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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THE HOLLYWOOD TOURISTS NEVER SEE | PAGE 1, 2
- - - - - - - - - -
To the outside world, the films and shows released by Hollywood appear as seamless theater, with one scene following another and characters behaving in sensible, predictable ways. In actual fact, a film or TV episode is a montage of bits and pieces. Scenes are filmed any number of times, from an assortment of camera angles. The best "takes" are later edited to give an illusion of continuity. It is astonishing how long this takes. Scene after scene is flubbed as the actors stumble over words, forget their lines, bump into each other or explode into uncontrolled laughter.
The paradoxical upshot of this -- made immediately clear in rehearsal -- is that it's nearly impossible to screw up. I walk through my scene several times, under the eye of director Tom Cherones and a cadre of grips, cameramen and crew. My ears are cocked; I half expect to hear Cherones yell from the sidelines: "Who the hell is that guy?" To my relief, it doesn't happen. Visible as I may feel, my part is too small to be obtrusive.
When rehearsal ends, I find myself with something I haven't had all day: an appetite. No one has to show me the catering table; when I first entered the sound stage I walked past a wall of food, the opulence of which I hadn't seen since my last Nepali wedding: sliced turkey and prime rib, five cheeses, three salads, grapes and kiwis, pound cakes and bagels, candy bars and melon balls, coolers full of fruit juice and designer waters, urns filled with steaming coffee, whole-grain breads and spreads, chips and dips, an avalanche of giddy abundance -- think Big Rock Candy Mountain, or your junior high school fantasy of becoming student council president and filling the drinking fountains with soda pop.
But I am being fattened for the kill. For no sooner have I tossed my empty plate than I feel the hand of Kent Zbornak, unflappable line producer, on my shoulder.
"Time for your haircut," he says.
This is my mortal terror. My hair falls to my shoulders, as it has done for years. OK, it isn't exactly the "security guard" look. But what will they do to me? Images parade through my head of jug-headed Marines, my sister disowning me, my lover in tears, my friends and editors laughing out loud.
But my Samson-like terrors are assuaged in makeup, as Mary Guerrero -- hairdresser to the stars -- ties my bib. "I know a few tricks," she chuckles. Indeed, with a minimum of hacking and a mountain of mousse, this consummate professional -- who has actually cut Johnny Carson's hair -- creates a helmet-like coiffure that looks three times shorter than it is. When she's done I move across the room, where her daughter Jennifer applies a light palette of makeup to my face. Afterward, she hands me a mirror. My reaction -- like any red-blooded man after an expert makeover -- is to wonder if I could get away with this in real life.

Nothing happens for three hours, and then it's dinner time. Everyone eats together: stars and extras, director and crew. The meal takes place in the studio's dining room, a short walk from the stage.
After loading my tray, I look around for a place to sit. All my first-day-of-school trepidations come to a head. Who am I to sit with? Bensing is nowhere in sight, and everyone else is buddied up. The only table with an available seat is the one where svelte Julie Bean, executive producer Josh Lieb and -- yikes -- actress Maura Tierney are sitting. A red light goes on in my head: off-limits.
So I choose an empty table, and stare dejectedly at my Singapore noodles.
Not a minute goes by before I hear Julie call: "Hey! Why don't you come sit with us?" I lift my tray, grinning sheepishly, and take the seat next to Maura's.
Josh looks up from his julienne carrots and scrutinizes me. "Hey, aren't you ... aren't you that travel writer who Bonnie got onto the show?"
I choke on a shiitake mushroom. "That's right."
"Neat!" he says.
"Wow -- a real writer!" Julie echoes.
"Not just a writer. A travel writer!" Maura croons.
The meal passes in a blur. They want to know where I've been, what I've seen, who I've met. They want to know where they can buy my books -- and if I'll sign them. Most of all, they want to hear about the world -- the mythical "real" world, that lies somewhere beyond the Hollywood hills. It's a totally unexpected turn of events, like going to a remote region of China and having amazed locals pull at the hairs on your arm.
When dinner ends, and everyone disperses for their dressing rooms, I suddenly realize: I never asked Maura for her autograph.
At 6 o'clock, I make my way up to wardrobe to try on my security guard outfit. The previous day, the costume designer had phoned for my measurements; indeed, the entire uniform -- from black socks to V-neck T-shirt -- fits like a glove. Most amazing of all are the shoes. I'd just spent three weeks combing the Bay Area, without success, for a pair of sneakers that fit me. These industrial clunkers feel like second feet; I could run a marathon in them.
"NewsRadio" is filmed in front of a live audience. Just before 7 the crowd filters in, moving into the rows of chairs tiered above the set. The theater seats about 150, enough to provide a good foundation for the inevitable laugh track. The track will be sweetened, of course, but it's good to know that we will be giving an actual performance, with all the tension and responsibility that implies.
By the time the audience has settled in, the energy on the set is palpable. An air of informality remains, but there's an edge. Even the stars feel it. This is where it gets fun; this is where the stakes get raised. I'm charged with a giddy thrill, the same rush I'd feel before diving into unexplored waters or sneaking into a forbidden tribal rite.
But this adventure, I gulp, will have a lot more viewers -- what we do here tonight will appear on prime-time television.
Since the show is indeed filmed live, the story is followed in chronological order. It's a good script, and the audience laughs. They laugh the first time a scene is filmed; they even laugh the second time. And by some miracle of gullibility -- repetition being the soul of wit -- they laugh during the third, fourth and fifth takes as well. We all do. It's a particularly absurd episode; even the cameramen are yukking it up.
As my moment under the spotlights approaches, I find myself entering a zone of peculiar calm. I realize, quite suddenly, that I am completely at ease in these surroundings, among this extended family of actors and crew. And I feel totally, almost dreamily, safe; I sense that no harm can befall me. The feeling is strangely familiar, like some memory from my travels. Then I realize with a start: The last time I felt this way was in Dharamsala, India, sharing a couch with the Dalai Lama.
There's a pause between takes. Risner signals to me, and I move into the mock "elevator hallway" that opens onto the WNYX office suite. My fellow, nonspeaking security guard -- played by a Korean extra -- is already there. As I await our scene, I spy an unfamiliar man of my height and build, leaning against the wall. He smiles at me, then affects a serious mien. "This won't take a second," he pronounces. I raise an eyebrow.
"So you memorized my line, huh? Impressive."
"I had to." He shrugs. "I'm your understudy."
"My understudy? For one lousy line?"
"Something could happen to you. And the show must go on."
"What could happen?" I scan him for weapons.
"I don't know. Anything," he says hopefully. "You might have a sudden heart attack; a klieg light could fall on your head; you might upchuck a melon ball ..."
"Ready on the set!"
Dave Foley joins us in the wings, wearing a silly grin; he's fully in character. The Panavision cameras move into position, and the film begins to roll. From out of sight, I hear the clarion call: "Action!"
Dave starts to walk. I follow him onto the stage as if moving through a tunnel, my peripheral vision blinded by the lights. My exhilaration is extreme. To my right, the vague paramecium of the audience holds its breath. On my left waits the assembled WNYX staff, watching my progress with dubious hope.
Dave points: "You'll find him in that office, right over there."
I nod soberly. "This won't take a minute."
I open the office door and enter. The second guard follows, closing it behind us. Johnny Johnson claps a hand on my shoulder, puts a finger to his lips, and bends by the partition wall listening for our cue. A beat after it comes, he jerks open the door and addresses us with glee: "Great to see you guys again!"
We leave the room in a jovial pack, exiting by the same route we entered. Just like that, it's over. I walk, in a sort of postcoital daze, toward the crew.
Kent Zbornak is standing by a bank of monitors.
"I flubbed my line!" I whisper with shame. "I was supposed to say 'second' -- not 'minute.' One line, and I botched it!"
Kent grins. "No, you improvised," he says. "It was great."
It's past 11 when the actors finish their work, and the audience clears from the studio. I return the uniform, remove the shoes and bid farewell to the players and crew. Huge is my regret as I depart the sound stage, pausing under the dormant red light that indicates whether the show is "On the Air."
There is a scene, about halfway through "Lawrence of Arabia," when T. E. Lawrence is forced to execute a feuding Arab. Afterward, Lawrence finds himself trembling uncontrollably -- not from guilt, but because he enjoyed it. The revelation is earth-shattering, and his life will never be the same.
Standing at the threshold, I feel much the same way. My brief career as an actor, as a citizen of Planet Hollywood, has been devastating -- I can't bear to go.
The angel and devil of reason and stage fever are already on my shoulders, sketching out my future in a parallel universe. I could leave the vipers' den of freelance writing behind. I'd sublet my flat and take a leave from the Bay Area. Money? Jamba Juice would be out of the question -- but maybe I could work my way up from bussing tables at Pinot Hollywood. It wouldn't be a full-time thing; just a couple of weeks, until a high-powered agent recognized me from my "NewsRadio" cameo and instigated my Big Break. Why not?
I may not be the next Schwarzenegger, but people do say I look a bit like Jeff Goldblum.
I turn at the door, facing the cavernous sound stage one last time.
"I'll be back," I whisper.
SALON | Nov. 3, 1998
Jeff Greenwald is the author of "Mister Raja's Neighborhood," "Shopping for Buddhas," "The Size of the World" and "Future Perfect." Greenwald's episode of "NewsRadio" will air on NBC at 9:30 p.m. on Wednesday, Nov. 4.


	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.		THE HOLLYWOOD TOURISTS NEVER SEE \| PAGE 1, 2 - - - - - - - - - - To the outside world, the films and shows released by Hollywood appear as seamless theater, with one scene following another and characters behaving in sensible, predictable ways. In actual fact, a film or TV episode is a montage of bits and pieces. Scenes are filmed any number of times, from an assortment of camera angles. The best "takes" are later edited to give an illusion of continuity. It is astonishing how long this takes. Scene after scene is flubbed as the actors stumble over words, forget their lines, bump into each other or explode into uncontrolled laughter. The paradoxical upshot of this -- made immediately clear in rehearsal -- is that it's nearly impossible to screw up. I walk through my scene several times, under the eye of director Tom Cherones and a cadre of grips, cameramen and crew. My ears are cocked; I half expect to hear Cherones yell from the sidelines: "Who the hell is that guy?" To my relief, it doesn't happen. Visible as I may feel, my part is too small to be obtrusive. When rehearsal ends, I find myself with something I haven't had all day: an appetite. No one has to show me the catering table; when I first entered the sound stage I walked past a wall of food, the opulence of which I hadn't seen since my last Nepali wedding: sliced turkey and prime rib, five cheeses, three salads, grapes and kiwis, pound cakes and bagels, candy bars and melon balls, coolers full of fruit juice and designer waters, urns filled with steaming coffee, whole-grain breads and spreads, chips and dips, an avalanche of giddy abundance -- think Big Rock Candy Mountain, or your junior high school fantasy of becoming student council president and filling the drinking fountains with soda pop. But I am being fattened for the kill. For no sooner have I tossed my empty plate than I feel the hand of Kent Zbornak, unflappable line producer, on my shoulder. "Time for your haircut," he says. This is my mortal terror. My hair falls to my shoulders, as it has done for years. OK, it isn't exactly the "security guard" look. But what will they do to me? Images parade through my head of jug-headed Marines, my sister disowning me, my lover in tears, my friends and editors laughing out loud. But my Samson-like terrors are assuaged in makeup, as Mary Guerrero -- hairdresser to the stars -- ties my bib. "I know a few tricks," she chuckles. Indeed, with a minimum of hacking and a mountain of mousse, this consummate professional -- who has actually cut Johnny Carson's hair -- creates a helmet-like coiffure that looks three times shorter than it is. When she's done I move across the room, where her daughter Jennifer applies a light palette of makeup to my face. Afterward, she hands me a mirror. My reaction -- like any red-blooded man after an expert makeover -- is to wonder if I could get away with this in real life. Nothing happens for three hours, and then it's dinner time. Everyone eats together: stars and extras, director and crew. The meal takes place in the studio's dining room, a short walk from the stage. After loading my tray, I look around for a place to sit. All my first-day-of-school trepidations come to a head. Who am I to sit with? Bensing is nowhere in sight, and everyone else is buddied up. The only table with an available seat is the one where svelte Julie Bean, executive producer Josh Lieb and -- yikes -- actress Maura Tierney are sitting. A red light goes on in my head: off-limits. So I choose an empty table, and stare dejectedly at my Singapore noodles. Not a minute goes by before I hear Julie call: "Hey! Why don't you come sit with us?" I lift my tray, grinning sheepishly, and take the seat next to Maura's. Josh looks up from his julienne carrots and scrutinizes me. "Hey, aren't you ... aren't you that travel writer who Bonnie got onto the show?" I choke on a shiitake mushroom. "That's right." "Neat!" he says. "Wow -- a real writer!" Julie echoes. "Not just a writer. A travel writer!" Maura croons. The meal passes in a blur. They want to know where I've been, what I've seen, who I've met. They want to know where they can buy my books -- and if I'll sign them. Most of all, they want to hear about the world -- the mythical "real" world, that lies somewhere beyond the Hollywood hills. It's a totally unexpected turn of events, like going to a remote region of China and having amazed locals pull at the hairs on your arm. When dinner ends, and everyone disperses for their dressing rooms, I suddenly realize: I never asked Maura for her autograph. At 6 o'clock, I make my way up to wardrobe to try on my security guard outfit. The previous day, the costume designer had phoned for my measurements; indeed, the entire uniform -- from black socks to V-neck T-shirt -- fits like a glove. Most amazing of all are the shoes. I'd just spent three weeks combing the Bay Area, without success, for a pair of sneakers that fit me. These industrial clunkers feel like second feet; I could run a marathon in them. "NewsRadio" is filmed in front of a live audience. Just before 7 the crowd filters in, moving into the rows of chairs tiered above the set. The theater seats about 150, enough to provide a good foundation for the inevitable laugh track. The track will be sweetened, of course, but it's good to know that we will be giving an actual performance, with all the tension and responsibility that implies. By the time the audience has settled in, the energy on the set is palpable. An air of informality remains, but there's an edge. Even the stars feel it. This is where it gets fun; this is where the stakes get raised. I'm charged with a giddy thrill, the same rush I'd feel before diving into unexplored waters or sneaking into a forbidden tribal rite. But this adventure, I gulp, will have a lot more viewers -- what we do here tonight will appear on prime-time television. Since the show is indeed filmed live, the story is followed in chronological order. It's a good script, and the audience laughs. They laugh the first time a scene is filmed; they even laugh the second time. And by some miracle of gullibility -- repetition being the soul of wit -- they laugh during the third, fourth and fifth takes as well. We all do. It's a particularly absurd episode; even the cameramen are yukking it up. As my moment under the spotlights approaches, I find myself entering a zone of peculiar calm. I realize, quite suddenly, that I am completely at ease in these surroundings, among this extended family of actors and crew. And I feel totally, almost dreamily, safe; I sense that no harm can befall me. The feeling is strangely familiar, like some memory from my travels. Then I realize with a start: The last time I felt this way was in Dharamsala, India, sharing a couch with the Dalai Lama. There's a pause between takes. Risner signals to me, and I move into the mock "elevator hallway" that opens onto the WNYX office suite. My fellow, nonspeaking security guard -- played by a Korean extra -- is already there. As I await our scene, I spy an unfamiliar man of my height and build, leaning against the wall. He smiles at me, then affects a serious mien. "This won't take a second," he pronounces. I raise an eyebrow. "So you memorized my line, huh? Impressive." "I had to." He shrugs. "I'm your understudy." "My understudy? For one lousy line?" "Something could happen to you. And the show must go on." "What could happen?" I scan him for weapons. "I don't know. Anything," he says hopefully. "You might have a sudden heart attack; a klieg light could fall on your head; you might upchuck a melon ball ..." "Ready on the set!" Dave Foley joins us in the wings, wearing a silly grin; he's fully in character. The Panavision cameras move into position, and the film begins to roll. From out of sight, I hear the clarion call: "Action!" Dave starts to walk. I follow him onto the stage as if moving through a tunnel, my peripheral vision blinded by the lights. My exhilaration is extreme. To my right, the vague paramecium of the audience holds its breath. On my left waits the assembled WNYX staff, watching my progress with dubious hope. Dave points: "You'll find him in that office, right over there." I nod soberly. "This won't take a minute." I open the office door and enter. The second guard follows, closing it behind us. Johnny Johnson claps a hand on my shoulder, puts a finger to his lips, and bends by the partition wall listening for our cue. A beat after it comes, he jerks open the door and addresses us with glee: "Great to see you guys again!" We leave the room in a jovial pack, exiting by the same route we entered. Just like that, it's over. I walk, in a sort of postcoital daze, toward the crew. Kent Zbornak is standing by a bank of monitors. "I flubbed my line!" I whisper with shame. "I was supposed to say 'second' -- not 'minute.' One line, and I botched it!" Kent grins. "No, you improvised," he says. "It was great." It's past 11 when the actors finish their work, and the audience clears from the studio. I return the uniform, remove the shoes and bid farewell to the players and crew. Huge is my regret as I depart the sound stage, pausing under the dormant red light that indicates whether the show is "On the Air." There is a scene, about halfway through "Lawrence of Arabia," when T. E. Lawrence is forced to execute a feuding Arab. Afterward, Lawrence finds himself trembling uncontrollably -- not from guilt, but because he enjoyed it. The revelation is earth-shattering, and his life will never be the same. Standing at the threshold, I feel much the same way. My brief career as an actor, as a citizen of Planet Hollywood, has been devastating -- I can't bear to go. The angel and devil of reason and stage fever are already on my shoulders, sketching out my future in a parallel universe. I could leave the vipers' den of freelance writing behind. I'd sublet my flat and take a leave from the Bay Area. Money? Jamba Juice would be out of the question -- but maybe I could work my way up from bussing tables at Pinot Hollywood. It wouldn't be a full-time thing; just a couple of weeks, until a high-powered agent recognized me from my "NewsRadio" cameo and instigated my Big Break. Why not? I may not be the next Schwarzenegger, but people do say I look a bit like Jeff Goldblum. I turn at the door, facing the cavernous sound stage one last time. "I'll be back," I whisper. SALON \| Nov. 3, 1998 Jeff Greenwald is the author of "Mister Raja's Neighborhood," "Shopping for Buddhas," "The Size of the World" and "Future Perfect." Greenwald's episode of "NewsRadio" will air on NBC at 9:30 p.m. on Wednesday, Nov. 4.