asked why he took so many gigs (some of them quite small) instead of relaxing during his golden years. He responded that it was essential for him to wake up every morning with something to look forward to. George understood the golden rule of show business: Attitude is everything. This weekend, I watched in amazement as James Cameron created a whole new world and revolutionized the movie-making business in the bargain. And it only took him sixteen years to do it! Now that’s optimism on a grand scale. So if you're running low, borrow a little magic from James and George and have yourself a great new year, Hollywood! Let's make some work for ourselves.

Copyright 2009 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.
www.daviddeanbottrell.com

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at www.partsandlabor.tv

Tis the Season...

2009-12-21T00:19:00.000-08:00

For several wonderful reasons, the holidays are one of my favorite times in Los Angeles. First off, the town (at least the show business aspect of it) completely shuts down starting about December 15th and doesn’t really reopen for three to four weeks. Personally, I find this a huge relief. There are no auditions, no meetings and no pressure to further my career in any way. For 21 glorious days, I don’t have to spend any time worrying about how I’m doing since it’s literally impossible for me to do anything about it. All that remains is to prop my feet up and enjoy my unemployment for a few weeks with no guilt whatsoever.

My second favorite thing about this time of year is that December marks the beginning of awards season. This means that there are lots of free screenings around town where lowly award voters like me get to sit in judgment of the work done over the previous year by the much more successful players. Usually the screening rooms are quite comfortable and you can even bring a friend if you like. Just last week, I got a sneak peak at a big Hollywood film that isn’t even scheduled for release until Christmas Day. Unfortunately, it was so dreadful that I was tempted to leave after about 20 minutes, but decided to be classy about it and sit through the whole thing. And because I am true professional, I sat through the credits and waited until I was at least 20 feet away from the theater before I muttered to my companion, “Jesus, what a piece of shit? Can you believe how rotten that was?”

December is also party season. Hollywood folks love nothing better than a good bash and there are usually plenty to fill up the calendar. It’s true that in show business, we attend parties all year long, but usually there is come professional catch involved; like it’s a premiere or somebody’s just moved into new offices and the whole event is basically about networking. What’s great about the holiday party season is that you actually get to see your cohorts out of their work clothes (so to speak). It’s a good chance to laugh off whatever didn’t happen in the previous year and wish each other well for the year to come.

Item number four on my list is the city itself. With the all the major studios on vacation, the infamous Los Angeles traffic recedes into memory for a while. Suddenly, driving from one side of town to the other is a breeze. I always take a few joy rides during the holidays; out to the beach; up to the observatory; out to Malibu State Park. At this time of year, you can easily enjoy what the city has to offer -- which is quite a lot. Plus, as I watched the East Coast get pummeled with a massive snow storm this week, I could help but feel a tinge of happiness that later I would be walking to the gym in a T-shirt and shirts.

Probably the best thing about this time of year is the amount of generosity that floats to the surface of a sometimes self-focused community. I’m not saying that the entertainment community doesn’t always do its part. In fact, I’m quite proud of the number of causes we champion throughout the year. But somehow at the holidays, the work that gets done is a little less “publicized” and bit more personal. I’ve been really surprised by the number of rather prominent people I’ve seen doing some rather unglamorous volunteer work during the holidays. It’s nice to reminded of the needs of others and it’s good to be humanized again by offering a little of our seemingly precious time to aid the less fortunate.

In conclusion, I’d like to say that I hope all my Jewish readers had a great Hanukkah – Yes, I know that it's about as important on the Jewish calendar as “Arbor Day,” but I still hope it was fun. If you are African-American, I hope enjoy the upcoming Kwanza festival. Sadly, I’ve never been invited to anybody’s Kwanza celebration, so I’m not exactly sure what happens, but I’ve always imagined it as full of laughter, good food and the singing of lots of Kwanza Carols. For my Muslim friends, I hope that Ashura (back on the 16th) and Al Hijra (celebrated on the 18th) were both a blast. To my Buddhist buddies, I hope Bodhi Day (observed back on the 8th) was as serene and peaceful as you expected. As for my Canadian and British readers, I hope Boxing Day (coming up on the 26th) will prove fulfilling as you (according to Wikipedia) "give seasonal gifts to less wealthy people and slaves as well as to various workpeople such as labourers, servants, tradespeople and postal workers.” And finally to my atheist friends (who I’m sure find this all sort of hilarious), I hope you enjoy the spectacle, the colors, sights, scents and sounds of the season and can appreciate the very human place from which it’s derived. Happy Holidays, Hollywood! See you soon!

Copyright 2009 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.
www.daviddeanbottrell.com

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at www.partsandlabor.tv

Fresh Cut

2009-12-12T09:24:00.000-08:00

A couple of weeks ago, I got a call from one of the junior agents at my acting agency who informed me that the agent who had originally invited me into the company had left. However, a terrific "new guy" had been brought in to head the legit department and I was asked to come in and meet him. I felt bad that my original agent was gone since I had really liked him. Since we were Facebook friends, I dropped him a note to wish him well in whatever his new endeavors might be. He sent me back a very short "thank you" reply and promised he would keep me posted.

Historically, my relationships with agents have always been weird. I rarely know what to say to them or how to say it. When I do call, I always feel like I’m taking up their time and often hang up the phone wishing I’d said something other than what I said. So, how I generally handle these relationships is that I simply don’t call. Period. I’m the very model of a low-maintenance client.

When the appointed day and time rolled around, I went into meet “The New Guy.” The meeting didn’t get off to a great start since I called him by the wrong name. In fact, I called him by my former agent’s name. I don’t know why it happened, but it just came out of my mouth. I tried to laugh it off, but it’s a little hard to get past a rough start like that. In an effort to redeem myself (and show what a nice thoughtful guy I am) I offered him my sympathy since I was sure he’d had probably had quite a few clients parading through his office in the last week.

The New Guy sort of, but not quite, smirked as he shifted in his chair. “Well, as a result of my coming in, we’ve actually let over a hundred clients go.” On hearing this, two thoughts collided in my brain. The first one was “Why hadn’t I been one of them?” I’d barely worked at all this year. In fact, I’d only had a handful of auditions. The second idea, however, made my heart swell with pride. I had made the cut! The New Guy continued, telling me that the agency's revised strategy would now be to have a smaller roster of very strong clients and really focus on getting them all well-established and working. Apparently, I was one of the chosen few!!

Now, feeling safe and secure, I began to open up a bit. I told him about how I had only recently returned to acting after a 13-year hiatus. How I’d accidentally wound up on “Boston Legal” with a popular reoccurring role. How I had a dual career as a writer. I even felt comfortable enough to talk about how as much as I love acting, I'm basically philosophical about booking jobs because it’s such a crap shoot. As I was driving home, I began to replay the meeting in my mind and wondered if I’d been too cavalier when talking about my career. The next day, I sent him an email reiterating how much I’d enjoyed meeting him and that I looked forward to working with him in the New Year. Within the hour, the agency called with a last minute audition for a casting director I’d been wanting to meet for some time. Clearly, the New Guy was on the job!

The following morning, as I was waiting to pick up a prescription at the Rite Aid, I got a call from the junior agent. For a hot minute, I entertained the happy idea that maybe I had booked yesterday's audition! Instead, Junior was calling to tell me I was being cut from the agency. The official story was that The New Guy was bringing over a couple of heavy-hitting clients from his former agency and that my presence created some sort of “conflict.” For those of you who don’t speak “Agentese,” this translates to “The New Guy hated you and doesn’t think you’ll ever book another job as long as you live.” Junior then offered to make some calls on my behalf to try to set me up with another agency. Reeling from shock, I actually said I’d think about it.

As I mentioned, I took this call while waiting for my prescription to be filled at the Rite-Aid. I’m not going to tell you what it was for, other than to say it was one of those embarrassing medications that remind you that you’re not twenty-two anymore. Because if you were twenty-two, then your agency wouldn’t be cutting you. They would keep you and send you out on a zillion meetings in the hope that you might hit it big and become a fat cash cow for years to come. You, however, are a character actor and your chances of “hitting it big” are now statistically about the same as being struck by a meteorite. Odd, since you are probably more skilled now than you have ever been in your entire career. But are you are being cut loose because, let’s face it; there are only so many “Judge” roles to go around.

When I got home, I took my slightly embarrassing middle-age medication and flopped down on my sofa for a while. As I lay there, I allowed myself to entertain a few happy fantasies of my former agency burning to the ground with no survivors. Finally, I got up and emailed Junior to say that I was going to pass on his offer to introduce me to other agencies. The whole idea creeped me out. It felt like the equivalent of saying, “Hey want to marry my ex-wife? I don’t want her anymore, but you might!”

At day’s end, I got one final email from my former representatives apologizing and saying how tough the decision had been and how much everyone there (except maybe The New Guy) respected me as an artist and as a person. I appreciated the sentiment, but on that particular evening, I didn’t really want to be a respected artist. I wanted to be a whore; a popular, well-paid whore with an enthusiastic pimp calling me day and night with multiple offers to do increasingly disgusting things for larger and larger sums of cash. In short, a whore with a decent retirement account.

Before you despair dear readers, there is a happy ending to this story. My original agent (the one whose departure started all this) contacted me the following day and invited me to join him at a new agency where he is now heading up the theatrical department. Having always adored him, I was delighted and tomorrow, I'll be going in to meet with him and his new colleagues.

Show business runs on high hopes and it’s difficult not to invest a bit of yourself in your professional relationships. When things go sour, for whatever reason, we’re oddly admired if we take it on the chin without flinching. It's a ridiculous expectation. The final email I got from the agency that dumped me said that it was nothing personal and they hoped our paths would cross again. Personally, I hope not.

Copyright 2009 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.
http://www.daviddeanbottrell.com/

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at http://www.partsandlabor.tv/

Showing Up

2009-12-07T17:42:00.000-08:00

When I first started writing I rarely had any sort of game plan and usually only worked when I felt inspired to do so. If, as I was typing away, I became aware of some flaw or otherwise gnarly problem in my story, I would usually flee the scene; telling myself that all I needed was a little break (like a month or two) until my batteries recharged. However, what I was actually doing was secretly hoping that the literary pixies would come in the night and fix all that was wrong with my script so I could hand it off to my agent, who would then spin said masterpiece into both gold and prizes.

Many creative people attempt to write at some point in their lives. Lots of actors I know have had an idea for what they thought would make a great movie (often starring themselves). I’ve also known a few execs and a couple of producers who’ve tried their hand at churning out the next big hit. Unfortunately, impatience usually gets the best of these folks and the finished product is often a combination of one good idea tangled up in a nest of really bad ones. The sad truth is writing requires two things that a lot of people don’t really have: Time and patience.

To be completely honest, it took me about 10 years to learn how to write. The biggest hurdle was finding the guts to simply sit down and attempt to put words on paper; not brilliant words; just words. The act of returning to the chair on a daily basis ain’t easy to master. One of my personal heroes, William Goldman, says that even now (after two Oscars) his first task before starting a project is to convince himself that he can actually do it. Staying put can also be dicey. Some days, it can feel like my office chair is lined with extremely sharp tacks. Other days, after 20 minutes of typing, I convince myself what I really need is a nice long weekend. This thought usually occurs to me on Tuesday.

I do know a couple of writers who dutifully show up every day; same time, same place and just begin. I don’t happen to be one of them. To my credit, when I’m gainfully employed or am on some kind of deadline, I’m extremely disciplined. Having producers snapping at my heels is sort of good for me. When the work is going well, I love the thrill of the hunt. At other times, like when my characters are telling me to go to hell and leave them alone, it's not so much fun.

My hardest stretches always come when I’m on my own; fishing for the next big idea or just noodling around on a pet project. My enthusiasm tends to ebb and flow. Small questions start turning into big doubts. Big doubts morph into churning anxiety. This, in turn, usually leads to a hearty round of masturbation, followed by a snack and maybe seeing who’s on Oprah today.

When I mentor young writers I don’t harass them about keeping specific office hours, but I do talk about the importance of returning to writing with some real regularity. Spending too much time away from writing makes me lose my nerve and nerve is something every writer needs. Believe it or not, talent is a living, breathing entity. To work as an artist you have to have an amicable relationship with your talent and it's good to keep in mind that (as in life) long distance relationships are hard to maintain and rarely work out.

My advice? If you are writing something, then write it. Develop a little healthy curiosity and see how it turns out. If for some reason, you wake up and realize you’d rather take a bullet in the head than do the work, then sit down and read what you have. In fact, read it every day until you start working on it again. I promise you new ideas will emerge each time. New edits and improvements will start to occur to you. When that happens, don’t fart around. Act on them.

One thing I don’t advise is waiting on the muse. If for any reason, you are not one of those people who can work every day at a specific time or in a comfortable location, then learn how to create that space in your head -- and honor it. Writing can be sort of miraculous, but miracles don’t just happen. They are worked for. As another one of my personal heroes Billy Wilder once said, “The muse needs to know where to find you.”

Copyright 2009 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.
www.daviddeanbottrell.com

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at www.partsandlabor.tv

Giving Some Thanks

2009-11-29T15:11:00.000-08:00

As I celebrated Thanksgiving this past weekend, I decided it might be nice to make a list of all the things for which I felt grateful. Much of what I came up with had to do with my personal life, so I won’t bore you with that. However, as I’ve written about many times in this blog, in the world of show business, work and life are often very intricately entwined. So as I sit here grazing on some leftover turkey, I thought I’d share a few points of gratitude I came up with regarding the connections between the two.

Despite the fact that my work life is not stable, generally speaking, I am. Yes, I’m moody sometimes. Yes, I’m excitable at others, but if you dial my number on any given day you can pretty much depend on the same guy you’ve always known picking up the phone. Somewhere along the line, I developed an odd equilibrium. I certainly have my bad days, but even on those occasions, I manage to hang onto a slender belief that eventually things will get better. And they usually do. I’m grateful for the ability to know that what I may feel about the future doesn’t really have much bearing on what eventually happens.

I make a living. Contrary to popular belief, I’m not sitting on a pile of squirreled away TV money. At times in my career, I’ve made (what I consider to be) quite a lot of cash and luckily I was smart enough not to blow it all on whores and crack (although I was at times sorely tempted!) Feast and famine are a given in my line of work and stretching those paychecks has over time, developed into nothing short of an art form. Would I like to be more comfortable and less worried about money? Sure. Will that day ever come? I doubt it. I know this because I’ve seen close friends hit the jackpot and along with their bigger paydays have come bigger and more expensive problems. I’m grateful that despite my ups and downs, I always made enough to the pay my bills, doing what I love to do. And I’m grateful for that.

I know this one is going to shock you, but I frequently doubt myself. It’s true. I’ve had a lifelong habit of comparing my talent and skills to those of other people and often feel like I come up short. This particular form of self-torture probably stems from my fundamentalist religious upbringing; an upbringing I’ve spent thousands of dollars in therapy trying to undo. I don’t much like raking myself over the coals, but it has, in its own twisted way, been good for me artistically. Those nagging doubts have pushed me to try harder and hopefully do better the next time. Doubt in and of itself is crap. But pushing past doubt is the definition of courage. And I’m grateful that I’ve demonstrated some of that along the way.

Nobody likes change. Everybody says they like it, but when it’s thrust upon them, they rarely do. Change is a fact of life and I’ve noticed that the people who embrace this reality and swim with the tide, tend to live happier lives. Because of my choice of profession, change is on my back pretty much every other day. I’ve morphed so many times, I’m shocked I can still recognize myself in the mirror. Friends often say “Wow. You’re always doing something new and interesting,” as if this were some wildly brave choice on my part. The truth is I keep changing hats for one very simple reason: I need to stay employed. Although I sometimes tire of reinventing myself so often, I have actually learned a tremendous amount from doing so. And learning is probably the greatest gift this life has to offer. So I’m grateful for that.

As Barbra Streisand once sang, “People who need people are the luckiest people in the world.” When I first I heard that song, I thought she was singing about codependency and it didn’t sound like something I wanted any part of. Time however has taught me that whether by choice or fate (and the jury is still out on that one) I am a citizen of an odd little world, populated with strange, wildly inventive folks who would have a hard time making a go of it in any other profession. The business is overcrowded for sure. Probably 75% of the people pursuing a career in entertainment, shouldn’t be. There isn’t room for everybody now and all those “Go-For-The-Dream” TV shows like “American Idol” are luring in thousands more hopefuls by the day. The way in which we are all interlinked is as strange as it is inspiring. As I mentioned earlier, having been in this for a while, I know a few extremely famous and successful people. Because of my teaching and mentoring, I also know quite a few people who literally started yesterday. I stand sort of in the middle, with a foot in both worlds. I have drawn such inspiration from my cohorts (both old and new) that I wouldn’t even know how to begin to thank them. Since I’m apparently in this for life, it’s nice to know I’m not alone in it. And more than anything else, I’m extremely grateful for that.

Copyright 2009 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.
www.daviddeanbottrell.com

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at www.partsandlabor.tv

Adaptable

2009-11-23T09:58:00.000-08:00

A couple of weeks ago, a producer gave me a novel that he’s looking for a screenwriter to adapt. I was hugely excited since this is one of my favorite things to do.

In the world of screenwriting, a lot of odd ideas get tossed onto your desk. Sometimes it’s just a fragment that involves a talking animal, some wacky aliens or some kind of fish-out-of water set-up. The problem with most of these premises is that you are shooting in the dark. Whatever your personal sense of how this nugget could be spun into a watchable movie is rarely anywhere near what the producer was secretly hoping for.

The beauty of a novel is that you have something concrete on the table. There’s a set of characters, a plot and at least one set-up that everybody agrees is to some extent compelling. Generally speaking, you don't get a lot of stupid suggestions like turning the cat into a dog or setting the whole thing on Mars. Usually, there’s a solid base to work from. It's a good gig, since as opposed to having to pull something out of the air, you’re in the much preferred position of “rewriting” the original story for the screen. Plus you can blame all the problems on the novelist!

Oddly, every time I’ve been hired to rewrite someone else’s screenplay, I always feel hugely guilty about it. I guess it’s because I have a keen understanding of how much blood went into making that structure work. Novels on the other hand were never written for the screen. They usually have a treasure trove of material to draw from and my job is to whip the whole thing into a fast-moving, visually driven film narrative. As long as I preserve the essence of the original story, I can change shit with abandon.

Not that this task is a breeze. It's tough to squeeze 344 pages of fiction into a 110 page screenplay. I envy novelists their freedom to let their stories unfold gradually. We screenwriters have to pack our pages with as much excitement as possible while using the fewest number of words. Long conversations become very short ones. Character development has to turn on a dime while somehow still making emotional sense.

The first novel I ever adapted was very poignant book about the dissolution and then rebuilding of a troubled marriage. What made it intriguing was that the two characters were a touring husband-and-wife lounge act from the Midwest. The producer, who thankfully had deep pockets, generously agreed to fund a research trip for me. Deciding to leave my laptop at home, I tossed a stack of yellow legal pads into my suitcase, flew to St. Louis and then drove the entire tour route described in the book. It was one of the most fun things I’ve done in my life. As I hit each new city, I’d grab a newspaper and scout out the nearest restaurant or Holiday Inn that featured live entertainment. Once there, I’d take in the show and interview the entertainers afterward.

Over the course of my eight days touring the heartland, I ate lots of bad food while I watched pianists, singers and comedians work the various lounges and bars. My favorite act was a pair of pretty, perky 40ish ladies who performed at a Quality Inn outside Kansas City wearing strapless black evening gowns while belting out medley after medley of 80’s hits. What really impressed me was not so much their singing, but their deep, dark tans (especially given that it was the dead of winter).

I was amazed at how open all these entertainers were when it came to being interviewed about their lives. Having spent most of my life in either New York or Los Angeles, I was used to performers plugging away in less than ideal venues, while hoping for their big break. But for these folks, this was the pinnacle and they took enormous pride in the fact that they didn’t have day jobs; that here in the middle of America, they made their living exclusively from their talent. The information I gleaned proved invaluable when it came to adding dimension to the characters I was adapting, plus it made me realize that we needed to change at least one crucial plot point from the novel.

When the novelist eventually read my screenplay, he praised it for having captured both the essence of his characters and the trajectory of their journey from heartbreak to tragedy and eventually redemption. I was very happy. He never even mentioned any of the plot changes I’d made - which were not small. The script has yet to be made (big surprise) but in grand Hollywood tradition it is suddenly back in play again. More news as it develops.

The book I’m currently working on is much less daunting since it falls more into the light-hearted romantic comedy genre. The premise is great and I’m having a lot of fun with it. That said, I can already see that there are going to be some big shifts as I re-imagine it as a movie. It’s fun to do adaptations and if I could spend the rest of my screenwriting career doing nothing but that, I’d be quite happy. I love good writing in any form and let's face it, when you’re adapting someone else’s material, much of the heavy lifting has been done for you. It’s now my job to be clever; to inject a little electricity into the storytelling, while hopefully protecting the original intent of a very talented writer. I get to be reverent and irreverent at the same time. And I love that.

Copyright 2009 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.
http://www.daviddeanbottrell.com/

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at http://www.partsandlabor.tv/

Friends Indeed

2009-11-16T00:42:00.000-08:00

Last Friday, my old friend Karen flew in all the way from Texas to take in a performance of the play I’ve been doing. It was a quick trip that unfortunately only gave us enough time to squeeze in a quick dinner before the show. Karen and I originally met when I was a naive and optimistic 19 year-old dreaming of a career as an actor. She was doing props for a show I was acting in at a community theatre and we hit it off instantly; mostly due our shared sick and somewhat ruthless sense of humor. After I moved away from Austin, we lost touch for over twenty years until, right in the middle of my stint on “Boston Legal,” I got an email with the words “Remember me?” in the subject line. As it turned out, Karen’s work brought her to California occasionally and for the last three years, I’ve had the great pleasure of seeing her once or twice a year for dinner.

As we sat in the California Pizza Kitchen, laughing and catching up, two things struck me. The first was that Karen was probably the one who should have gone into show business, since she is without a doubt the funniest person I’ve ever met. She would have made an incredible stand-up or at the very least, a top drawer sit-com writer. The second thing that occurred to me is that had I not, at one time, been a stage-struck kid, I would have probably never met her. It left me thinking about how show business has brought me a lot of prizes, but the best of them has been some truly remarkable friendships.

I’m sure that people in the dry cleaning or plumbing industries also have great friendships, but I have a feeling that they probably differ a bit from the kind we show folk share. For one thing, we in the entertainment business are all, to some degree, a little nuts. My current drycleaner (a lovely Korean lady named “Sunny”) seems extremely stable and when my townhouse needed all its original 1919 pipes ripped out a couple of years ago, the plumbers didn’t have any artistic differences over how to get the job done. The community of the people I live and work with are not dangerously crazy, but we can certainly be impulsive, excitable and a bit moody.

Deciding to do make your living creatively is a risky proposition and those who make that choice have to sweep certain realities under the rug. Big grown-up life decisions are sometimes postponed for decades. Being at least a little odd is almost a job requirement. As the acting teacher Michael Shurtleff once said, “Show business is like the insane asylum. Anyone can apply but only the truly insane are admitted.” And how do such unique people make their way in the world? With a little help from their friends.

Being in the business is sort of like signing up for the army or (in some instances) like going to prison. Once you’re in, you’re in and your fellow inmates don’t tend to talk much about how much better life might have been had we all gone into the insurance field. Nobody goes around bursting the bubble since truthfully, we all depend on that bubble to get us through next week’s meeting, that daunting rewrite or the all-important pilot audition. Friends protect each other in the business. And they help each other. Over the years, I’ve had pals who introduced me to employers, helped me improve my scripts and buoyed me up when I felt like I had made some tragic career-ending mistake. In my early days, friends literally fed me, clothed me and taught me how to stretch a dollar. Friends have celebrated my successes, taken my calls when the news wasn’t so good and had the guts to tell me when I was utterly full of shit.

Four years ago, when my personal life completely collapsed, I was forced to return to L.A. with my tail between my legs. Astoundingly, my friends (without waiting for an invitation to do so) instantly formed a protective circle around me. I was a wreck. I was broke, agent-less and emotionally devastated. But I had the great good fortune to be surrounded by people who know all too well that life can be (and often needs to be) reinvented.

One friend called and insisted that I meet him at the production office of a show he was running. When I arrived, he thrust a rather large check into my hands and told me there was no rush in paying it back. At first, I balked, saying I couldn’t possibly accept it, but my friend looked rather sternly in my eyes and said “I’ve done this before for other friends of mine. I’m not worried about it.” As I struggled with the guilt of accepting help, another friend reminded me of a few kindnesses that I had offered to others over the years. She made it plain that I had made more than a few deposits into the karma bank and that part of being a friend is accepting what others willingly want to offer. Oddly, I’d forgotten about most of the instances she mentioned to me. I’d always thought of any good deed I’d done not so much as helping out an individual but as helping out our largely misunderstood tribe. It always seemed like a matter of collective survival.

As much as my dear working-class family loves me, I know they will never understand me like my friends do. Most of us creative types grow up feeling like outsiders - that is until the magical day we find our way into the business and make the happy discovery that we are not the only ones with a deep desire to spin dreams into reality. Without doubt, we are a competitive and complicated bunch, but we are also keenly observant, remarkably intuitive and deeply loyal – especially to each other. Although most of us live lives of financial uncertainty, I don’t know anybody in the business who hasn’t shelled out to charities like the Actors Fund, Broadway Cares or the Motion Picture and Television Fund. Even the most successful of us realize that our luck could run out -- any day.

I guess part of being an artist is instinctively knowing what drives people to make certain decisions; even the truly rotten ones. That empathic part of us (sometimes referred to as “talent”) gives an inherent understanding of how easy it is to ignore the signs; to fall for the wrong person; to try to ride the wave a little longer than maybe we should have. It’s the stuff we make stories and performances out of, but it’s also (as the Zooey Deschanel “cotton” commercial reminds us) the fabric of our lives.

Lately, I’ve had a lot of great reminders of how blessed I am in the friend department as many of my nearest and dearest have been showing up to see me in this play. It’s one thing to set your DVR and tape an episode of “Criminal Minds.” It’s quite another to make the time and shell out for a ticket to an actual honest-to-God show. And I thank everybody, especially Karen, for showing up. It’s meant quite a lot to me and I look forward to doing the same for them.

And now, because I am in show business, I’d like to end this touching tribute to friendship with a shameless plug. “Better Angels” runs through November 22nd at the Colony Theatre! http://www.colonytheatre.org/ Hope you can make it, but I’ll still love you even if you don’t.

Copyright 2009 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.
http://www.daviddeanbottrell.com/

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at http://www.partsandlabor.tv/

The Opinion Piece

2009-11-07T12:01:00.001-08:00

As those of you who follow this blog know, I’ve been acting in a play for the past few weeks. Theatre, more than any other medium, is dependent on good reviews. Fortunately our reviews have, for the most part, been very good. God knows you can’t please everybody, and there's always some snarky bastard out there who can’t wait to dig out the thesaurus and come up with some evil, archaic adjective to stab you in the heart with. It’s odd how even now (when we should all know better) seeing something in print can still cast the impression that this particular person’s opinion has weight; that what they’ve expressed is somehow at least a little “true.”

Just recently, I saw a film that I really enjoyed and was shocked to find out afterward that it hadn’t been particularly well-reviewed. I’m embarrassed to say that had I read the reviews beforehand I probably wouldn't have darkened the door and would've missed out on a wonderfully quirky little film. On some level, I suppose the whole purpose of reviews is to help us save our time and money; to not be duped by glossy advertising into spending our hard-earned cash on something that’s poorly made or totally ill-conceived.

The worst review I ever got was for my first stage play. After a highly successful tryout in Connecticut, the show had made the jump to off-Broadway. The majority of the reviews were favorable and I thought, quite fair; essentially saying that although the play was no masterpiece, it was a funny and lighthearted piece of entertainment. The only paper that was dragging its heels in attending was the mighty and all-powerful New York Times. Finally, about ten days into the run, the dour Times critic arrived to take in a matinee. Again, we waited several days for the review which, when it arrived, was scathing beyond belief. All hopes of a commercial run were dashed and adding irony to insult, the review came out on Christmas Eve.

When my first Hollywood film was produced, I suspected that it wouldn’t fare too well with the critics. The project simply hadn’t gelled; largely due to the fact that all parties involved seemed to be making a different movie. The final product was a bit of a mess. The only review I was sincerely dreading was the Los Angeles Times. This was the review that would be read by my friends, neighbors and colleagues. This was the one that I would have to discuss with the people at my gym or at my church. This was only review I’d have to actually “live” with.

I remember getting up that Friday morning and trudging to my front door. I retrieved my copy of the Times from the shrubs where the delivery guy always seemed to lodge it and padded into my kitchen. After pouring myself a strong cup of coffee to steady my nerves, I opened the paper to the Calendar section. To my utter shock and amazement, the review was a complete rave. The critic made it sound like I had penned an African-American version of “Citizen Kane.” On one level, I felt a certain sense of relief, but I was also struck with a new and totally unexpected wave of dread. I didn’t agree with this review. Not a single word of it. I knew that my friends would now be showering me with congratulations and would soon be rushing out to see my film with high expectations – only to discover that the movie was mediocre at best.

These days, the role of the critic has been largely diminished. In fact, a lot of print media outlets have laid off their reviewers. In the new world order, most of the ticket-buying public gets their entertainment recommendations from Twitter and Facebook. The ability to “comment” on a movie, play or product has turned the whole concept of “reviewing” into a bizarrely democratic process. Apparently there’s a new generation of people out there who are more interested in what their friends thought of a movie than what some cranky guy who’s been to too many press screenings has to say.

Obviously, it’s great when people like what you do, but the annals of show business are filled with stories of hugely successful people who at some point in their careers took a beating in the public arena. The worst feeling (speaking from personal experience) is that somehow if your reviews aren’t good, it means that you are not good; that what you’ve put out into the world is a big, stinky mess and now whatever mean-spirited adjective was used against you will be seared onto your identity for life. That's rarely true since, at least in Hollywood, most people can’t remember what happened last week, much less last year. It’s just one of the realities of the business. No matter what you do, someone will love it while someone else will say it was a big piece of shit. In the end, the most important opinion will be your own.

My favorite story about this subject comes from a book I read many years ago by William Redfield, an actor who played “Guildenstern” in Richard Burton’s 1964 Broadway production of “Hamlet.” At the time, Mr. Burton was at the peak of his film stardom and it was a risky choice to take on the most revered role in all of Shakespeare. In the book, Mr. Redfield recounts how one evening, during the show’s out-of-town tryout in Toronto, a disgruntled theatergoer booed Mr. Burton from the balcony during one of his character’s more famous soliloquies. Enraged, Mr. Burton stormed back to his hotel after the performance to find his lovely new wife, Elizabeth Taylor with her feet propped up watching TV. When Ms. Taylor didn’t immediately grasp why her husband was so upset, he screamed “Don’t you understand?! I was playing ‘Hamlet’ and I was BOOED!!” To which Ms. Taylor supposedly replied, “So? Who the hell cares?” Mr. Burton then kicked in the screen of the TV, cutting his foot so badly that it required several stitches. Mr. Redfield finishes the story by observing that Ms. Taylor, who had literally grown up in the public spotlight and was at the time on her fifth husband, was “not particularly concerned with the opinions of people she did not personally know.” Oh, that we could all be so wise.

Copyright 2009 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.
www.daviddeanbottrell.com

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at www.partsandlabor.tv

LAST TWO WEEKS TO SEE THE SHOW!
MUST CLOSE NOV. 22nd!!
"Moving...Leaves us with renewed appreciation for the sad, doomed man who preserved the Union.
-- Los Angeles Times

"BETTER ANGELS" on YouTube:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4LmxJDZzQ_E

Running on Empty

2009-11-02T00:02:00.000-08:00

Lately, I’ve been experiencing a sensation that I’d sort of forgotten about -- Complete and utter exhaustion. Dropping into bed each night, I have, instead of counting sheep, been counting the number of daunting things I have to do starting at 7:00 AM. More and more, I’ve been rolling out of bed, wondering if I actually possess the stamina (or talent) to pull off this ambitious “to-do” list. Where did my once leisurely existence go? How had this happened?

Well, it all started about six months ago when I was mired in a deep swamp of discontent. Like everybody else I knew, I was unemployed and sort of mystified as to why my phone wasn’t ringing. Yes, the economy had tanked. Yes, there was the ominous threat of a SAG strike. Yes, the whole town seemed to be paralyzed by a wave of indecision, but damn it, it shouldn’t be affecting me!! After all, I had, over the years, scored a few decent successes as both an actor and a writer. Why wasn’t that studio calling me? Hadn’t I written a profitable film for them? Why wasn’t that network calling me? Hadn’t I been a scream in that reoccurring role just a couple of seasons ago? Self pity (which I’ve always had a natural talent for) swept over me like a giant Snuggie. I felt – dare I say it? -- entitled to some work! What the hell was wrong with everybody? Didn’t they know I had bills to pay?

Then one day, I was gathering up some tax stuff for my accountant when I remembered why I had named my company, “Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment.” Nine years ago, when I first filed my articles of incorporation, I wanted to christen my new company with a name that reflected my understanding of the entertainment industry’s one unwavering truth: Nobody owes anybody anything. For the vast majority of us, making a living means reinventing ourselves over and over and over again. Sure, I had a track record, but that was then, and this was now.

I decided that it was time to start getting busy; to start saying “yes.” The good news about L.A. is that if you want to be seen or heard – it ain’t that hard to do. Venues abound. As long as you know up front that there are no guarantees, it can actually do wonders for your sense of self. It’s nice to be reminded that you still have guts; that you can still stick your neck out. I started making a list.

Since I was feeling sort of rusty as an actor, I started teaching a scene study class on the weekends. It was challenging, but working with young, talented, but less experienced actors than myself gave me a chance to focus on a few bad habits I’d fallen into myself. As a screenwriter, it’s easy to become isolated and disconnected from any sense of your audience. To remedy that, I jumped into “spoken word” evenings where I started reading my first-person essays in front of live audiences; audiences who actually laughed out loud when I spun disastrous tales from my professional or personal life.

Sucking up my guts, I agreed to appear in a one-night only show at the Bang Comedy Theatre called “Streep Tease,” where eight male actors performed monologues from Meryl Streep movies. It proved to be a huge success and resulted in two more sold-out shows (with a month-long run now planned for February, 2010). In addition to this blog, I started churning out pieces for the Huffington Post and Metrosource magazine that brought me a new audience. Then along came a chance to appear in an honest-to-God legitimate stage play (“Better Angels” - now at the Colony Theatre). In the midst of all this, I was forced to change literary management. At first, I was traumatized, but soon, my new manager started delivering new opportunities; including pitching in uncharted film genres and even a few TV appointments.

In short, my calendar, once empty, has lately been jammed to capacity and beyond. This week, when I realized how many projects I had going at once, I began to feel a bit panicked. How was I going to pull all of this off and still find time to read the novel that I was just given by that big deal producer? What the hell was I doing? Then, right in the middle of this freak-out, I had a revelation. Yeah, I was exhausted, but I was also weirdly happy. I was engaged and most importantly, I was excited.

I’d love it if I only had one job right now. And wouldn’t it be great if said job was of the big, fat, high-paying variety? But in lieu of that, I have to say that it’s nice to feel like I’m in the game again. I’m not getting rich, but I’m also not waiting on someone to make me rich either. All of these oddball adventures have been gambles, but so far in my new career as a juggler, I’ve yet to drop any balls. My social life has all but evaporated, but I suspect it will bounce back once the holidays hit. In the meantime, I’ve been relearning the importance of creating something; anything! The biggest benefit of all this nuttiness has been a wonderful sense of feeling ready; tuned-up, confident and prepared for the next challenge. Funny thing, but doubt is a luxury busy people don’t have much time for. It’s been great to feel that whatever happens next, I’ll come at it honestly and with a new eye.

I’d love to go into more detail about all this, but quite honestly, I need to get some sleep! I’ve got a ton of stuff to do tomorrow!

So, if things have slowed to a crawl in your career, consider taking a few chances. Make a few calls. Write a few letters. Stick your neck out. Double-book yourself. You never know who you’ll meet or how the experience will impact your identity as an artist. We all like to dream big, but it’s nice (and quite fun) to realize that there is no such thing as the future. Somebody made that concept up a long time ago and dwelling on it too much is not such a great idea. All there is…is now. So, what’s stopping you?

Copyright 2009 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.
www.daviddeanbottrell.com

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at www.partsandlabor.tv

Stage Struck

2009-10-25T11:33:00.000-07:00

Theatre in L.A. is sort of a strange beast. When I first arrived here to seek my fortune as a screenwriter, I was floored by the number of small theatres just in Hollywood alone. It seemed like there was one on every corner. I initially found this very comforting since I'd just immigrated from New York after a 13-year career as a stage actor and playwright. How great, I thought, that there is so much creativity bursting forth all over town. Then I started attending a few of the shows and discovered that the majority of them were produced by actors in the hope of landing an agent. Often, the quality of the work wasn't so hot and things like scenery and lighting design seemed to be sort of low on the priority list.

Even so, occasionally I'd see something I liked and feel genuinely homesick for the experience of being on stage. My first job in show business was in the chorus of a summer stock musical and I still remember that as being one of the best summers of my life. During my time in New York, I'd always enjoyed the camaraderie of being part of a company and the intimacy of live performance. Finally, a few weeks ago, I decided on a whim to cast my bread upon the waters.

I dropped a note to the Colony Theatre; a small professional theatre that I knew had a solid reputation. Not wanting to oversell myself, I kept my letter light and jaunty; telling them a little about my background and offering my services as a quirky character man should they ever need one. The next day, my phone rang and I was invited to audition for a new play the Colony was producing called "Better Angels."

Unlike the rapid fire nature of TV auditions, theatre auditions are quite civilized. A lot of care is taken to make actors feel comfortable and welcome. And usually you get to read a couple of meaty scenes in front of some very attentive people. My audition went well and I even managed to land a couple of cheap laughs (which is sort of my specialty). Two weeks later, I was back reading opposite some other actors in contention. By 5:00 pm, I'd gotten the call. The role of "John Hay" was mine.

The play centers on a little known incident in the life of Abraham Lincoln and is narrated by Hay who was Lincoln's personal secretary. Since the play was not long and only had three characters, the director generously encouraged us to do lots of exploring. It was fun to dig in and mine the material for as much depth as possible; a luxury most film and TV sets can't allow. Much of the text had been taken directly from the letters and diaries of the actual people; and although the language was beautiful, it didn't exactly come trippingly off the tongue. Just saying it was challenging enough, memorizing it proved even harder.

I soon began to realize that returning to the stage after a 15-year break wasn't exactly going to be like riding a bike. As much as I hate to admit it, I'm not quite as young or energetic as I used to be. There was a time when I could juggle ten things, have an affair and still show up for rehearsal with my lines learned. Although my capacity to analyze and reason is probably the best it's ever been, my short term memory ain't what it used to be. Adding to the problem, my character, who narrates the play, was required to spout quite a few historical facts and figures. I began to detect a bit of concern in the faces of the director and playwright as we careened into week three of rehearsal and I still had a script in my hand. Finally, I hired a couple of my students to drill me on my lines for two hours a day. Things began to improve. I started taking Ginkoba and hoped for the best.

Eventually, we moved from the rehearsal hall and onto the set and began running through the play on the actual stage. There is something kind of magical about theatres. I, who mostly feel miserably self-conscious in life, have always felt strangely free on stage. Plus, after three weeks in a florescent-lit, carpeted rehearsal hall, just hearing your voice bounce back to you was sort of thrilling.

As you might have guessed, working in non-profit theatre isn't a great money-making proposition. I don't remember the last time I worked this hard for this little dough, but theatre is never about the cash; it's about the experience itself. For the last 15 years, the only acting I've done has been in the rather cushy world of TV. At most, you're only required to concentrate for three-to-four minutes at a time while the camera is rolling. Plus, even if you stink, they can always fix it in the editing room. Theatre however requires an actor to take complete responsibility for his or her performance. Once the curtain goes up, there's no stopping. No starting over. As we began previews this week, I was reminded of how much of a roller coaster that experience can be. How quickly elation can turn into terror when shit inevitably goes wrong. Lines get blown. Costumes snag on furniture. Props fall over. Yet the show goes on. It's a team sport and there is no greater thrill than catching a ball that has been dropped and no greater sense of relief than when your fellow actor steps in and saves your ass.

Then there is that most unpredictable factor of all: the audience. For reasons no one will ever understand, sometimes they laugh, sometimes they don't. Sometimes they love you, sometimes not so much. They will cough right in the middle of your line. Candy gets unwrapped. Cell phones go off. During one of our previews this week, one patron opted to remove her 3-strap, Velcro leg brace during one of the play's more intimate scenes.

Tonight we open. Opening nights are always exciting. The house is packed with friends, family members and others, who for whatever reason, are likely to be on your side. They can be counted on to laugh or cry when you need them to and will probably even give you a standing ovation whether you deserve it or not. It's a remarkable act of generosity; a genuine acknowledgement of the amount of backbreaking labor that's gone into creating this little piece of entertainment. I'm always grateful for that support, particularly since seeded in among tonight's cheering throng will be a few theatre critics who couldn't care less what your fans think. Back in the day, I used to have pretty good luck with these folks, although I do remember one critic in Philadelphia writing in her review that she had not enjoyed my performance because of my "repeated use of foul language." She made it sound like I suffered from Tourette's Syndrome when in fact, I was only saying my lines as written.

Luckily for us, the Colony has a very loyal subscription audience, so even if we are tarred-and-feathered in the press, there will still be a sea of smiling faces out there every time we mount the stage. I'm very glad I got this chance to perform live again. It's definitely had its challenges, but so far, nothing we as a company haven't been able to surmount. Maybe it's just me, but almost everything I do these days seems to carry a lesson with it and "Better Angels" has been a great reminder of the value of being present; of realizing that this particular performance will never happen again. It will vanish the second after the words are spoken and there is something oddly perfect about that. It's one of great mysteries of the arts; how a play or a piece of music can unfold in front of a roomful of strangers and draw virtually everyone present into a collective and very personal moment of understanding. Just being present to witness that always erases any doubts I have about my chosen profession. Performing is quite a cool job and I'm very grateful to have it.

So, if you find yourself in the Los Angeles area anytime between now and November 22nd, stop by and see us. If not, I hope the next time you spot an ad for any kind of live performance you'll think about attending. Considering how awful TV seems to be getting, it might be well worth your time. Who knows? You might enjoy yourself, but whatever your experience turns out to be, keep in mind that the performance you are watching was not shot on a sound stage six months ago. It wasn't recorded in a studio halfway around the world. Somebody showed up, put on their costume, picked up their instrument and created it right before your eyes. Just for you.

Copyright 2009 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at www.partsandlabor.tv

"Better Angels" runs through November 22nd at the Colony Theatre. Tickets and info at http://www.colonytheatre.org/

Fitting it into Dolly's Mouth

2009-10-18T17:27:00.000-07:00

As you probably know, collaboration is the key to any successful project, but surprisingly it’s also one of the hardest skills to learn. Every writer, director or actor comes to a project with a specifc vision of what it could be. And most disasters occur when these highly creative (and sometimes highly stubborn people) are unable to reach a mutual accord on where their project is going.

The biggest lesson I ever learned about collaborating came a few years ago when I was brought in to rewrite what turned out to be the last of the big animated Disney musicals. After two rough years in development, the movie was finally in production when the studio decided to test the first 17 minutes of it in front of a volunteer audience in Florida. The test audience had come away utterly baffled and the project was almost shut down. A last minute reprieve was granted, provided that a new writer was brought on to replace the previous writing team (who happened to be the director and his best friend). Whoever got the job would have to start work immediately.

On Friday, I received the shooting script (which was a gigantic mess) and on the following Monday, I pitched a complete overhaul of the story to the film's creative team. On Tuesday, my agent called to say that although the execs had been impressed with my ideas, the director had not. On Wednesday morning, I got a second call. The director had been fired. I was in.

The next day, I was offered an eight-week contract to “collaborate with the creative team in order to fashion a new and workable story." Every eight weeks Disney would have the option to fire me on three days notice, but also retained the right to renew my contract for an additional eight weeks if they liked my work. My “weekly” rate was the most money I’d ever been paid in my career so I jumped on it.

On Thursday morning, I showed up for work and was ushered into a big conference room where I was introduced to everyone involved in the project including the original director -the same guy who'd hated hated my ideas but had apparently, in the last 24 hours, been rehired. The atmosphere was extremely tense. It was clear that the director (a former animator who had helmed one of Disney’s biggest animated hits) had been put through the wringer and loathed everybody in the room (including me).

I was briefed on the situation. The project (already hugely over-budget) was hanging by a thread and we had eight weeks to right the ship. A series of character sketches were spread out in front of me. I was told that the costly digital models for these characters had already been designed and stored in Disney's computers. I would have to write for these characters only. No new characters could be added.

Wisely, the execs had imposed a theme on the yet-to-be-written new story which was “Love versus Fear.” For the next three weeks the creative team (which consisted of me, the angry director, the producer, two Disney execs, three animators and a stenographer) sat in the conference room and talked and talked and talked. Ideas came and went at a staggering rate. Some were great. Some were garbage. Finally, when I couldn't take it anymore, I asked if I could scoop up the huge pile of ideas we’d accumulated so far and try to write a treatment of just the first act. I was cautiously granted permission to do so.

Two days later, we reconvened and everyone was delighted that I’d been able to shape a coherent 20-page set-up for our story. Even the director seemed to like it. Reinvigorated, we started hammering out a game plan for act two. And soon, it began to become clear what had happened to the original script.

The animators were an odd, but fantastically imaginative bunch of guys. No sooner was an idea presented than they started pitching all the many wonderfully oddball ways it could play out. Although inventive as hell, these notions often created weird digressions that pulled our story far into left field. Feeling like it was my job to be the bad guy, I started pointing out that these wacky ideas, although funny, were going to ultimately result in another convoluted and un-producible script. This didn’t win me any points with the animators, but I decided I wasn’t getting paid to be popular. I incorporated every idea I could, but stood my ground on issues of story structure. My contract was renewed. And renewed. And renewed again. Gradually, an actual script began to emerge as we all began to collaborate.

Another big lesson came about five months in, when the director, the producer and I were flown to Nashville to meet with Dolly Parton who was writing the music and also voicing one of the main characters. My job was to explain the new plot to Ms. Parton and to be present during the recording sessions in case there were any problems with her dialogue. At 8:00 AM, Dolly showed up at the recording studio, in full make-up and looking like she was on her way to perform a stadium show. After a few introductions, we all sat down and I proceeded to pitch her the new story. She listened politely, but I began to detect a distant cloud forming on the horizon. When I finished, Ms. Parton’s rather large personality filled the room. She looked me squarely in the eye. “Well, I kinda liked the original better," she said, "But I know how this goes. As soon as some new person comes in, they have to change everything just to prove how much smarter they are than the last guy.” My heart sank, but suddenly, she smiled. Having expressed her opinion, she was over it and ready to work. Cheerfully slapping her thighs, she stood up. “Okay,” she said, “I’m not the world’s greatest actress, but let’s do this.”

For the remainder of the day, the director sat in the studio feeding Dolly her cues as we recorded her dialogue for the first half of the film. Occasionally, she would trip over one of her lines and frown. Glancing into the booth where I was seated, she would pleasantly (but bluntly) express her opinion about the line in question. The first couple of times, I tried to justify or explain the line, until I realized that Ms. Parton had not become a superstar for nothing. She had a very keen sense of what worked for her and people who own their own amusement parks don’t like to fart around; they have money that needs counting. When the next troublesome line came up, she smiled patiently at me. “Sorry, honey, but this line just doesn’t fit in my mouth.” Realizing it was time to get onboard the Dollywagon, I replied enthusiastically, “No problem, Dolly! I’m sure we can come up with something that will fit in your mouth.” Luckily, she laughed and it became a running gag for the rest of the day. All in all, I rewrote maybe five of her lines. Did I think the changes were as crisp as what I had written? No. Did it matter? Not at all. By the end of the day, I was in love with her.

A few weeks later, we screened the first 17 minutes of the newly revised movie for Michael Eisner who heartily approved of the overhaul. He even shook my hand and congratulated me on my work. For a time, there was much rejoicing throughout the magic kingdom as the film was rushed back into production. Several execs privately assured me I would be working at Disney ‘til the day I died. Then, “Finding Nemo” opened and within a month, our film was shelved for good; deemed too old fashioned to succeed. I felt awful for the director with whom I had gradually become friends. He had invested three years of his life in the project. But musicals were out. Pixar was in. Mr. Eisner and the other executives who had promised me lifelong employment soon moved on to other companies and I haven’t had a single meeting at Disney since.

Needless to say, I was disappointed when the film went south, but I came away with some great lessons about collaboration. Although every project needs a strong central vision, it also needs a few dissenting voices to pull it off course for a day or two, just so it can (hopefully) right itself again. I was proud of my work on the film, but some of the best and funniest moments in that script came from the animators or from the improvisations of the voice talent. In my travels since, I always try to remember that many things that seem earthshaking on Tuesday are often resolved or forgotten by Friday. Working together is the only way to work.

Copyright 2009 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.
www.daviddeanbottrell.com

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at www.partsandlabor.tv

Shrink to Fit

2009-10-11T21:38:00.000-07:00

Like a lot of creative types, I’ve had a little therapy. It all started when I was a teenager and discovered that our small town had a clinic where I could speak to a therapist for free. What I actually wanted to talk about was the fact that I was gay, but in the three years I went there, I never had the guts to bring it up. Instead, I talked to Mr. Weatherly (the kind fatherly guy who was assigned to my case) about my family – which gave us plenty of material. Later, when I went away to college (and came steamrolling out of the closet), I started talking with a younger, hipper guy name Paul who always wore cowboy boots to every session. Paul encouraged me to follow my dreams.

Those dreams led me to New York, where I enrolled in acting classes. In this atmosphere, I was finally free to become a big neurotic mess. So soon, I found "Sherri," who struck me as the perfect New York therapist. Sherri was short and round with frizzy hair and no discernable sense of humor. She also wore these big black glasses that magnified her eyes; giving the impression that she was fascinated by every detail of my miserable existence. After four years of listening to me bitch about my family and career, Sherri felt I had made “some progress.”

When I landed on the sunny shores of California, I brought with me a big attitude. I thought of myself as a “serious” artist -- which meant I had serious, complicated problems. I’d heard stories of nutty L.A. shrinks and I was very leery. However, my partner (with whom I’d lived with for five years) had developed an increasingly serious drug and alcohol problem. The fights were getting worse and I was running out of ideas. After a few cautious phone calls, I found a therapist named Jessica who agreed to work with me on a sliding scale. I made an appointment for the following Tuesday.

When I arrived at her Beverly Hills office, the door opened and I was greeted by the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen in my life. Jessica was a supernaturally gorgeous blonde with a warm, radiant smile. In her early 30’s, she had one of those long, willowy bodies that made her look like a runway model. It was like somebody had put Kim Basinger on a rack and stretched her to 6’.

Settling into her office, I tried to articulate my problems, but found it very hard to concentrate. This woman couldn’t be a therapist. Not a real therapist. How could somebody this ridiculously perfect understand the angst and anxiety we ordinary humans experience on a daily basis? This was never going to work. Somehow, I just couldn’t see myself driving to Beverly Hills each week and telling my problems to Cheryl Tiegs. I had to get out of this, but it felt too rude to dump her after only one session. I decided I’d do it next week.

The following Tuesday, I returned and went on the offensive. Eager to show her I was no lightweight, I began explaining in minute detail just how complex my therapeutic journey had been thus far. At first, Jessica just kept smiling. Then she started interrupting me at key moments and disrupting the flow of my tortured narrative. Finally, I called her on it. Cocking her gorgeous head slightly to one side, she gave me a perky, surprised smile. “Oh, I’m sorry, “ she said. “The reason I interrupted you is you don’t seem to be telling me much about your feelings – which is what we’re here to talk about, right?” I was stunned. She had nailed me. In an effort to discredit her, I’d painfully revealed just how little I’d learned in sixteen years of therapy. The problem wasn’t Jessica or her stunning good looks. I just didn’t want to admit what was going on. I decided she might not be such a bad therapist after all.

I soon discovered that although Jessica probably wasn't the perfect therapist for everybody, she was the perfect therapist for me. Gradually, I started to learn a little about her. She had indeed been a model and that experience had left her with a keen understanding of what it was like to be judged on one’s personal appearance (something I often struggled with). Although she had no personal experience in the competitive world of show business, she certainly understood how the most bizarre and most uncontrollable factors could determine who got the job and who didn’t. Jessica had also, at one point in her life, had a rather large drug and alcohol problem, so when I finally got around to telling her what was going on in my home, she got it in a big way.

Before long, coming to see Jessica was the highlight of my week. Not only did I love talking to her, I loved looking at her. Her flawless taste in clothing, make-up and hairstyling was never less than a miracle to behold. At times, her therapeutic style could be a bit quirky. I remember once telling her about an early sexual experience I’d had and she responded by saying that my story had reminded her of the first time she’d shot heroin. Moments like these left me wondering if my shrink might be a little loopy, but I didn’t care. She was was always utterly honest and wonderfully unpretentious. During our time together, Jessica talked me through quitting cigarettes, watching my first movie tank and the painful decision to exit my relationship after 10 years together. And she was there when I reentered the dating world as a 39 year-old gay man.

I remember one day, admitting to her my fear that I was now too old to compete romantically in Los Angeles; how everybody seemed so much younger and more attractive than me. As I said this, Jessica’s expression changed. My story had obviously struck a deep chord with her. Sadness and empathy swept over her face and for a moment, I thought she was going to cry.

The following week, our session was mostly consumed by one of my many professional disappointments, but just as I was about to leave, Jessica said she had something for me. Reaching into her bag, she produced an unopened jar of Chanel face cream and proceeded to explain that she’d found this product wonderfully effective. Apparently, it had “just a touch of acid in it” that sort of burned off the upper layer of one's skin, reducing the appearance of wrinkles. She placed in my hand with a gentle smile. I was so floored I barely remembered to say thank you. As I walked out to my car, I noticed that the price tag was still on the bottom. It was a staggeringly expensive product. I was touched, but there was something weird about this little exchange. I'd sort of been hoping to hear some wise words about accepting the passage of time and had instead come away with a pricey jar of flesh-eating beauty cream.

When I finally stopped seeing Jessica about four years ago, it was an easy decision to make for two reasons. First, I had run out of money and could no longer afford to talk about my problems. But a larger truth had also become clear. There are no real answers. Only decisions. And God knows the previous seven years of my life had been full of decisions. Some great, some not so great. To her enormous credit, Jessica had approached every dilemma I'd brought her with a freshness that always made it seem like it was her first day on the job. She had, in her way, managed to instill a bit of her “Who the hell knows what any of this means?” attitude in me. I never knew what her life was like outside the office, but one got the sense that ‘Carpe Diem” was probably the order of the day. After seven years with Jessica, I finally felt like my life (in California or wherever I may end up) is ultimately meant to be lived and not talked about.

Copyright 2009 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.
http://www.daviddeanbottrell.com/

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at http://www.partsandlabor.tv/

Putting the "Re" in the "Write"

2009-10-04T17:10:00.000-07:00

There is an old three-part joke about the movie business that goes like this: How many producers does it take to change a light bulb? “Does it have to be a light bulb?” How many directors does it take to screw in a light bulb? One to hold the light bulb and three grips to turn the throne. And finally: How many writers does it take to change a light bulb? “You can’t change the light bulb!!”

Every summer, I mentor a fresh crop of novice screenwriters in a lab I helped found a few years ago. In these sessions, I try to give these young writers some constructive criticism about their work and if possible, prepare them for the rough and tumble profession they hope to be a part of. Often I can see the misery and resentment registering on their faces as I suggest possible cuts or problems in the logic or tone. I feel bad for them, but writing in Hollywood is not a business for the thin-skinned. Better they learn it now.

One of the first things that I try to impress upon them is this: Great scripts are not written. They are rewritten. Screenwriting is not literature. A script is not a great, weighty tome chiseled in stone. A screenplay is a living breathing organism that will evolve (for better or worse) as it morphs from a pile of paper into a piece of celluloid projected on a screen in front of an paying audience. If you are lucky enough to write a script that someone is actually interested in, that’s a good thing. What many young writers don’t see coming is that they and their script are about to be launched on a journey… In most cases, a rather long journey in which a great many people will be coming along for the ride. And these new people will all have many, many ideas on how this wonderful script of yours could be made “even better.”

As you might have already guessed, the term “better” is highly subjective. To a producer, better often means cheaper and easier to shoot. To a studio executive, better usually means a script that resembles another film that was recently a big hit. To a director, better sometimes means a substantial change in the tone or direction of the story; maybe more toward something that reflects the director’s personality or career goals. To a movie star, better almost always means more heroic actions or “funnier” lines for the lead character.

I always try to be gentle when handing out my suggestions to novice writers. I remember how painful and traumatic my first rewrites were. The whole process of churning out even a first draft was sort of harrowing. By the time I had a version that I felt brave enough to show to anybody, I was ready to quit work. Part of me felt like I had cheated death; that it was nothing short of a miracle that I had managed to assemble all of these spare parts in to a vehicle that actually ran. The idea that someone was now asking me to disassemble the car and put it back together again was terrifying. It seemed impossible. Instead, I would spring to its defense. It will work! Really, it will! I swear it!

In those early days, getting notes on one of my scripts was the artistic equivalent of water-boarding. Even now, I tend to get a knot in my stomach when I hear the term “one little change.” For those who don’t actually write scripts, suggesting “one little change” probably doesn’t seem such a big deal. After all, why can’t the hero be a woman instead of a man? How hard could it be to alter a lead character’s age, race or planetary origin? Was I aware how much cheaper it is to shoot in New Orleans rather than New York. And wouldn’t it be more "fun" if the whole movie took place in a high school? Maybe with some sort of hip-hop element? There! That shouldn’t take long!

Highly sensitive, young artiste that I was, I often wondered why, if these folks liked my script so much, they wanted to change it. Couldn't they just leave it alone? Couldn't they all just dutifully line-up behind my vision and shoot it the way I wrote it? That, of course, is laughable to me now. People surrender huge chunks of their lives to be in this business. Of course they want input. Plus, movies are such risky and tremendously expensive ventures that any factor that will help them get produced, has to be seriously considered.

I recently heard that a director has expressed interest in attaching himself to a script I wrote and is already looking for a new writer to “fix it.” This, without having had a single conversation with me about whatever his concerns might be. Sadly, this is nothing new. In many cases, it’s considered cost-effective to shit-can the original writer, just so that no valuable time has to be wasted debating anything with him or her. Better to move on to a new writer who probably wants or needs the job and is all too willing to agree with whatever changes the producer or director would like to see.

Before I start sounding too defensive here, let me say that rewrites can also be a huge blessing. Over the years, I’ve worked with some very smart and savvy people who taught me that certain scenes, jokes and characters I thought I couldn’t live without were in fact, quite dispensable. Rewrites also taught me a lesson that’s come in rather handy in life: sometimes other people have great ideas. If I can set my ego aside and actually listen, these suggestions can occasionally do wonders for my script. Although I may not be thrilled by these ideas initially, often after a few days, I started loving the changes and become oddly willing to take full credit for them! It has also helped me to realize that studio executives and producers have only one objective - to get films MADE. Their jobs depend on it. And ultimately so does mine.

These days, I no longer view screenwriting as a job that is ever “done.” In the best of all possible worlds, it’s a successful juggling act. And a process. Once in a while, I’m lucky enough to get paid to participate in that process – and that is a very good thing indeed. If I truly need to establish my literary cred by controlling the content and tone of my work, nobody is stopping me from writing the next great American novel. Who knows? Maybe I’ll just do that sometime. I actually had an idea the other day that I think might be worthy of the Booker Prize. It's about these aliens that come to earth in search of hip-hop, and crash land into a New Orleans high school...

Copyright 2009 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.
http://www.daviddeanbottrell.com/

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at http://www.partsandlabor.tv/

The Singing Lesson

2009-09-27T22:25:00.000-07:00

Not long ago, I got a call about appearing in a charity show. I could hear the anxiety in the producer’s voice when she asked “Do you sing?” I used my stock reply. “Yes, I can sing, but I’m not a singer” -- Meaning I can carry a tune, but I’m not planning to record a CD anytime soon.

Once, when I was a young actor floundering around in New York, I decided to take a couple of singing lessons. A friend of mine had met a voice teacher while waiting on line at an open call (not a good sign) and had passed the teacher’s card along to me. My friend had made it plain that this woman, “Christine Watford-Schenk” was a bit of an oddball, but seemed harmless and might be a good teacher for a beginner like me.

When I called, I was instructed by Mrs. Watford-Schenk to meet her at her studio at the Lincoln Towers apartment building. On arrival, I was greeted by a striking, 40ish woman wearing what could best be described as grand Kabuki make-up, crowned by an upswept hairstyle with dangly ringlets falling here and there. Dressed in a gold brocade sleeveless top with matching pedal pushers, her outfit would have been cutting edge if this had been 1967, but it was 1982 at the time.

“Chrissy” (as I was told to address her) ushered me into her apartment. I had never seen anything like it. The place looked like Liberace's moving van had crashed into the set of "Phantom of the Opera." Jammed with French antiques, bejeweled lamps and of course, a huge grand piano, there was barely an aisle through each room. Every surface was crowded with ornate candelabras, Chinese vases and objects d’art. That, however, was nothing compared to the walls. Perhaps 30 paintings, all in heavy gilt frames, were hung literally from floor to ceiling, filling every available inch of space. Even I, hayseed that I was, recognized the names of a few of the artists like Alexander Calder.

"Chrissy" perched herself on the edge of her wrap-around sofa and began to quiz me about my goals as a singer. Since I didn’t have any, we proceeded to the piano where she tested out my range and general musical ability. I was deemed a worthy student and was then informed that her rate was $50 an hour. I offered her $20 and she took it.

Every Thursday, Chrissy would poke and prod me, push my shoulders back and make me spit out my consonants and round my vowels. It was sort of fun until she began occasionally asking me odd questions like what did I do for fun or who I was dating. Although I enjoyed her grand manners and her “Holly Golightly” wardrobe, her interest in my personal life creeped me out. Plus, she didn’t seem to be such a great singer herself. Deciding I wasn’t so interested in singing lessons after all, I told her I could no longer afford the twenty bucks. Undaunted, she informed me that since I was one of her favorite students, I could continue to study for free.

In those days, guilt was a powerfully motivating force in my life. It had become increasingly clear that Chrissy’s other voice students (to whom she frequently referred) were entirely fictitious. I’d also noticed that one-by-one, her art collection was gradually disappearing from the walls. Soon, a ritual developed where Chrissy would offer me a glass of wine before our lesson. During these little chats, her life story began to unfold. If Tennessee Williams had written “Gone With the Wind,” it couldn’t have come out better.

Apparently, Chrissy had arrived in New York, a young, wealthy debutante eager to pursue her dream of becoming a ballet dancer. After falling down a flight of stairs and injuring her back, she opted to abandon ballet for the world of opera and had studied for a time with some big deal voice teacher. Somewhere along the line, she met and married a Jewish man who was roughly old enough to be her grandfather and soon they had set up house in a swank Park Avenue penthouse. Good Southern girl that she was, she had handed over her entire inheritance to her new husband, who within a few short years, managed to lose it all. Her husband then died of a heart attack (in her arms) and a week later, she discovered she was pregnant. Tragically, she miscarried and was briefly institutionalized. When she got out, she was evicted from her Park Avenue digs and had been forced to cram the contents into this one-bedroom apartment in Lincoln Towers. She now existed on a small stipend that her late husband’s brother had arranged for her and of course, her “teaching income.”

I wanted to help her out, but the problem was that Chrissy wasn’t really a voice teacher. She was just a bizarre, lonely lady whose life had derailed. I no longer had any desire to study with her, but felt like she depended on our weekly visits. Often, I would arrive for my lesson to discover that she had already knocked back half a bottle of wine. Then one day she made a big sloppy pass at me. It was so lame it didn’t even offend me. Instead, I sat her down on the sofa and told her that she needed to get out of this apartment and at least try to meet some straight men.

The next time I saw her she was beaming. “I took your advice!” she exclaimed. Swaddled in her ratty mink, Chrissy had gone on a scouting expedition, scoping out the local restaurants and bars until she found one she rather liked. “I then asked to speak to the manager," she said. "I introduced myself and told him I was a single lady who lived in the neighborhood and that I intended to be frequenting his establishment.” She then told him that she was interested in meeting single men, but not just some trash off the street. “I said I wanted to meet older men, but not too old, you know. Mature men with jobs; divorcees and widowers; that type of individual; stable and no dope addicts.” She had then asked the manager if he thought that those sort of men came into his bar. Apparently, they did. “Next, I told him that I enjoy a cocktail as much as the next person, but if at any time it became clear that I had had one too many, I expected him or a trustworthy member of his staff to make sure I was escorted around the corner and back to my apartment building in a safe and dignified manner.” Trying not to show how dumbfounded I was, I asked “Did he agree to that?” “You know, he did seem a bit surprised,” Chrissy recounted, “But yes, he agreed.”

So, soon Chrissy became a “regular” and within a couple of months, managed to land herself a boyfriend. “Jimmy” was a bald, portly, divorced graphic designer who seemed to enjoy Chrissy’s company. They invited me out to dinner with them a couple of times and it was clear from Chrissy’s giggly, girlish demeanor that she and Jimmy were having a great time in the sack. I was thrilled. Chrissy’s sense of style seemed to be relaxing too. Instead of looking like Maria Callas in the 60’s, she was starting to look like Jacqueline Onassis in the 70’s. It was a start. Soon, she joined an amateur opera troop that staged little performances in church basements and then went out and got drunk afterwards.

After they had been going out for a few months, Jimmy hired me to come in and help him clean out and organize his messy design studio. A decent, friendly guy, he had recently seen Chrissy perform with her pals and asked me about her prospects as a singer. “Yeah, I dunno..." he said. "Does it matter…I mean, do you think it’s a big deal… She doesn’t always hit the right notes.” Not wanting to rock the boat, I assured him that the whole “singing-on-pitch” thing was generally overrated.

By this time, I had begged off my singing lessons, telling Chrissy I had gotten too busy with my acting classes. It was time to cut her loose. Jimmy was a Godsend and if she didn’t see it, she was beyond help. Although Chrissy continued to call from time to time to check up on me, I let my answering machine finish the job. Frequently she would end her always cheerful messages by saying, "Now don't you forget me!" As if that would ever be possible.

Copyright 2009 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.
http://www.daviddeanbottrell.com/

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at http://www.partsandlabor.tv/

Ego Stew

2009-09-20T15:27:00.000-07:00

Ego is always a force to be reckoned with here in Hollywood. Although we didn't invent it, you could say we perfected it. One of my favorite quotes on the subject comes from that undisputed queen of self-expression, Madonna who once said, "Hey, everybody's entitled to my opinion."

Like most people, I was appalled when Kanye West stormed the stage at the MTV awards, took the microphone from 19 year-old Taylor Swift (who had just won for “Best Female Video”) and declared that Beyonce’s video was better. It was a jaw-dropping act of hubris, even from a guy who’s somewhat known for shooting his mouth off. It’s hard to fathom what could have been going through his mind at that moment. "Best Video" isn't exactly the Nobel Peace Prize. It’s not as if some great injustice had been perpetrated. Nor is it like Beyonce (who seems to be doing pretty well) is badly in need of another award. I wondered if the whole incident might have just been fueled by too much cognac backstage. Whatever the reason, it was rude as hell.

I’ve spent the week trying to drum up some kind of sympathy for Kanye. He’s a young guy who’s been visited by some astronomical success. That doesn’t excuse stupidity, but it can sometimes explain it. When mega-celebrity lands on people, it arrives about as gracefully as an avalanche. Your once ordinary life is all but erased by your new "handlers." Inconvenience is a thing of the past. Day-to-day chores like waiting in line at the Starbucks or picking up your dry cleaning are swept away. Suddenly (you are told) your time is far too valuable to be wasted on crap like that. Wherever you go, the velvet rope is unhooked and you are swept past envious onlookers like visiting royalty.

All anybody wants from you now is more; more of whatever you did that made you a star to begin with. If your ego was just a flicker, your team will soon do all in their power to fan it into a raging fire. From these flames will come bigger hits and a persona that can be marketed worldwide. Strangers holding microphones will want to know not only what you’re going to do next, but what you think about things like politics and global warming; things you know almost nothing about. But that doesn't matter. Fans will blog, text and tweet about how smart, funny, gorgeous and insightful you are. Why, you can barely open your mouth before the applause begins. It gets hard not to start thinking of oneself as an innovator, a savior, a freakin’ genius. You can do no wrong. That is, until you do.

It’s not much of a surprise when megastars land in some kind of trouble. Whatever their moral compass may have been, it no longer works in the upper stratosphere. "Other people" don’t show up so well on the new radar. The pressures of being "you" may lead to the false impression you can smack somebody around or drive drunk down the PCH at a 100 miles an hour. As much as your fans and handlers may forgive your antics, law enforcement is not so understanding. Bad behavior is entertaining to a point, but when you stumble across a line that you shouldn’t have (as Kanye did with Taylor) it’s a big surprise to discover that instead of being perceived as a ballsy truth-teller, you come off as a stupid, ungrateful jerk.

When Kanye appeared later in the week on Jay Leno's show to offer a public apology, he got served a healthy bowl of what I like to call "Ego Stew." We all have to eat it once in a while. It's a steaming combination of what we "did" and what we "should have done," all boiled together (and in Kanye's case, served with a side order of his dead mother's opinion). Ego stew is not so tasty, but sometimes it's good for us. It can wake us up and get our feet back on the ground. So, welcome back, Kanye. I hope you'll use all that insight (and all that talent you've got) to look at the world with new eyes.

Oddly, I couldn’t help thinking about the whole Kanye flap as I watched Susan Boyle make her American television debut on this week's finale of “America’s Got Talent.” Say what you will about Ms. Boyle, she always makes an impression. God knows her singing isn’t flawless and no matter how many stylists take a crack at her, she always looks a bit like a small-town librarian who’s been run a little too quickly through the Tressamay Hair and Make-up salon. But there is something about her earnest delivery that always gets me. Despite being catapulted overnight from utter obscurity to international stardom, she remains a sincere presence and never fails to give it her all.

As expected, her quietly moving rendition of “Wild Horses” brought the delirious crowd to their feet. And there stood sweet Susan, the most unlikely star on the planet, modestly nodding her head and carefully acknowledging the musicians who had accompanied her as if somehow the crowd were cheering for them and not for her. It was beyond adorable. It was a gesture of gratitude; offered by one of "us;" a regular Joe who got unbelievably lucky... And knows it. Nicely done, Susan. Rock on.

Copyright 2009 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.
http://www.daviddeanbottrell.com/

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at http://www.partsandlabor.tv/

A Funny Thing Happened...

2009-09-13T16:28:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid, my mom used to complain that there was nothing on TV half as funny as Sid Caesar’s “Your Show of Shows” used to be. One Saturday night, when I was a kid, I turned on our old Zenith and happened onto a movie called “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum.” I’d never laughed so hard in my 11 year-old life. When I was about 14, I remember loving the weekly smart-ass banter of doctors Hawkeye Pierce and B.J. Hunnicut on M*A*S*H. In my early 20’s, I saw a Broadway musical called “City of Angles” that I thought was tremendously clever and innovative. And like everybody else in the country, I found the movie “Tootsie” completely hilarious. In the early 90’s, when I was trying to get started as a writer, I caught a movie on HBO called “Barbarians at the Gate” and for the first time ever, took the time to notice who the screenwriter was. I remember thinking “Wow. This guy is good.” Soon after, I discovered that “this guy” had written (or co-written) all the aforementioned projects. He had literally been making me laugh my entire life. His name was Larry Gelbart.

When Larry passed away on Friday at the age of 81, he left behind an impressive and influential body of work. Although most of his obituaries have focused on the seminal effect that M*A*S*H had on television humor, his influence on the whole art and craft of television and film writing would be hard to measure. The guy was a legend. I can’t think of anyone I know who didn’t want to write like Larry Gelbart. He could infuse intelligence, pathos, morality and political comment into a script and still make you laugh. He was a keen observer of his times and a master satirist. Born to working class immigrant parents, he had started his career in radio before moving on to huge successes in television, films and on Broadway. In his later years, he even became a “take-no-prisoners” blogger on The Huffington Post. Plus, he pulled off the single most incredible feat any writer can aspire to: He was still working (and when I say “working” I mean getting paid to write) at age eighty!

When his memoir, “Laughing Matters” came out in 1998, I grabbed it off the shelf at Borders and rushed home to read it. Sadly, I was disappointed to discover that it read like the work of a guy who was a little too busy to write a book. The chapters were disjointed and came off more like essays that had been written years apart. It felt like he had cleaned out his file cabinet, handed the pile to the editor and said “Here, make a book out of this.” Given what a remarkable writer he was (and what an incredible journey he had taken in his career) it seemed like a missed opportunity. But then maybe Larry wasn’t the type to look back. I guess he had scripts he needed to write.

Truth be told, I wasn’t just a fan of Larry Gelbart; I wanted to be him. He seemed to have done all the things that I wanted to do (including live in London for nine years). He was fiercely respected and had no problem speaking the truth about any situation, no matter who was involved. After experiencing “creative differences” with Dustin Hoffman on “Tootsie,” he said of the star, “Never work with an Oscar winner who is shorter than the statue.” After his Broadway musical, “Conquering Hero” closed after a tortuous try-out in Philadelphia, he gave us one of the most quoted lines in writing history: “If Hitler’s alive, I hope he’s out-of-town with a musical.”

Back in June, I attended a staged reading of a pilot that Larry had written called “Pinnacle.” I had always wanted to meet him and hoped that this would be my chance. The script was vintage Gelbart: clever, tightly-plotted; full of dicey moral situations and plenty of unsentimental observations about the less attractive sides of human nature. During the Q & A, Larry told us that although the script had been turned down by HBO, he hoped to interest the BBC in doing it. He was, at the time, also busy finishing up the screen adaptation of his musical “City of Angels” which Barry Levinson attached to direct. Listening to him filled me with hope. Obviously, Larry wasn’t a young guy, but he certainly didn’t seem “old” either. He was working, engaged, interested and even after 60 years in the business; he was still (like all good writers) a closet optimist.

I hovered for a bit after the Q & A, hoping that the perfect opportunity would arise for me to slip in and shake his hand, but it never did. He was mobbed by his fans, both old and new, who were peppering him with questions about his career, his craft and even soliciting his opinions on the current political climate. Finally, I slipped out, saying to myself, “Maybe, next time.” Unfortunately, there was no next time. Larry was diagnosed with terminal cancer shortly thereafter.

If I am lucky enough to live a long life, I hope I’m able to do it as gracefully as Larry did – with humor and honesty and interest. Last December, when a rumor flew around town via the Internet that he had died of a massive stroke, Larry reportedly sent out an email to his friends that simply read: “Does this mean I can stop exercising?” He seemed like a modest guy, but to me (and a lot of others) he was a giant.

Copyright 2009 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.
http://www.daviddeanbottrell.com/

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at http://www.partsandlabor.tv/

The Beautiful Weapons of Happiness

2009-09-06T19:11:00.000-07:00

Last week, I got cast in an actual, honest-to-God, Equity stage production here in Los Angeles. Professional theatre work in L.A. is (as my mother used to say) about as “rare as hen’s teeth.” When the show opens in October, it will mark the first time I’ve been on stage in 15 years. Needless to say, I’m both excited and a little nervous about it. The whole process of getting cast reminded me how much I have missed the gentle and courteous way in which casting is handled in the theatre.

First, you are usually given a generous number of pages to read (as opposed to the five or six lines you usually have to prove yourself in television). Then there’s the whole “audition-callback” arrangement that gives you that all-important second chance to nail your character. And then there is the kind and respectful manner in which the craft of acting is treated by your potential employers. Between you and me, it will be sort of thrilling to blow the dust off my “Actors Equity” card. It was the first union I ever joined and I can still remember how excited I was to become a member of what I, at the time, believed to be a very exclusive club.

A Manhattan skyscraper now stands on the corner of West 54th and 8th Avenue where the old “Showcase Studios” once stood. I was nervous when I entered the creaky old rehearsal hall for my first real “Equity” audition. The casting director had seen me in a showcase and introduced me to an agent, who in turn, had submitted me back to the casting director for this play, so he had little choice but to see me. It was a regional theatre production of a perfectly horrible British play called “The Weapons of Happiness.” I was asked to read a monologue in a cockney accent and when I finished the director, who was British, yelled “Brilliant.” Being twenty-two at the time, I thought that meant he'd found my acting "brilliant." I didn’t know that was just something British people said when they wanted to move things along. I came back a week later, read a second time and the job was mine.

Three weeks later, I was in freezing Buffalo, New York, rooming with another young actor in the cast, Evan Handler (who would later go on to play Charlotte’s husband on “Sex in the City” and can now be seen on “Californication”). Evan (who was extremely nice) had already been in a couple of movies, so I was incredibly intimidated by him. Not wanting him to know I had just been brought up from the minor leagues, I didn’t mention that this was my first professional gig.

The play was an extremely ambitious project for a regional theatre. In addition to its lefty, pro-Communist leanings, it required a huge cast, plus expensive scenic elements like fog machines, hydraulic lifts and rotating turntables. The director had opted to cast a number of American actors who had studied in London. Outside the rehearsal hall, this crew seemed perfectly normal, but once they came into the presence of the director, they suddenly morphed into Sir Ralph Richardson and Dame May Whitty. The play was hard to “act” since all any of us ever did was spout angry political diatribes. It also had two interweaving (and equally confusing) plots. The first was about a strike in potato chip factory led by a bunch of young, working-class hotheads. The second involved the lead character (an older Czech man) having hallucinatory memories (part flash-back, part fantasy) about his experiences in the Stalinist purges of the early 1950s.

Frequently, the older character would deliver long, rambling monologues to the audience which none of us (including him) understood a word of. One of these speeches ended with the question “And what are the beautiful weapons of happiness?” Several of us were, at that point, standing in the wings, waiting to make our next entrance. On hearing this question, I remember Evan and I would always turn to each other and shrug our shoulders. Who the fuck knew?

The reviews were scathing, but they didn’t hold a candle to the frosty reception the audiences gave us. The play (written in 1977) may have had some relevance to British theatergoers, but in 1983 Buffalo, it went over like a lead balloon. Bethlehem Steel had just closed its doors, and those who could still afford a night out, didn’t much care to be preached to by a bunch of pinko Commie sympathizers. Plus, it didn’t help that the playwright had made a point of having something hugely offensive happen in almost every scene (torture, a hanging, a teenage girl giving the lead character a blow-job). Audience members walked out in droves; sometimes not even waiting for intermission to do so. Soon, the cast created a pool backstage. At the start of each performance, everyone put in two bucks and guessed the number of walkouts for the night. Whoever got the closest to the actual number (verified by the house manager) won the pot for the night. I hit the lucky number twice.

The whole enterprise seemed cursed. The massive machinery required to move the scenery, frequently broke down. One night, the fog machine went berserk and the entire company disappeared in a cloud of mist. There was also lots of backstage drama. Our leading man, a middle-aged, recovering alcoholic, fell off the wagon and started showing up drunk for performances. This proved especially challenging for me since I had to do a little “stage combat” with him. One night, he was so loaded, I literally had to grab his fist and ram it into my own stomach; then collapse to the stage as if he’d actually hit me. Unfortunately, the guy was so trashed, he lost his balance and fell on top of me.

I knew the show was sort of disaster, but I didn’t care. I was delighted beyond words just to be “a professional.” Every night, I was stretching my artistic wings, while learning a few life lessons along the way. When the playwright came from London to see the show, Evan and I threw a party in his honor and invited all the “party-hardy” Buffalo locals who played the “angry mob” in the show. Being twenty-two year-olds, it never occurred to either of us to provide any food, so everybody got utterly hammered in pretty short order. When the gentlemanly playwright arrived bearing an expensive bottle of Glenfiddich, I slammed it down on the card table / bar next to the cheap shit the rest of us were drinking. Never having tasted Scotch in my life, I knocked back three or four shots on top of the five beers I’d already had. When the room started to spin, I excused myself and vomited out my second-story bedroom window before rejoining the party. Despite a massive hangover, I managed to get through the matinee the next day. Barely.

Although playwrights, directors and designers bring invaluable contributions to the theatre, it is, in the end, an actor’s medium. Eight times a week, you are the channel through which the whole play is transmitted to the minds and hearts of the audience. There is no stopping. There are no second takes. It’s live. And it’s scary. But when you manage to connect with that room full of strangers out there in the dark, it’s totally thrilling. So, if you find yourself in the L.A. area anytime from October 21st to November 22th, I hope you’ll come see me and my fellow cast members appearing in a much better play than “The Weapons of Happiness.” It’s been a while since I worked without a net, but maybe I’ll pull it off; actually, telling a story to a group of real people. In real time. In a real theatre. I can’t wait.

"BETTER ANGELS" at the Colony Theatre Company in Burbank, CA. October 21 to November 22, 2009. Tickets: (818) 558-7000 or visit http://www.colonytheatre.org

Copyright 2009 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at http://www.partsandlabor.tv/

Hollywood Heart

2009-08-30T23:48:00.001-07:00

I’ll admit it. Teenagers scare me. Not in the sense that I think they’re actually going to do me any bodily harm, but I never know what to say to them. I always feel like some dufus uncle who can only ask “How’s school going?” or comment on how much they’ve grown. Plus, I was lousy at being a teenager. It was a miserable period of my life that I couldn’t wait to be over. All I ever wanted was to be a grown-up.

All of those feelings were churning around inside me as I drove up the extremely intimidating mountain road to the “Hollywood Heart” camp in northern Malibu last week. The sun was setting, and I was getting concerned that I’d never spot the large menorah where I was supposed to turn left (and off this terrifying road). A friend had asked if I would volunteer to teach an acting workshop for the campers who would range from 15–20 years in age. The week-long camp was established over 15 years ago to offer art and performance classes to kids from all over the country who are either HIV positive or whose lives are being directly affected by the disease in some way.

As I inched my Honda around the next hair pin turn, I couldn’t help wondering why a bunch of Jews (the most practical people I know) would have built a camp in this staggeringly remote location. Then I arrived and it all became clear. Perched high on a bluff overlooking the Pacific, the views were spectacular and breathing in the cool ocean air instantly filled me with serenity. I pulled my corduroy jacket out of my car and slung my computer bag over my shoulder. I checked my appearance in the car window. I looked sort of like a teacher. Well, close enough. Following the signs, I made my way to the camp’s office where my temperature was taken (“a precaution against swine flu,” I was told) and was informed about the camp’s “Three’s Company” rule which basically meant that you should never allow yourself to be left alone with an underage camper. “Got it. No problem.” I replied.

I was then introduced to the camp’s workshop coordinator who asked if I would be willing to say a few inspirational words during dinner. Although, I was already feeling a bit overwhelmed, I agreed. Soon, I was ushered into the dining hall where 50 high-energy teenagers were gorging themselves. Not having been in a high school cafeteria for several millennia, I had sort of forgotten what the decibel level was like. Seated with a few of the kids and one of the college-age counselors, I made a stab at conversation, but eventually gave up since I’ve never been very good at lip-reading.

After giving my inspirational talk (which lasted maybe a minute), it was time to teach my class. The camp was offering many workshops for the kids to choose from (including cool things like a drum circle and hip-hop dance). I’d sort of pictured myself teaching a bunch of giggly girls and maybe a gay kid or two, but instead, I wound up with a small group of all boys who, having just ingested a generous portion of carbs, had energy to burn. My original game plan had included having the campers read a short scene from a play called “Golden Boy,’ but the scene I’d selected was a “boy-girl” scene, so that was now out the window. Plus my group seemed to have more than its share of comedians and keeping their attention for more than 30 seconds at a time, proved challenging. Initially, I tried a few theatre games, but then segued into some improv exercises which went a little better. I also learned an invaluable teaching lesson – engage the alpha dogs and the rest of the pack will follow.

The most poignant moment came when we were doing an improv exercise where one of my campers, a very shy African-American kid named “Kenneth” (not his real name) seemed reluctant to raise his voice or express any anger, even though in the improv we were doing, he’d been stood up by his study partner (who didn’t seem very sorry about it).

Kenneth shrugged his narrow shoulders. “I’m not a angry person.” he said. “That's okay,” I replied. “Neither am I, but sometimes it’s fun to pretend to get mad. In real life when we get mad and yell, sometimes that causes problems, but that’s the great part about acting. It’s all pretend. Nobody gets hurt.” Kenneth’s face relaxed a bit and although he never exactly got "mad," he at least seemed willing to let his scene partner know he wasn’t happy.

Finally, after 90 minutes of barely-controlled chaos, 8:30 arrived and the campers were herded away to their rooms to get ready for a dance that was planned that night in the cafeteria. Utterly spent, I picked up my bag and shuffled out into the night air. I’d paused for a moment to take in the view of the moon over the Pacific, when a man approached and extended his hand. He introduced himself as one of the founders of the camp and thanked me for volunteering.

Although this guy clearly didn’t recognize me, I certainly remembered him. He was a former studio executive who, eight years earlier, had shut down a movie I had worked my ass off on. “Hi,” I said, “Nice to see you again." I then explained how we happened to know each other. Not only did he not remember me, he didn’t remember the movie. Finally when I mentioned the name of one of the producers, he perked up a little. “Wow,” he said with an awkward shrug. “That was a long time ago, huh?” “Yes, it was,” I replied. Although the demise of the project had been a bitter pill at the time, it seemed sort of silly now as I listened to the shrieks and peals of laughter coming from the cabins. When I told my former employer how impressed I was with the camp, he replied that he was very proud of how, not only was it a great experience for the kids, but it also gave Hollywood people a chance to “not act like Hollywood people.” I agreed.

As I drove back down the scary (and now dark) road, I wondered if I’d actually managed to teach anything in my workshop. Probably not. But I was at least proud of my little inspirational talk during dinner. As I looked out at that sea of incredibly “unfinished” young people, I tried to remember who I was at that age and what I might have been able to absorb through my twin layers of insecurity and bravado. This isn’t exactly word-for-word, but basically what I said was this:

“You know some people go through their whole lives without ever really using their creativity much. They just look at life as this set of problems that somebody handed them and feel like there’s really nothing they can do about it except try to get by. What’s so great about a camp like this is that you get to come here and experience all kinds of cool stuff like music and art and acting and dance. And you get to use the most valuable thing we human beings possess: our imaginations. And the best part is that you don’t have to stop using your imagination when you leave this camp. You can apply it to anything in your life. To a job. To a relationship. To school. To your future. Always remember, you never have to just accept a situation and say “Oh, that’s just how it is.” If you use your imagination, you can say “Well, maybe that’s how it is now, but this is how it could be.” And that’s the beginning of having a game plan. And having a game plan is how you make changes. And the ability to make changes is secret to having a great life!”

Copyright 2009 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc. http://www.daviddeanbottrell.com/

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at http://www.partsandlabor.tv/

Out of the Blue

2009-08-24T00:18:00.001-07:00

By the late 1990’s, I was on a roll. I’d finally begun to land screenwriting jobs at studios. Soon, my first movie was produced. For next few years, I worked steadily. I got rid of my old car, took some very nice vacations and threw some kick-ass parties. For the first time in my life, caterers were cleaning up the mess instead of me. It was in many respects, quite a nice run. However something else happened during that time that I hadn’t expected. I experienced my first real bout of depression.

At first I chalked it up to the inherent disappointments that come along with being a screenwriter. Despite mostly rave reviews from my employers, the scripts I was writing were not getting made. In some cases the process of them “not getting made” went on for years. A dizzying parade of directors and movie stars came and went. Each personnel change required a new rewrite. My expectations ebbed and flowed. And so did my emotions. I knew that on some level I was successful. After all, I was working. The checks were coming in. That must mean something. But there was never any sense of completion. Each time I left one project to move on to the next, I felt like I was rowing away in a lifeboat, while a gigantic chunk of my time and talent was slowing sinking beneath the waves.

Soon, I had fewer and fewer ideas that I felt enthusiastic about. I began killing my offspring in the cradle. Why bother to even type them up, much less go out and pitch them. They probably wouldn’t sell. And if they did sell it would just result in another huge runaround. In the end there would be no movie. Plus, no one (not even the well-established producers I was now working with) seemed to know what they were doing. I started unconciously deflecting work.

Finally, my then-manager called and confronted me. “You’re depressed,” he said. “Get some help.” He suggested I see his acupuncturist; a very nice Chinese guy who stuck a few needles in me and sent me home with a bagful of scary-looking roots. I was instructed to boil them into a dark tea and keep drinking it for the next six months. I lasted about two days, largely because the tea tasted like it had been brewed from a tennis shoe. I looked for other options. I joined a church, and although I liked a lot of what they had to say, it didn’t exactly lighten my mood. I found a therapist, who asked if I wanted to kill myself. “Hell, no!” I replied. “I may hate my life, but I don’t want to end it.” She then sent me to a psychiatrist on the Westside who I basically liked, but had an annoying habit of playing his ponytail while we talked. He felt I was “mildly depressed” and suggested I try a course of Wellbutrin.

The Wellbutrin made me feeling like I’d had eight cups of espresso. I had lots of energy but zero focus. By the end of the first week, my house was cluttered with half-finished projects. I stayed on the drug for almost two years before finally realizing that it was not doing much for the core issue. Despite the fact that I was still steadily working, my life didn’t seem to have a lot of direction. I wrote checks to charities. I voted in every election. I over-tipped waiters. But somehow, my life felt rudderless. I was looking for a purpose; something I could latch onto.

That drive to "make something happen" led to a disastrous romance. When it derailed (in blindingly spectacular way) it shook me to my core. Coincidentally, just as my relationship ended, so did the wave I'd been riding professionally. Overnight, I was jobless and out of fashion. The money was gone and I didn’t have a clue what to do next. Then something very strange happened. I wrote and directed a short film. And that film (which became a hit on the festival circuit) gave me back something I had lost along the way: an audience. Suddenly, I was hearing people laugh at lines that I had actually written. It was like rain in the desert. It changed the course of my career and my life.

It’s funny what you can forget along the way. When I was twenty years-old, I sold everything I owned, hopped a Greyhound bus and headed for New York to pursue my dream of being a actor. Given that it was going to be a 48-hour bus ride, I decided I wanted something challenging to read. I picked up a copy of Thomas Mann’s ‘Death in Venice and Other Stories” and settled into my slightly stained bus seat. I dug into the title story and (at age 20) was singularly unimpressed by it. The idea of some middle-aged dude becoming so obsessed with a beautiful kid that he dies from it, seemed sort of lame to me. But the next story in the collection, “Tonio Kruger” oddly drew me in.

Without going into all the details, it's basically the story of an artist who visits his childhood home and experiences an epiphany about the nature of talent. “Tonio” realizes that possessing talent means being born into this life blessed / cursed with these very sensitive antennae. Like a giant sponge, you walk around soaking up all the dreams and disappointments of virtually everyone you encounter. As another intimidating writer, Christopher Isherwood, once put it, you become “a camera,” a first-person witness to all this drama, but completely unable to affect its course in any way. Add that to your own life experience and before long, you become seriously overloaded by all this emotional weight. Eventually it starts to drag you down and you become, like Tonio, “melancholy.” According to Mr. Mann’s story, the artist’s only salvation lies in using that unwanted knowledge to create something -- a painting, a story, a piece of music, a performance. In short, by using it, you become free of it. And even more miraculously, if your art is any good, when an audience experiences it, they see or feel or hear a bit of their own story in it – and are freed of their emotional baggage as well. So it’s a win-win for everybody.

The “Tonio Kruger” method is the simplest, smartest recipe for mental health I’ve ever heard. And I had totally forgotten it. Writing a screenplay can be very lucrative and even fun, but in the end, a very small number of people will ultimately decide its fate (and about half of them you will never even meet). In the last three years, I’ve made a very conscious decision to make sure that in addition to writing for a living, I do a little writing for myself. Whether it is through this blog, magazine columns or through “spoken word” evenings, I make sure I get my voice (such as it is) out there. Like it or not, my sanity depends on hearing somebody laugh once in a while. Getting the occassional hostile email from a lunatic reader is good for me. Every once and a while, I need to throw a rock and hear a little glass break.

So whatever it is you do, Hollywood, get yourself out there and do it. Find that open mike. Tune up that guitar. Steal yourself some applause as often as you can. Heed my warning, fellow traveler; it is easy to sink beneath the sand. Believe me when I tell you it gets cold out there in the desert at night. Don’t let the fire go out.

Copyright 2009 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.
www.daviddeanbottrell.com

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at www.partsandlabor.tv

State of the Union

2009-08-16T21:38:00.000-07:00

My adrenaline spiked a little when I spotted the pale green envelope in my mailbox. “Money!” I thought. It was a logical assumption since the Writer’s Guild of America always sends out their residual checks in these lovely wintergreen envelopes. I was slightly disappointed to discover that instead of a check, it was a little missive from my other union, the Screen Actors Guild, containing a ballot and a form letter recommending that I vote to approve our new and long-delayed TV and film contract. As I checked the “yes” box, I couldn’t help but reflect on the 18-month circus that had finally led to this small slip of paper. If the events hadn’t been so damaging, they would have been hilarious. In case you haven’t been following the saga, here are just a few of the highlights:

Our story opens with a bizarre open letter from SAG’s former National Executive Director, Doug Allen, attacking sister union AFTRA just months before we were supposed to start joint negotiations with them. The pissed-off AFTRA leadership then broke ranks and (much to the studios' delight) negotiated a wonderfully lame contract of their own. When a more moderate faction of the SAG board (AKA “Unite for Strength”) then tried to fire Mr. Allen, SAG President Alan Rosenberg and his hard-line “Membership First” cronies all but declared civil war. This led to Mr. Rosenberg's now famous 28-hour, boardroom filibuster to block the firing. His opponents, however, found a constitutional loophole, stormed the executive offices and fired Mr. Allen anyway - not once, but twice. The following morning, Mr. Rosenberg felt moved to write a folk song about the incident and posted it on YouTube. As if that wasn't punishment enough, he then joined forces with SAG's 1st Vice President, Anne-Marie Johnson and a few other fire-breathing cohorts and together filed a lawsuit against their own union to reinstate Mr. Allen. This being an organization run by actors, none of the participants was particularly shy about issuing statements to the press, which quickly turned SAG’s internal strife into a big, embarrassing and very public soap opera.

At the peak of this shit-slinging contest, I attended one of the “informational meetings” held at the Harmony Gold Theatre in Hollywood. Mr. Rosenberg opened the meeting by stating that although we might be “walking in here as a union divided, we were going to walk out of this auditorium in complete solidarity.” That wasn’t exactly what happened. Instead, some none-too-subtle pressure was applied for us to approve a strike authorization which would have effectively handed the equivalent of a small nuclear bomb to a bunch of extremely pissed-off people. To hear our leadership tell it, the AMPTP was now being run by Darth Vader and if we didn’t act now, the entire empire would be lost. As a veteran of the recent WGA strike, I wondered why SAG thought they were going to prevail in obtaining a superior contract when all of their sister unions had failed. As various rabid strike enthusiasts took the microphone to rant against the forces of darkness, the whole event began to take on the feeling of a “McCain-Palin” rally (i.e. a lost cause covered in a thick, sugary coating of nostalgia for the good old days).

All of this hysteria was, of course, being fueled by that sign of the apocalypse, “New Media.” It’s no secret that the coming of New Media has already started altering the economics of the industry. The question on the table is (and will always be) the future of residuals. The original template for paying residuals came about in the late 1950’s and early 60’s when ideas like Cable TV, DVR’s, Blu-Ray and the Internet sounded like something from “The Jetsons.” There were exactly three TV networks to choose from and every night, every American sat down and dutifully watched at least three full hours of whatever was on. This huge captive audience was an advertising gold mine and the networks were raking it in. To their credit, the unions realized it was the perfect time to step up and demand a piece of that gargantuan pie. Not wanting to interrupt the torrential cash flow, the networks and studios saw the wisdom of cutting them a slice. Those were also the Golden Days when entertainment companies were actually entertainment companies -- as opposed to now, when most of the studios and networks are just divisions of much larger conglomerates who view their broadcasting or movie-making divisions as just one small asset out of many.

As I sat in the Harmony Gold, I wondered if SAG was keeping up with the times. In truth, labor unions all over the country are finding their effectiveness eroding. Public sentiment, once largely on the side of labor, has cooled. When I was walking the picket line in the WGA strike, I got used to the occasional “Fuck you” being hurled at us by passing cars. Apparently, there are a few folks out there who now view unions as a bunch spoiled brats who, having long ago won a choice corner of the sandbox, don’t want to share an inch of it with anybody. Lest we forget, unions have, over the last 70 years, played a major role in creating this country’s huge middle-class. They have stabilized lives and given workers opportunities to help their children achieve a stronger economic and educational foothold. Unions provide much needed medical insurance, create safe working conditions and can also raise a big stink (when a big stink is needed).

Unfortunately, while the SAG leadership was busy pantsing each other for the last 18 months, the economy tanked and the membership got stuck working under our old contract (with no pay raises). By some estimates, this delay may ultimately have cost SAG members upwards of 80 million dollars. Rumor has it that the guild is now operating at a substantial deficit and has had to lay off 8% of its staff. Plus, out of the 70 new pilots produced this season, 66 went to AFTRA.

Soon SAG will be electing new leadership. Membership First, in a effort to retake the castle, has lined up a slate that includes high-profile board candidates like Ed Harris, Martin Sheen and former SAG president, Ed Asner. “Unite for Strength” is running a slightly less well-known crew including Clark Gregg, Hill Harper and Michael O’Keefe. In a good year, approximately 30% of the membership ever votes and it’s a sad reality that well-known actors tend to get elected. Oddly, there is some kind of assumption that fame equals wisdom; that a star’s on-screen persona will work miracles at the bargaining table. With our current contract due to expire in 2011, I hope my fellow SAG members will keep in mind that negotiation sessions are not scripted. The good guys don’t always win. Sometimes they don’t even show up. And in my opinion, if the new SAG leadership doesn’t rapidly start taking all the painful, but necessary steps to merge with AFTRA, we are fucked.

I suspect that SAG, in addition to working hard to protect its members, will continue provide us with some lively entertainment. We are after all, a union made of people who are naturally predisposed to conflict and drama. I do hope that whoever takes the reins in the next election will keep in mind that (for now) it appears that broadcast TV, cable and movies are far from dead. New Media is already so in love with itself that I have no doubt it will keep us well-informed when it starts achieving its financial zenith. And when that day comes, I’ll be totally happy to lace up my Nikes, grab my picket sign and walk the line for as long as it takes to win the fair compensation required to allow us to keep doing the work we are meant to do: Entertaining people.

Copyright 2009 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.
www.daviddeanbottrell.com

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at www.partsandlabor.tv

Hollywood's Family Affair

2009-08-09T14:38:00.000-07:00

Other people's family fights always make me uncomfortable. That's why I cringed a little last week as I watched Ryan O'Neal's oldest son, Griffin on the Larry King show spewing a few choice memories about his nutty father. The younger O'Neal (now four years sober) pulled no punches as he told tales of being forced by his dad to do cocaine at age eleven and how supposedly, Ryan had hit on his own daughter, Tatum (at Farrah Fawcett’s funeral, no less!) When asked when he’d last seen his father, Griffin replied that it was “the night that he tried to shoot me in the face.”

In response, Ryan O’Neal has given his own interview (out in this month’s Vanity Fair), where he says the reason he hit on his own daughter was because he didn’t recognize her. Apparently, the two have not seen each other in years. Ryan (who later in the article refers to his daughter as a “bitch”) admits that he was not always the best father, but is at least maintaining a strong relationship with his youngest son by Farrah, Redmond O’Neal, whom he visits regularly in jail.

Hollywood families have been in the press a lot lately. After weeks of speculation on the fate of Michael Jackson’s children, there was a collective sigh of relief on Thursday, when their grandfather, Joe Jackson announced that at least, he would not be involved in their upbringing – This from the guy who reportedly beat young Michael and his brothers with a belt every time they missed a dance step.

Let’s face it. Being a parent is tough under the best of circumstances, but trying to raise a family in the wilds of show business carries with it some big challenges. Several mega-celebrities have opted to pull their families out of Los Angeles altogether and relocate them to slightly less dangerous territories in Montana, Colorado or the Midwest, in the hopes that their kids will not be swept into L.A.’s ever-swirling underworld of loose morals and wanton drug abuse.

I suppose what a great many famous people don’t realize at the onset is that parenting requires a great deal of the one item that most celebs don’t have much of – Time. People at the height of their careers work long hours, sometimes in distant locations for weeks (or months) at a time. The work is draining, all-consuming and doesn’t necessarily stop for inconvenient things like soccer matches or a childhood bout of the measles. The pressure to “ride the wave” leads people to think they can catch-up on their “quality time” after the film wraps or the series goes on hiatus. But in reality, children are in a constant state of change; always developing; always soaking up their values and patterns of behavior, based not on what they are being told via a crackling cell phone call, but by what they observe and experience on a daily basis. All the “I love you’s” in the world don’t mean much when you only see your parents at breakfast every other week or so. Unable to man the fort themselves, well-meaning celebs frequently hire dutiful stand-ins like nannies, housekeepers and assistants who do their best to create some kind of stability, but eventually these folks move on, leaving the kids to start over with a new employee who is ostensibly hired to “care.”

The other oft-ignored reality is that some of the qualities that make a person a wonderful artist don’t necessarily make them a great spouse or parent. Talent requires enormous commitment. And it usually comes with a healthy amount of ego and competitiveness attached. Opting for a career in show business can lead to a very prolonged adolescence and a life forever governed by all those fabulous rules from high school - like "Who’s the most popular this week?" or "Who got invited to the prom?" Honing your talent sometimes means giving over to a certain degree of self-absorption; which can in turn lead to a sense that you are the center of the universe and all those around you (including your offspring) are merely satellites orbiting your general fabulousness.

Truthfully, I’m grateful that my parents were not famous. Dean and Ruth were regular, working-class joes, who were always around, day-in and day-out. By the time I was a teenager, I sort of resented their unrelenting presence, but in hindsight I’ve come to appreciate that when I was at my most formative, they hammered a few values into me that have proven handy to have in the murky world of show business.

I recently saw a TV interview with the remarkable Stevie Nicks (still gorgeous and going strong at age sixty). When asked why she’d never married or had kids, she was unapologetically forthright. “I knew I wanted to be an artist and I wanted everything that came along with that. I knew I needed to be free to fly to New York on a moment’s notice and if I was married or had kids, that would have been hurtful to them. I never wanted anyone else to suffer for my choices.”

God knows there are many celebrities who have managed to raise seemingly healthy, happy families. For some, maintaining that delicate balance between the business and “real life” has worked out well, but it often requires tough choices, like occasionally dropping out of the business altogether for a few years. I remember reading an interview with Jodie Foster who was talking about her decision to forgo making movies in favor of a daily routine of picking up her kids, helping with homework and refereeing unruly family dinners. When asked why she didn’t hire a staff to take care of those duties, she replied, “What would be the point of that? Isn’t that the reason you have children? So you can take care of them.”

Copyright 2009 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.
www.daviddeanbottrell.com

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at www.partsandlabor.tv