Glamour and Finals

When I watch the award shows, the temporary stars and occasional celebrities prancing in their designer togs, I understand how people have come to associate filmmaking with never-ending glamour. The reality is strikingly opposite, and those who try to inject their personal ideal of glamour into a busy film set are usually the cause of stress, anxiety and temper tantrums, none of which are at all glamourous.

When an actor arrives at work, they are asked to be "in the chair" some time earlier than they're needed on set...could be an hour before everyone else, could be five depending on the complexity of their need for what is affectionately known as "process". After the lights and camera are set and the crew is ready, the actor, now costumed and coiffured, returns to do their last rehearsal before the camera rolls. And immediately before that happens, the actor gets one last look from the hair, make-up and wardrobe departments, what is called "final touches". Ever wonder why everyone on Desperate Housewives looks perfect (and exactly the same) episode after episode? The secret is Final Touches. Imagine if we all had Final Touches right before we entered work, met that blind date or strutted into Winners?

Final Touches are only supposed to take a minute or two. The Touchers - that is, the hairstylists and make-up artists - have had hours to take the actor from hungover to hunk and the Final Touch is just a quick look to correct windblown hair or smudged lipstick. Still, some of the film world's less confident thespians have demanded up to half an hour of maintenance before stepping in front of the camera, a camera that has already been waiting for them to finish their torrid phone call and come out of their trailer to do the job for which they're over-paid. The less talent, the more upkeep required.

The rain, the snow, the wind and the very very long day all take their toll on the Touchees and, consequentially, the Touchers. I raise a glass to those who have to be on set hours before the rest of us, who have to physically touch the bodies, not to mention the egos, of the insecure starlet or boyish heartthrob on the wane. Because although the vast majority of performers are polite, affable and hard working, it is the one sociopathic cult member, yelling about a misplaced curl, who can ruin the Touchers' day. An actress who destroyed a hairdresser's workstation because she was late, another who refused to take care of her headlice, a former model who insisted on taking an hour to apply her own lipstick - these are the memories the crew takes with them. And it didn't matter how glamourous they looked.

Surrealism

Pounding the pavement for a short-lived job in a temporary and imaginary world becomes an addiction; for so many of us the first one was free. It's living both in the freedom of the circus and at the caprices of advertisers. It's an artifice, unlike any place on earth. The film industry is perhaps the only reason to show up in a vacant lot in the dark and get into a van with a bunch of strangers. And the film set is a surreal space and time, like no other workplace.

This otherworldliness comes from the very core of filmmaking; you are creating something that doesn't exist. Whether it's a horror movie, a comedy, a magical children's show or a gritty realist drama, the very act of filmmaking is to construct and present an environment that is fully invented. This means that under the Gardiner Expressway at 2AM, while I can be transported to an apocalyptic near-future, I need only turn my head to see a truck full of food, a bunch of lights, a rolling rack of robot suits. I am sure it's not the only job wherein the object is to give the world something that's unreal - those working in politics surely work towards the same goal - but at least film technicians are aware of the plasticity of the outcome.

Still, reality encroaches frequently into the magic-ness of our insular world. Bad traffic. Power failures. Illness and incompetence. And of course the moment you step outside the studio into the snow-covered parking lot and realize you are NOT in Tuscany the magic dissolves. If you are on location - that is, not in a film-specific studio but somewhere "authentic" such as a house, office tower or street corner - the real real world can quickly invade the filmmaking vision. You have to stop your car chase to let an ambulance pass. A delivery truck has parked exactly where the director wanted to shoot. The street lights went on. Everyday life continues oblivious of this very important film project.

Then there are the "civilians" who stumble across a film shoot in progress. The obese slacker who tried to sell me his "Flashpoint" script, drivers-by who for some reason feel compelled to honk their horns when passing a film set, the kid who climbed into the director's chair and asked for a coffee. Hilarious. And irritating. But maybe it's not that all these interruptions compromise the artistry of what we do. Maybe we don't like to be reminded that we are, after all, just at work.