Show BUSINESS - the "Deal Memo"

It's not called "show business" for nothing.

People think it's mostly show, but in fact, far more of your time is spent on business.

In the movie world there's a little thing called a "Deal Memo." This is like a contract, but tends to be short and sweet, a single page, that spells out the basic agreement, like how much you'll be paid, your credit, and the fact that the producers can then use your likeness and voice any way they feel like and you can do nothing about it. All standard.

I'd tried to get my deal memo for over a week before production started, but no one ever responded. At this point I figured as long as they didn't replace me it was OK. I got to the set, I still had the part, I shot two scenes, then the producer breezed by and handed me my deal memo.

When I looked at it I felt cheap.

It wasn't at all what I wanted, there's been no negotiation, it was just, "here it is, sign it."

In situations like this the first thing I tend to do is to take everything personally. I can't help it, that's just me. So the first thing I thought of was, "why did they hire me if they think so little of me?"

The good thing about "maturing" is that I've learned how to get over my initial impulses like this and look at the situation "maturely" and realize that it's not reflection of my abilities or worth, it's just the producer doing his job, which involves trying to get everything, and everyone, as cheaply as possible.

One of my jobs as an actor is to look at acting as a job--so while the producer is working in his interest (and the interest of getting the film made), I have to look at it in my interest, and the interest of being able to afford to be an actor.

Since I had more scenes to shoot, I put it away and succeeded in forgetting about it until the day was over and I was driving home, the thought causing a little bit of steam to escape from my ears.

Luckily, I had a long drive, which gave me time to formulate my reply. I didn't want to be unreasonable and have this producer tell every other producer in the world that I was a greedy bastard (though, in this business, calling someone a "greedy bastard" is like calling them a Homosapien).

So I looked at it like a business and approached it from a totally practical angle--that what the producer offered was barely going to cover my expenses. I listed the expenses and said I needed them covered, which is totally reasonable.

I had multiple arguments (and "creative accounting") solutions available.

The next day I arrived early to the set, saw the producer, asked him for five minutes, and as soon as I said I needed expenses he said, "Of course."

Then I said I wasn't happy with the salary and he said, "How much do you want" and I told him a reasonable figure given the budget of the film and he said, "OK."

No argument required.

The moral of this here story is simple--figure out precisely what you want and ask for it. Otherwise you'll only get what they want to give you.

Telephone Acting

OK, it's the very end of the day. And that's when they're shooting my closeup, a telephone call that's an important little bit of plot. As I've said before, my character, Bob, is a plot device on legs, so this is my job and I'm gonna do it to the best of my ability, dammit!

They're "losing the light" (the term for when the sun is going down), and it's also the time when, on some union pictures, many of the crew would go into "golden time" so called because they're making time-and-a-half or more and every second costs its weight in gold. Wait, how much does a second weigh? Maybe every person on the crew costs their weight in gold. Well, probably not that much but you see what I mean.

I am prepared. Right before the shot, the director tells me "phone call shots are hard, we have to believe there's someone on the other end."

Instead of focusing on how hard it is, I discuss the scene with the director. I tell him Bob's worried and scared, because the man on the phone is Russian mob, and Bob thinks he's killed someone in the family.

It's exactly what Bob's project-manager side would do. His world has fallen apart in just a few days. Before everything was perfect. Now a dear friend has tried to commit suicide, another dear friend is dead, and the Russian Mob owns their asses.

What's more, in a fit of major backstory making, I've realized that Bob's going to have to sell his rare Ferrari, worth at least $3.5 million at a recent auction, to make the next payment. He'll do it to keep them all safe--to keep worse things from happening. (I told my "wife" played by the charming Maggie Grant, and she was supportive--then we had a little flight--the Ferarri was hers, but I told her she was confused, the Jag was hers, she wanted the red one, I said the Jag was the red one... what does she know?)

So I start breathing like I'm upset, and my head is filled with what Bob would be thinking. I don't think about the lines, I think about the conversation in my head, "The world is falling apart, Gagaroff could kill us all, oh--he's being nice... wait, he still wants the money... I must placate him until I can raise the cash, thank you, thank you..." and then I close the phone, think about what's happening and what I must do, look behind me at Bob and Jean in the living room, look back, feel sick with worry and anger.

That's what I think and that's what I do. I don't think about the lines, I don't even remember saying them.

The first take is interrupted half way through, that's OK. I feel the same things and now it's even deeper--I forget about the camera, the script, everyone around me--they're all gone. I'm just thinking these things. I'd prepared Bob and thought about how this would feel and all that. So I'd done my prep. And then the doing just happened as if it was actually happening.

The take's over. The DP (director of photography), Sam Chase, comes up to me and says, "That was really great acting, I bought it completely," and he shook my hand (DP's don't do this as a rule). Then the director shook my hand and said it was perfect. Everyone was happy and it was done quickly.

Then AD announces that someone farted during the take. But it's OK, it wasn't me, and they can edit it out.

I am so happy that I was able to do this--after waiting around all day and being distracted by real world business matters.

We're wrapped for the day. I change clothes. Say goodnight.

Drive to SF to audition for a number of directors at once--and a casting director for industrial films (I will get a paid professional part in an industrial film from this audition).

It's been a long day.