Tea with Famous Strangers

            Following the premiere, Austenland hosts a small tea for cast, crew, family and reps. It is a relaxed and intimate setting, and the cast is running around getting one another’s autographs on the small movie posters lying around.  We aren’t super jazzed about the poster design, but we discover that nobody knew they needed posters until yesterday, so this one was quickly thrown together and printed last night.  Classic Hollywood. 

See?  Boring.

            I made a promise several years ago, and it is here that I must fulfill it.  My dear friend Scott is a native New Zealander, and he made me promise that if ever I saw his hometown heroes from Flight of the Conchords, I would pass along his fondest regards.  Ignoring celebrities is much more my forte, but I gird myself and head over to Bret McKenzie for a quick chat.  Scott’s initial message to transmit has not been updated since 2009, so I make no mention of Bret’s performance in the movie we just saw, or any congratulations about his winning an Oscar last year.  (I later feel terrible about this.)  It quickly becomes apparent that neither of us knows where to take the conversation after this, and it limps along from charity stuff to asking what I do, which obviously gets us nowhere.  Finally, blessedly, he asks me where I live in Los Angeles, and it turns out we live in the same neighborhood.  With relief we talk about restaurants until Jane Seymour interrupts and I turn to chat with Eddie and Jared Hess, who are talking animatedly about a mutual friend.

            I am starving, so I carry a few tea sandwiches to our table, which is next to Stephenie Meyers’s.  Being gluten-free, I can’t actually eat the sandwiches normally, so I have to open them up and use my teeth to scrape off the filling.  I do this hurriedly, hoping no one notices.  This has garnered me approximately three tablespoons of food, so I just fill up on water.  I feel proud of myself for this, because it means I have followed the advice of my Sundance elders.  I think about my Mormon nieces, who worship Stephenie, and briefly entertain the idea of getting an autograph for them.  It is quickly jettisoned.  This is Shannon and Jerusha’s day, not Stephenie’s.  The focus should be on them.  Sorry, nieces. 

            Emmy the Great, who wrote and performed original songs for the film, does a charming set.  She is wearing an adorable cat ear headband.  After her set we keep awkwardly running into each other and smile shyly at one another as we pass.

            Shannon and her husband Dean come to join us and it is a thrill to see her so happy.  She says that her face hurts from smiling.  Shannon explains that as an author, you write books that people read and experience alone.  Your words enter someone’s mind silently and just sort of stay there.  This is wonderful, of course, but aside from letters from fans, you never really get the feedback of what impact your words have on someone, or how they felt reading a sentence that you worked particularly hard to craft.  Seeing your words in a film, and hearing the audience’s immediate reaction, is overwhelming in comparison.  Gratifying and moving and emotionally overwhelming.  Shannon remembers the give and take, the creative process of writing with another person.  Both she and Jerusha have the experience of thinking, “See, I knew that line would work!”  They are glad they fought one another for these lines.  They feel lucky that they work so well together.

            Later in the party we are talking to a group of people.  We look down to discover that almost all of us are wearing Sorel boots.  We laugh.  Ricky Whittle complains about dragging around all of the additional weight of winter gear.  “My legs are killing me!” he gripes.  Ricky reveals that this was his first premiere, so he packed a beautiful suit.  After arriving in Park City he did a google image search of Sundance premieres and realized his mistake.  He had to scramble to find an appropriately casual but attractive outfit to pull together.  He insists the boots are the most important part of the look, as it makes it seem “as if you didn’t try.” 

            With a few hours to kill before the next event, Eddie and I throw our coats back on and find food for me.  I am excited to check out the popup Udi’s Gluten-Free Table, only to find that it isn’t open.  In a haze of hunger, we wander into a barbeque place.  I order some kind of confusing potato skins with beans on top, and a margarita in a glass shaped like a cowboy boot.  I poked tiredly at my beans and lick the crust of salt from the glass rim like a farm animal.  I guzzle more water and remind myself to wash my hands more, although they are already so dry and chapped that my thumbs are forming cracks.  I mentally add hand lotion to the list of Sundance necessities and wonder why no one has mentioned it.  

Sundance Austenland Premiere

Sundance, Day 2:  The Premiere

Oh, Glory.  This is the good stuff.  Finally, a premiere.  This is the reason we are here.  Eddie’s client, the supremely talented Shannon Hale, is showing the film based on her novel Austenland.   Shannon co-wrote the script with Jerusha Hess, who made the film her directorial debut.   Instead of standing in line with the ticket holders, we are ushered into a special holding pen of sorts, where we relax and chat with Shannon’s family and her book agent, Barry Goldblatt, until a handler comes and ushers us into the theater.  We sit in a special reserved seating area for cast, crew, and family, so we are soon chatting with Jerusha’s parents and her husband Jared.  Further down our row is a shy, unassuming woman who seems close with Shannon and Jerusha.  We later discover this is Stephenie Meyer, part of the cadre of “little Mormon moms” who made this movie. 

In front us we see Jane Seymour quickly powdering her face before the photographers start shooting.  She is sitting with her sister, Annie Gould, who has one of my favorite roles in the film.  Keri Russell and Bret McKenzie are further down the row.  James Callis, Ricky Whittle, and JJ Feild sit a row or two behind.  Everyone is disappointed because Jennifer Coolidge and Georgia King are filming, so they have to miss the premiere.  It seems to be a tight-knit cast and crew.  Everyone is happy to see each other and seems a little giddy and giggly.

And then there’s the film.  When it was over, I turned to Eddie and gushed, “It’s everything I want in a romantic comedy!”  And it is.  I am very picky about my romantic comedies, but I unreservedly love this. It is so smart, and so funny.  Stellar performances, crackling dialogue, and wonderful chemistry and heart.  The audience absolutely eats it up, and we turn and see Shannon welling up with the immense joy that comes from hearing 1,200 people laughing the lines she wrote, the risky ones that she worried no one would get. 

When it’s over there is cheering, as well as a charming, goofy Q&A.  Jerusha is a gracious and confident speaker, inviting Shannon and Stephenie up to join her, as well as the cast.  Keri is shy and giggling and so it is Jerusha and Bret who take the lead.  Bret knows how to work a Q&A.  He’s funny and engaging and makes sure that everyone onstage gets a chance to say something.   Favorite moments of the Q&A:  Ricky Whittle’s audition story.  Jerusha’s deep embarrassment when her actors have to film kissing scenes.  And Bret and Keri are cousins?  A link to the Q&A is here.

We shuffle out of the theater and are normal people again, if a tiny bit more savvy.  We are learning to master the shortcuts.  Eying the packed shuttle stop, we walk a few blocks to a less crowded one.  I find myself chatting with an executive Eddie recognizes.  The conversation lags until I bring up real estate.  Angelenos always come alive when talk turns to housing or commuting.  I chide him when I discover he drives to work a half mile away from his house.  “You should know better,” I gently scold, then I feel bad.  Next to me Eddie is telling the story of a colleague who got scammed for Sundance housing last year.  After prepaying for his housing, he arrived to find that the address he had rented didn’t exist.  Other people on the bus chime into this conversation, in the same way people share their own versions of urban legends. 

Initially I was confused and frustrated by the entire concept of the festival.  Why would you host a film festival in the mountains in the middle of winter?  Why make it so difficult to get tickets?  Why all this unnecessary standing in line?  But I am starting to get it now.  In some ways, Sundance is a great equalizer.  Everyone stands in line, slogs through the snow, huddles under a heater to stay warm.  Even stars are hustling, trying to find financing or distribution for these films they believe in.  There is a sense of camaraderie that hardship brings, even if that hardship is simply slogging around with big boots and puffy coats. 

Sundance 2013: Day 1

Sundance, Day 1:

Because of the way Sundance is organized, nobody knows what has been selected until just a few weeks before the festival. By the time anyone realizes what’s going on, housing is already booked and there is a mad scramble to find a place to stay. Luckily, a friend from high school graciously invited us to stay with her and her family, even volunteering to drop us into town each day for various events. To start and end each day with this wonderful couple, their adorable son, and two enormous dogs is an incredibly grounding and relaxing counterpoint to the madness of the festival, and both Eddie and I find ourselves strangely emotional in our gratitude for this.

The night before the festival begins, Eddie takes me to his favorite restaurant in Park City, Chimayo. He has made the reservation weeks in advance, so we have a cozy little table next to the fireplace. We get to chatting with the waitress, who reveals that, like many businesses in Park City, Chimayo raises its prices during the festival, doubling their normal rates. We are relieved that our reservation was before the festival began. We finish our night with a final drink at the No Name Saloon, recommended by our hosts. The bar is a favorite of Park City locals, with great drink specials and a history dating back to 1903.

In the morning, our host Chris, an ex-Marine sniper, asks us if we’d like to go shooting with him at his gun club. Obviously, yes. What follows is an incredibly informative lesson on gun safety and proper shooting technique. With Chris’s patient teaching, we soon discover that I am, in fact, a naturally gifted marksman. Shockingly so. Shooting at paper targets is fun and I find the whole experience surprising similar to a tennis lesson.

We head downtown to the festival on a triumphant high with the realization of my newfound prowess with weaponry. I feel optimistic and ready to face the cold and line-standing, only to find that we don’t have to do any of that. In exchange for us picking up our friend’s pass for her, she allows us to use it until she arrives on Friday afternoon. This means we can buy tickets for films that are technically sold out, and it also means that we don’t have to get up at 5 AM to stand in line for anything. Not only does this mean that I actually get to attend the premiere of the movie that has brought us here in the first place; it means we actually get to see movies!  Many people come to Sundance and never see a single film, so this is hugely exciting. 

We run into Eddie’s client, a writer/director named Craig MacNeill, and his producer, Noah Greenberg. They showed a short film called HENLEY here last year, so they are now illustrious alumni. Their advice for first-timers: Drink lots of water. Use lots of hand sanitizer. And most importantly, don’t try to plan anything, because it’s impossible. Your best experiences at Sundance happen when you relax and roll with it. You run into someone on the street, your drinks run long, you suddenly get invited to a party. That’s when everything really happens. This is reinforced later in the evening when Eddie’s drinks with a producer he knows end up including me, a lawyer, and the producer’s writing partner. As we linger over drinks at Butcher’s, the producer tells us the story of last year’s Sundance, when he came to town looking for financing for a project, but could never get together with the potential financier. Finally, at the end of a party, the financier shows up at 4 AM, just a few short hours before the producer was set to fly home. Late night deals are made, the flight is cancelled, and the rest is history. “You just gotta roll with it,” he tells me, “Oh, and bring hand sanitizer."

Journey to Sundance 2013

Sundance, The Journey:

Sitting on the plane on the way to Sundance, I feel like I should be more excited, but Eddie has done a good job of managing expectations. He has referred to it as a “once in a lifetime” experience for me, because the prediction is that after I attend it once, I will never in my lifetime wish to return. From what I understand, it’s a lot of standing in freezing cold lines, digging through piles of coats to find yours, and getting sweaty from all the layers you are constantly wearing. Even LA on an off-day will be more glamorous.

We saw Tim Meadows in the security line and we figured he was heading to Sundance, but he’s not on our plane. I imagine celebrities are generally not big Southwest Airlines patrons, but who knows?

 I am a bit grumpy with Eddie. He should seriously not be allowed to plan any trips ever. How could he have planned his proposal to me so perfectly, but ignore any and all details when planning all subsequent trips? He is simply not trustworthy in these types of situations. Exhibit A: Eddie said he wanted to arrive early at the airport, so I planned accordingly, skipping breakfast with the intention of eating at the airport. Fast-forward to the 9:30 conference call he took before we left this morning, which meant we didn’t arrive at the terminal until just before 11, with an 11:55 departure time. My incredibly romantic Sundance brunch to begin our journey consisted of a McDonald’s chicken mcnugget value meal that I wolfed down hunched over in my seat in the few minutes before boarding. Do I regret this meal? Yes I do. Do I regret eating it so quickly? Yes in italics.

I should mention that Eddie hadn’t checked in for the flight beforehand. For some reason, he decided it wasn’t necessary, since Southwest doesn’t have assigned seating. Never mind the many gaping holes in the delicate web of this reasoning. In short, we checked in an hour before the flight, almost the last two people to board the plane. As a result, we are seated separately in two middle seats. Overhead compartments were all full, so our bags have been checked. Welcome to Sundance.

I’m seated between two photographers who are shooting the Chase photo booth at the festival. More of their fellow photographers are seated around them. Once I was seated, my seatmates eagerly continued their loud conversation across me, leaning forward and back to see each other around my head. I offered to trade seats with one so they wouldn’t have to talk across me, but they declined, explaining that one of them preferred window seats and the other preferred aisle. I, of course, cannot argue with this perfect logic, so I continue to be the centerpiece on a dining room table until one of them falls asleep.

Victorian Forfeits

Victorians love to play parlor games, and when one loses a game, one pays some sort of forfeit. These "hilarious" forfeits are the driving force behind the games, as is explained in the forward of the "Ninety and Five Forfeits" from the book Evening Amusements, which was given as a Christmas gift from Mrs. J.P. Haller in 1889.

The forward explains:

The most enjoyable pleasure of an evening's entertainment, or nearly so, is "Crying the Forfeits," as it usually concludes the holiday evening's gambols. The previous portion of the evening, as respects the games, being generally looked upon as a means for the collection of this description of mirth and glee, or bearing about the same relation to the forfeits that a preliminary drama does to a pantomime.

Here are some of my favorites from the list:

15. To act the part of a dumb servant. The descriptions says, "...the gentleman then asks her...questions...How do you wash?...All these questions must be answered by the lady by dumb motions, which of course cause great laughter."

19. To lay your whole length on the floor, and after calling all the company round you, to say quite loud, "Here I lay, the length of a looby, the breadth of a booby, and three parts of a loggerhead."

30. To perform the deaf man. "The person on whom this temporary infirmity is imposed must stand out in the middle of the room, and to all that is said must answer, three times following, 'I am deaf; I can't hear.' The fourth time, however, the answer must be, 'I can hear.'"

33. Hobson's choice. "The debtor is blindfolded and seated on a chair. The operating holding a cork burnt at one end, asks him which end he will have rubbed to his face...he must put his finger on the end he selects, and trust to his luck as to whether his face is blackened or not. This is a gentleman's forfeit only."

38. The perform the parrot.

39. To act the mute.

40. To enact the Grecian statue.

41. To act the death of the King of Morocco.

Value

I volunteered with a Hospice program shortly after graduating from college. I was connected with a family immediately after completing the training. My role was to help the oldest boy with his homework. He was nine. His younger brother was seven. Their little sister, the youngest in the family, was terminally ill.

I don't remember the name of the boy I tutored for over a year. I don't remember the parents' names, or the name of the younger boy either. I do remember the name of the little girl: Erin. When Erin was born, she was given only a few weeks to live. By the time I met her, she was almost four years old. Still the size of an infant, she could not see or hear or respond to most stimuli. She could not smile or stand on her own or roll over, and breathed only with the aid of equipment.

Erin's mother had gained over 100 pounds and developed diabetes as a result of the stress and of the sedentary lifestyle that caring for a terminally ill infant necessitates. With the type of equipment Erin needed, it was difficult to bring her places, and hiring a babysitter was out of the question. A Hospice nurse would come for several hours each day, and volunteers like me would arrive periodically to give the family a respite, too.

Shortly after Christmas, the older boy was showing me the family Christmas presents. "See," he said, showing me his new remote controlled car, "You can make it go around corners." As I praised his driving skills, I noticed a row of Barbies on one shelf, all in their original boxes.

"Whose are those?" I asked.

"Oh, those are Erin's. We give her presents every Christmas and birthday. Usually Barbies."

There is the family, carefully picking out Erin's Christmas Barbie. The trip to the toy store, the judicious examination of each sparkly dress before making the decision. The excitement on their faces as they slowly unwrap the package for Erin, holding it up to her half-closed eyes. "See? She's a ballerina. Like in Swan Lake! She's wearing little toe shoes."

One cold evening I arrived for my weekly visit, only to find that the mother had taken all three children out to have their pictures taken at Sears. Only the father was home. A tough, blue-collar guy, he hadn't said much the few times I had seen him. I knew that he was involved in the boys' sports, that he had worked at Safeway for years, and that he was good with his hands, having built a TV room addition onto the back of the house. We both apologized to one another for the miscommunication about the appointment. Then he invited me to have a seat in the shag-carpeted living room. Glass and china gleamed in the light from the Christmas tree that sat in the corner.

The sand-colored couch and the loveseat were set up in an L shape. We each sat, he on the smaller sofa, facing the sparkling tree. I could hear the TV in the background. "She wasn't always heavy, you know," he said suddenly. He walked across the room, picking up something from the shelf and handing it to me. He tapped a thin, blonde woman in the framed photo I was holding. The woman wore jeans and a white T-shirt. Her curly hair was pulled back into a ponytail, with puffy bangs brushing her forehead. She looked perky and fun. Someone who liked steamed crabs and beer, maybe, or going dancing with her girlfriends.

"It's been hard on us, her most of all. It's made her sad. Depressed, you know?" I murmured something and nodded, looking across the dim room. "She got real heavy," he continued. He sighed. "But you know, I still love her, as much as ever. She's still beautiful to me. It just makes me sad sometimes."

"Of course, of course," I said, uncertain of the polite response. My eyes roamed across the shelves to the other photos: a pretty blonde in a wedding dress, kissing her new husband's bristly moustache; two toddler boys holding Easter baskets; the family smiling in a formal portrait, the boys missing teeth, the mother holding a tiny, blanket-wrapped bundle in her arms.

"We heard about this home, once, a really great place, for kids like Erin. We decided it might be good for her. For us. We wouldn't worry so much." He looked down at his hands. "She has a real personality, you know. A strong will. We can tell when she's happy and when she's cranky. We know what she likes and doesn't like."

I laid the picture of the young blonde woman on the sofa beside me. My hands rested on my thighs.

Looking up, his eyes sought mine. "It's just that, when she was away, I couldn't stand it. I missed her. She's a part of our family. When she's not around I miss her."

When the Journey Began

I wrote this on October 1, 2008, but forgot to post it. Tomorrow I leave for my new life in LA. I had decided to move out there last summer, sight unseen. This is from my first trip out there to make sure that I was making the right decision.

I am sitting in the LAX airport, waiting to board my plane back to Boston. I feel certain about some things after coming here, which is why I came here. So there’s a sense of accomplishment. One is that LA is the right place for me. I know that I will be happy here; I can feel it. I had lunch with an old college acquaintance yesterday, and once we sat down, he looked at me and said, “You love LA, don’t you. I can tell. You look really happy.” It suits me.
At the moment, I am looking to my right, at three women, all with short white hair. Two out of three of them have strong Texas accents, and all three of them are talking on their cell phones. The one with the strongest accent is the loudest. She is probably about 80 years old, short and stout. LA is just a place where she is changing planes to someplace else. She keeps scrolling down her contacts list on her phone, and calls one person after another. Over her green polka-dot blouse, she is wearing a safari vest. She is excited to be back, excited to tell about her trip.
For my trip to LA, I booked a little villa in Los Feliz; it’s basically a beautiful apartment with a door code that is programmed to my visit. It was in a perfect neighborhood, exactly where I want to live. I walked to the grocery store every day, cooked myself meals in the kitchen, and did laundry, listened to music and drank cocktails on the patio. Had people over, figured out how to get places, found an acupuncturist and got my nails done. Made it my home.
I thought a lot about what this trip was going to be for me. I knew I was going to get a feel for LA, and to start making connections. I was going to go alone, and then I wasn’t, and ultimately I went without any kind of plan or agenda at all. I had a few loose ideas of people I was going to see at different points, but it was mostly open time. I had to keep reminding myself to use this as an actual vacation and an opportunity to rest. This was my first vacation since I separated, and just being in a new environment with time to myself each day, warm weather, and sunshine was enough to focus on. I didn’t need to add to my sense of duty, which is already heavy enough most of the time. I tend to think of myself as a failure if I spend a day doing nothing.
Somehow, an agenda slowly formed itself and I had all kinds of interesting experiences, connecting with people I didn’t know well, and walking away feeling like I have friends here. Feeling like I was meeting good, good people out here.
I think I was really surprised by how different it felt to be in this new city. The whole pace of things, the way people carry themselves, it feels very different from Boston. People are friendly, and nobody is ever in a hurry. No sense of urgency, even on the roads. Sometimes I found myself sitting in the car, clapping my hands and saying, “Ok, this is business, people. Come on. Let’s make it happen,” as though my unseen speech and motivational clapping would somehow unconsciously inspire the other drivers to pick up the pace.
One highlight of my trip was going to a small stand-up show that a friend, Steve, was hosting. It was in a dark little club called The Room, in Santa Monica. One of the comics took the stage, kind of an angry guy whose jokes really weren’t funny, because the level of bitterness was way too present. For example, if the punchline of a joke is, “I’m glad you were molested,” I’m not quite sure I’m totally on board with that. But this guy went up, and he started his whole bit with “I tend to be seen as pretty negative, but if you don’t like my act, you’re perfectly free to move to some totalitarian country where there isn’t free speech,” and then suddenly this woman calls out, “Yeah, like America!” And then starts shouting out things like “AmeriKKKa,” and stuff like that, and the comic tells her to shut up, although I can’t remember if he called her a cunt right away, or whether that came a bit later. So he got into it with her, and she wouldn’t stop, and then the guy who was with her got involved, after the comic said things like, “I don’t care if your dad gave you herpes, or whatever your problem is,” and called her a stupid bitch and whatnot, and then the two people were yelling things back, sort of dumb and drunk things. However, they were pointing out the irony of the comic railing on about free speech, but then telling them to shut up. At first, it seemed like a bit, or part of an act, because the lines seemed so contrived. So everyone was sort of sitting and awkwardly looking back and forth between the comic and the hecklers, and wondering what would happen next. Eventually, the comic explained that this was not, in fact, a bit, but it was actually happening. Everyone felt surprised and at a loss of what to do. Eventually Steve and another of the show’s hosts decided to ask the hecklers to leave, since they wouldn’t stop, and the comic was starting to threaten to get involved physically, which also would have been interesting, some kind of brawl, or knifing, maybe. But they got hustled out with some protests, and then the guy tried to shake hands in an “all is forgiven” gesture with the comic, but he refused.
I think the difficult part is that I have very carefully told myself that I don’t want to spend the next nine months feeling that I’m not present in the life I am living now. I don’t want to feel like I’m in some kind of waiting room, or purgatory, just waiting to make it out west. I didn’t think that traveling to LA would make me feel like that, because I am actually happy in Boston. But that is how I ended up feeling, like I couldn’t wait to move out here, and really felt like I didn’t want to come back to Boston. In my mind, I am trying to think of the next possible time I can return to California. It felt sad to leave. I did a lot of sighing.