Salon Wanderlust | The Hollywood tourists never see

[Salon Wanderlust: Travel with a passion]

T A B L E_T A L K
Will you be heading to Australia for the 2000 Olympic Games? Discuss Sydney and its surrounding environs in Table Talk's Wanderlust area

R E C E N T L Y
Death on Ios
By Jeffrey Tayler
Could he recapture his youth with a passionate encounter on Greece's most hedonistic island?
(11/01/98)
This week in travel Wanderlust's selective guide to travel-related news
(10/30/98)
Naked and in hot water
By Simon Firth
A proper Brit ventures to a clothing-optional resort and discovers that nudity offers more than meets the eye
(10/29/98)
Man bites dog
By Rolf Potts
Koreans and Americans both love dogs -- they just have different ways of showing it
(10/28/98)
A tipsy tasting in Burgundy
By The Surreal Gourmet
It's not easy sipping 200 to 300 great wines a day, but someone's got to do it
(10/27/98)

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T H E H O L L Y W O O D T O U R I S T S N E V E R S E E
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A travel writer finds life-changing adventure on the sound stage of an NBC sitcom.
BY JEFF GREENWALD | In the old days, a phone call could change everything. These days, the medium of apocalypse is e-mail. The message I am reading is so bizarre that I don't quite know how to react. The sender, a young woman named Bonnie Zane, has read one of my travel books -- "The Size of the World" -- and felt compelled to contact me.
"What you wrote about your brother's death was so moving," she writes. "A few days before I left on a trip to Africa, actor Phil Hartman was murdered. The funeral was such a public affair ... In some way, your book helped me deal with my grief."
The connection with Hartman baffles me, until I read on. Bonnie, I learn, is a Hollywood casting director. She's done work for "Mad About You" and "The Larry Sanders Show." Now, heading her own company, she's involved with two prime-time sitcoms: "Sports Night" and "NewsRadio," which had been Hartman's vehicle until his death last summer.
Bonnie is smart and funny, and our correspondence soon becomes an almost daily event. She learns quickly that I've always dreamed of acting and says she can get me work as an extra on either of her shows. The problem, she admits, is that I'll be bored senseless. Extra work involves whole afternoons of dead time, waiting endless hours for the privilege of being a nobody. Despite my infatuation with the stage, she manages to make this option sound sufficiently humiliating; I never call in the favor.
Then, on the first of October, I return from an appointment to find a message from Bonnie. The (nearly) impossible has occurred. Julie Bean -- "NewsRadio" co-producer, who oversees all the talent on the show -- had to rush her dog to the vet and missed the afternoon casting session. "We're giving you free reign," she told Bonnie. My cyber-friend thus finds herself in possession of a rare prize: an actual speaking role, hers to assign at will.
"Get down here today," she tells me, "and the part is yours."

Despite the vast breadth of this country, American history hasn't spawned a lot of mythic destinations -- kingdoms like Eldorado or Xanadu or Colchis, where a wild fantasy might explode into reality. New York and Las Vegas are close contenders, but they're easily deconstructed; spend a few months in either, and you'll pretty much know where you stand.
Not so Hollywood. The town hovers within a nimbus of unreality, where anything is possible at any time. Since 1911, its back lots and stages have been a looking glass, a portal through which a select few are invited to pass. From the busboys at Johnny Rocket's to the cashier at the Gap, everybody looks their best: No one knows when, or for whom, that gateway is going to open.
Hollywood is the greatest myth-making machine in human history, and millions of visitors pack its studio tours and souvenir shops each year. But the inner sanctum of the film industry -- inside the sound stage itself -- is a guarded and mysterious world, off limits to the casual eye. Within its sea of cranes, cables and monitors lies a sort of island, more remote than Rakahanga: the tiny parcel of land directly beneath the spotlights, behind the clapboard, in the shimmering eye of the Panavision cameras.
It is this place, more than any other, that is the true Mecca of the American psyche -- the place toward which endless shifts of waiters have aspired in vain.
During 1996 and 1997, I spent many hours in the back lots of Paramount Pictures, observing the filming of "Star Trek: First Contact" while researching a book about "Star Trek" in global culture ("Future Perfect," released last June by Viking). But nothing in that experience prepared me for the visceral thrill of being on camera -- no more than scoring a Giants game prepares you to face Robb Nen.

Bonnie drops me off at Ren Mar Studios at 11, well before the noon rehearsal. Ren Mar is a private studio, unaffiliated with the networks. "Golden Girls" was shot here, as was -- until recently -- "Ally McBeal." The exterior of the studio was used as the location for "Who Framed Roger Rabbit."
Entering the sound stage, I feel just like I did my first day of school: the twittering in the stomach, the dread of one's peers, the overarching desire to avoid disgrace. Bonnie has warned me not to flaunt my "special connection" with her. As far as the other players are concerned, I'm just a lucky dog who landed the role after a garden-variety audition. I know immediately that I won't be able to pull this off; I don't have enough Hollywood agent horror stories to invent a credible alternate life.
Slowly, the sound stage fills with cast and crew: Dave Foley, the show's male lead, a Canadian-born actor who looks like Beaver Cleaver come of age; Stephen Root, who so convincingly played Mission Control chief Chris Kraft in Tom Hanks' "From the Earth to the Moon"; Maura Tierney, whose work I've seen in "Liar Liar" and "Primal Fear." Andy Dick, radio station WNYX's resident imbecile, is already in character; he's swooning off a desk onto a pile of padded gym mats, yelling at everyone to look at him. I'm also introduced to Langdon Bensing, another guest actor who will play an FBI agent. Bensing has twice my number of lines: two.
Root, Foley and Dick are friendly enough. Tierney and the other female lead -- the flame-haired Vicki Lewis -- keep to themselves. The actresses, I've been warned, are rather aloof; it's best not to chat them up. So I gravitate toward Bensing, a struggling actor who's been chasing walk-ons and cameos for years. His biggest break so far was a scene in "Seinfeld," but recent months have been lean. After five minutes he's heard my story -- the real one -- and offers a reality check.
"One time I had six call-backs for a tiny part on 'NYPD Blue,'" he says. "But they decided to go with someone else. After this happened a couple more times, I told my agent not to send me over there anymore. The stress and heartbreak were just too much.
"You have no idea how tough it is," he concludes. "This town is packed with actors who'd give their left nut for your part."
Mike Risner, the second assistant director, approaches us with an affable smile. "Before you get started," he says, "there are a few forms we'd like you to sign."
I've expected as much. Acting is probably a lot like the writing business; they'll want me to sign my life away: "In the event you are caught or killed, the editor will disavow any knowledge of your actions."
The first form is your standard list of medical questions. I check no to everything, sign and move on to the next. After five minutes I hand the papers back to Risner. "So what'd I just sign?"
"The first form was insurance; you're now under our medical protection -- total coverage -- until midnight tonight. The tax and talent forms were your contract. You'll get $576 for the afternoon's work."
"Whoa! I'm getting nearly 600 bucks for this?"
Risner shrugs. "Only if the show doesn't go into reruns. If it does, you get another $576. That's followed by what we call 'residuals': a percentage of all future broadcasts, in any country, until the eventual heat death of the sun." He clears his throat. "Now would you like me to show you to your dressing room?"
I've barely had time to digest this offer when Jason Saville, the first assistant director, walks up and hands me a stack of revised script pages. They're printed on yellow paper, to contrast with the white of the original. I thumb through them eagerly. "Anything I should know about?"
A grim nod. "We cut your line." I stagger, feeling faint. Jason steadies me, grinning devilishly. "Only kidding."
Rehearsals begin shortly after noon. As makeup is not until 3, everyone's still in their street clothes. My appearance -- in Act Two, scene M -- includes the episode's semifamous guest star: the hulking Patrick Warburton, who played Elaine's deadbeat boyfriend Puddy in "Seinfeld."
"NewsRadio" -- one of the most underrated comedies on TV -- was created by 33-year-old wunderkind Paul Simms, formerly the co-executive producer of "The Larry Sanders Show." Nearly all the action takes place in the mock offices of WNYX, a Manhattan radio station. In this episode (the first of a three-part story arc) the station manager (Stephen Root) is hauled off to prison. The reason for this incarceration, we learn, is related to a shady connection with vanished bank robber D. B. Cooper. As soon as this happens, Patrick Warburton's character -- "Johnny Johnson" -- appears out of nowhere and takes control of the WNYX office. Despite his transparent charm, Johnson's takeover is unsolicited, unexpected and totally unwelcome.
Here's what happens in scene M: The station's news director (Dave Foley) brings in two security guards to throw Johnny Johnson out. The guards cross the set to the station manager's office, enter it and shut the door behind them. A moment later the office door opens again and the two guards exit, "laughing convivially" as Johnny Johnson slaps them on their backs.
I play one of the security guards. My single line is spoken as we first cross the set: "This won't take a second."
N E X T+P A G E | Time for your haircut!


	T A B L E_T A L K Will you be heading to Australia for the 2000 Olympic Games? Discuss Sydney and its surrounding environs in Table Talk's Wanderlust area R E C E N T L Y Death on Ios By Jeffrey Tayler Could he recapture his youth with a passionate encounter on Greece's most hedonistic island? (11/01/98) This week in travel Wanderlust's selective guide to travel-related news (10/30/98) Naked and in hot water By Simon Firth A proper Brit ventures to a clothing-optional resort and discovers that nudity offers more than meets the eye (10/29/98) Man bites dog By Rolf Potts Koreans and Americans both love dogs -- they just have different ways of showing it (10/28/98) A tipsy tasting in Burgundy By The Surreal Gourmet It's not easy sipping 200 to 300 great wines a day, but someone's got to do it (10/27/98) Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives Wanderlust's Official Travel Book Partner S A L O N E M P O R I U M FREE! 12-ounce bag of Salon Blend with a purchase of $30 or more. While supplies last.		T H E H O L L Y W O O D T O U R I S T S N E V E R S E E A travel writer finds life-changing adventure on the sound stage of an NBC sitcom. BY JEFF GREENWALD \| In the old days, a phone call could change everything. These days, the medium of apocalypse is e-mail. The message I am reading is so bizarre that I don't quite know how to react. The sender, a young woman named Bonnie Zane, has read one of my travel books -- "The Size of the World" -- and felt compelled to contact me. "What you wrote about your brother's death was so moving," she writes. "A few days before I left on a trip to Africa, actor Phil Hartman was murdered. The funeral was such a public affair ... In some way, your book helped me deal with my grief." The connection with Hartman baffles me, until I read on. Bonnie, I learn, is a Hollywood casting director. She's done work for "Mad About You" and "The Larry Sanders Show." Now, heading her own company, she's involved with two prime-time sitcoms: "Sports Night" and "NewsRadio," which had been Hartman's vehicle until his death last summer. Bonnie is smart and funny, and our correspondence soon becomes an almost daily event. She learns quickly that I've always dreamed of acting and says she can get me work as an extra on either of her shows. The problem, she admits, is that I'll be bored senseless. Extra work involves whole afternoons of dead time, waiting endless hours for the privilege of being a nobody. Despite my infatuation with the stage, she manages to make this option sound sufficiently humiliating; I never call in the favor. Then, on the first of October, I return from an appointment to find a message from Bonnie. The (nearly) impossible has occurred. Julie Bean -- "NewsRadio" co-producer, who oversees all the talent on the show -- had to rush her dog to the vet and missed the afternoon casting session. "We're giving you free reign," she told Bonnie. My cyber-friend thus finds herself in possession of a rare prize: an actual speaking role, hers to assign at will. "Get down here today," she tells me, "and the part is yours." Despite the vast breadth of this country, American history hasn't spawned a lot of mythic destinations -- kingdoms like Eldorado or Xanadu or Colchis, where a wild fantasy might explode into reality. New York and Las Vegas are close contenders, but they're easily deconstructed; spend a few months in either, and you'll pretty much know where you stand. Not so Hollywood. The town hovers within a nimbus of unreality, where anything is possible at any time. Since 1911, its back lots and stages have been a looking glass, a portal through which a select few are invited to pass. From the busboys at Johnny Rocket's to the cashier at the Gap, everybody looks their best: No one knows when, or for whom, that gateway is going to open. Hollywood is the greatest myth-making machine in human history, and millions of visitors pack its studio tours and souvenir shops each year. But the inner sanctum of the film industry -- inside the sound stage itself -- is a guarded and mysterious world, off limits to the casual eye. Within its sea of cranes, cables and monitors lies a sort of island, more remote than Rakahanga: the tiny parcel of land directly beneath the spotlights, behind the clapboard, in the shimmering eye of the Panavision cameras. It is this place, more than any other, that is the true Mecca of the American psyche -- the place toward which endless shifts of waiters have aspired in vain. During 1996 and 1997, I spent many hours in the back lots of Paramount Pictures, observing the filming of "Star Trek: First Contact" while researching a book about "Star Trek" in global culture ("Future Perfect," released last June by Viking). But nothing in that experience prepared me for the visceral thrill of being on camera -- no more than scoring a Giants game prepares you to face Robb Nen. Bonnie drops me off at Ren Mar Studios at 11, well before the noon rehearsal. Ren Mar is a private studio, unaffiliated with the networks. "Golden Girls" was shot here, as was -- until recently -- "Ally McBeal." The exterior of the studio was used as the location for "Who Framed Roger Rabbit." Entering the sound stage, I feel just like I did my first day of school: the twittering in the stomach, the dread of one's peers, the overarching desire to avoid disgrace. Bonnie has warned me not to flaunt my "special connection" with her. As far as the other players are concerned, I'm just a lucky dog who landed the role after a garden-variety audition. I know immediately that I won't be able to pull this off; I don't have enough Hollywood agent horror stories to invent a credible alternate life. Slowly, the sound stage fills with cast and crew: Dave Foley, the show's male lead, a Canadian-born actor who looks like Beaver Cleaver come of age; Stephen Root, who so convincingly played Mission Control chief Chris Kraft in Tom Hanks' "From the Earth to the Moon"; Maura Tierney, whose work I've seen in "Liar Liar" and "Primal Fear." Andy Dick, radio station WNYX's resident imbecile, is already in character; he's swooning off a desk onto a pile of padded gym mats, yelling at everyone to look at him. I'm also introduced to Langdon Bensing, another guest actor who will play an FBI agent. Bensing has twice my number of lines: two. Root, Foley and Dick are friendly enough. Tierney and the other female lead -- the flame-haired Vicki Lewis -- keep to themselves. The actresses, I've been warned, are rather aloof; it's best not to chat them up. So I gravitate toward Bensing, a struggling actor who's been chasing walk-ons and cameos for years. His biggest break so far was a scene in "Seinfeld," but recent months have been lean. After five minutes he's heard my story -- the real one -- and offers a reality check. "One time I had six call-backs for a tiny part on 'NYPD Blue,'" he says. "But they decided to go with someone else. After this happened a couple more times, I told my agent not to send me over there anymore. The stress and heartbreak were just too much. "You have no idea how tough it is," he concludes. "This town is packed with actors who'd give their left nut for your part." Mike Risner, the second assistant director, approaches us with an affable smile. "Before you get started," he says, "there are a few forms we'd like you to sign." I've expected as much. Acting is probably a lot like the writing business; they'll want me to sign my life away: "In the event you are caught or killed, the editor will disavow any knowledge of your actions." The first form is your standard list of medical questions. I check no to everything, sign and move on to the next. After five minutes I hand the papers back to Risner. "So what'd I just sign?" "The first form was insurance; you're now under our medical protection -- total coverage -- until midnight tonight. The tax and talent forms were your contract. You'll get $576 for the afternoon's work." "Whoa! I'm getting nearly 600 bucks for this?" Risner shrugs. "Only if the show doesn't go into reruns. If it does, you get another $576. That's followed by what we call 'residuals': a percentage of all future broadcasts, in any country, until the eventual heat death of the sun." He clears his throat. "Now would you like me to show you to your dressing room?" I've barely had time to digest this offer when Jason Saville, the first assistant director, walks up and hands me a stack of revised script pages. They're printed on yellow paper, to contrast with the white of the original. I thumb through them eagerly. "Anything I should know about?" A grim nod. "We cut your line." I stagger, feeling faint. Jason steadies me, grinning devilishly. "Only kidding." Rehearsals begin shortly after noon. As makeup is not until 3, everyone's still in their street clothes. My appearance -- in Act Two, scene M -- includes the episode's semifamous guest star: the hulking Patrick Warburton, who played Elaine's deadbeat boyfriend Puddy in "Seinfeld." "NewsRadio" -- one of the most underrated comedies on TV -- was created by 33-year-old wunderkind Paul Simms, formerly the co-executive producer of "The Larry Sanders Show." Nearly all the action takes place in the mock offices of WNYX, a Manhattan radio station. In this episode (the first of a three-part story arc) the station manager (Stephen Root) is hauled off to prison. The reason for this incarceration, we learn, is related to a shady connection with vanished bank robber D. B. Cooper. As soon as this happens, Patrick Warburton's character -- "Johnny Johnson" -- appears out of nowhere and takes control of the WNYX office. Despite his transparent charm, Johnson's takeover is unsolicited, unexpected and totally unwelcome. Here's what happens in scene M: The station's news director (Dave Foley) brings in two security guards to throw Johnny Johnson out. The guards cross the set to the station manager's office, enter it and shut the door behind them. A moment later the office door opens again and the two guards exit, "laughing convivially" as Johnny Johnson slaps them on their backs. I play one of the security guards. My single line is spoken as we first cross the set: "This won't take a second." N E X T+P A G E \| Time for your haircut!