"Hey, kid, how ya doin' and welcome aboard the film set. In order to get your job as a production assistant here, you must've won out over a couple hundred other applicants. That's quite an achievement. I see by your resume that you spent four years at film school getting your BFA. Mmm. Let's see... Tuition is about 40 thou a year... so multiply that by four... Jeez, that's a cool hundred and sixty grand you're on the hook for! Too bad being a p.a. only pays eight bucks an hour. Well, if you live the spartan and austere life of a monk for the next thirty years, you should be able to pay that off..."
"So! To business... My name's Kyle Randall, I'm the third unit director on this set. But don't call me Kyle, or even Mr. Randall. Nope, when you're addressing me, the first and last words out of your cheesepipe have got to be Sir. Got that? Try it on for size. Good. You'll be reporting to me mostly through the time you spend on this set, though I plan on being in one of the makeup trailers most of the time, boinking one of the makeup girls. That means you'll be running around looking for me, and taking the heat for not being able to find me. When you do find me, you'll mostly be running personal errands for me. You know, dropping off and picking up my dry cleaning, taking my Audi TT to get washed, purchasing crack cocaine from the bad side of town, and picking my kid up from the elite private school he goes to. Oh, he's got ADD or something, and he likes to stab people and things with a pencil."
"When I'm not using you, you'll be helping out Gunther over there. See Gunther? The blond, middle-aged guy with the enormous beer gut? Yeah, that one, the guy urinating in the bushes in the front yard over there. He's in the Electrician's Union, and he pulls in seventy-five K a year. Hm? Doing what? Oh, he gets power cables from the truck in the morning, and unspools them to the power generator. Then at the end of the day, he rolls them back up and puts them into the truck. No, he doesn't plug them in or unplug them; that's another union guy's job. He's usually too drunk to do that task, so you'll be basically doing his job for him. Yes, that's right, you're still making eight bucks an hour. Yes, he's a member of the Electrician's Union, um-hm. His English isn't very good, so expect to be yelled at in drunken German most of the time. I do believe also, when he's in his cups, that he can get quite randy, so expect to have him try and have his way with you. Sexually, I mean. Well, he is in the Electrician's Union, after all. Yes, I suppose there's harassment laws and all that, but look, you really don't want to be blacklisted as a troublemaker around here, do you? I suggest you let Gunther have his way with you. It's easier for everyone in the long run, and besides, you might make a new close friend! Haw, haw."
"So! To business... My name's Kyle Randall, I'm the third unit director on this set. But don't call me Kyle, or even Mr. Randall. Nope, when you're addressing me, the first and last words out of your cheesepipe have got to be Sir. Got that? Try it on for size. Good. You'll be reporting to me mostly through the time you spend on this set, though I plan on being in one of the makeup trailers most of the time, boinking one of the makeup girls. That means you'll be running around looking for me, and taking the heat for not being able to find me. When you do find me, you'll mostly be running personal errands for me. You know, dropping off and picking up my dry cleaning, taking my Audi TT to get washed, purchasing crack cocaine from the bad side of town, and picking my kid up from the elite private school he goes to. Oh, he's got ADD or something, and he likes to stab people and things with a pencil."
"When I'm not using you, you'll be helping out Gunther over there. See Gunther? The blond, middle-aged guy with the enormous beer gut? Yeah, that one, the guy urinating in the bushes in the front yard over there. He's in the Electrician's Union, and he pulls in seventy-five K a year. Hm? Doing what? Oh, he gets power cables from the truck in the morning, and unspools them to the power generator. Then at the end of the day, he rolls them back up and puts them into the truck. No, he doesn't plug them in or unplug them; that's another union guy's job. He's usually too drunk to do that task, so you'll be basically doing his job for him. Yes, that's right, you're still making eight bucks an hour. Yes, he's a member of the Electrician's Union, um-hm. His English isn't very good, so expect to be yelled at in drunken German most of the time. I do believe also, when he's in his cups, that he can get quite randy, so expect to have him try and have his way with you. Sexually, I mean. Well, he is in the Electrician's Union, after all. Yes, I suppose there's harassment laws and all that, but look, you really don't want to be blacklisted as a troublemaker around here, do you? I suggest you let Gunther have his way with you. It's easier for everyone in the long run, and besides, you might make a new close friend! Haw, haw."
"And when me and Gunther's not using you, you'll be working 'Security'. That means you'll be standing on the outskirts of the set with a walkie-talkie with your arms folded across your chest. We've closed off this street to traffic, so you'll be diverting cars who try to come through here. Despite the walkie-talkie, you'll essentially have no authority whatsoever, so when understandably pissed-off drivers demand an explanation from you for the massive inconvenience you're causing them, you'll be on your own. No, actually, the walkie-talkie isn't connected to anyone, it's just for show. You're there to take the heat, really. I'm not sure if we even have a permit to shoot here, that's not my department, so if the cops show up, stall 'em. Also, you'll be working with that big, bald guy in the black shirt and sunglasses over there. Yes, the one with the prison tattoos up and down his massive arms. I think his name's, 'Fuckpig'. You can learn a lot from 'Fuckpig', really. Notice how he adopts a superior attitude to any civilian who comes near the set. Oh, look, he pushed that kid off her bike while screaming, 'This is a closed set, bitch! Move along!" Now he's urinating on her bike!
Good old 'Fuckpig'! Um, I should mention that when I say, 'working with Fuckpig', I really mean, 'doing both your job and his', since when he's not punching old ladies trying to cross the street, he's passed out from shooting heroin in the port-a-potty. Interesting note: Though 'Fuckpig' and you have the same job, he's making forty an hour! Mm, yes. Forty. Well, he's a paid up Union member. Which Union? I'm not sure, really."
"Oh, right, that's another thing. You'll notice how everyone around here acts like they're some sort of super-human demi-god that deigned to come down from Olympus to make a movie. That's S.O.P. for the movie business. Since you're low man on the totem pole- well, actually, you don't even rate a spot on the pole, really - expect to be the butt of everyone else's jokes. That's called 'hazing' and it's quite common on movie sets. We like to call it 'paying your dues', but really, it's just the manifestation that we're all conscious of the fact that our jobs, and by extension, our lives, are vestigial flailing failures. We're all quite bitter about the path we've taken, resent your youth and optimism, and will be taking out our frustrations and disappointments on you."
"What's the movie about? My, you are eager, aren't you? Well, that's a good sign! I've been involved with this production since day one, and as far as I know, it's about lesbian space vampires. Yes, that's right. Yes, they're lesbians. Yes, from outer space. Mm. Actually, if this movie ever sees the light of day, it'll be a direct-to-video release that goes straight to the bargain bin at Blockbuster two weeks after it hits the 'new release' shelf. I believe when it was pitched to the studio producers, it originally started out as a young girl's coming-of-age story. My goodness, what a picayune path the movie business is, eh?"
"Look, kid. I like you. Really. Even though I'll be regularly screaming abuse at you in front of the cast and crew, and especially when there are attractive women present, and slapping the proffered lattes you bring me out of your hand because 'there's too much foam' or something, I really like you. Perhaps because you remind me of a young me, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and rarin' to be a part of the magic of the cinema. So, move in closer and I'll impart to
you the secret of the movie business."
"Yes, closer."
"I SAID 'CLOSER', YOU LITTLE SHIT!!"
"There. The secret of the movie industry is this: All movies make money. Even the shitty ones. Even the god-awful, hacked-out, indifferently acted-produced-directed ones. Someone put up huge sums of cash to finance this picture. And that some one's almost certainly got insurance on their money. And if they don't, it's a tax write-off. And, even if by some act of God, this picture makes a dime, the money guy will turn around and plow that dime into another tax write-off. And so on and so on, amen. But why, you ask. You don't think anyone in their right mind would do all this shit for free, do you? Well, you practically are, but that's because you think you're 'paying your dues', and one day it'll be you standing around with the air of a god, wearing headphones not connected to anything, sipping five dollar lattes, surveying your domain like you're the lord of all creation. All the while, a baseball cap with the movie's title sits atop your swollen head while men and women who actually make things and have actual, useful skills kowtow to your every petty whim."
"The movies that people watch and enjoy, you know, the type of films that inspired you to follow your path, were made in spite of this system, not because of it. If you really wanted to make movies, you wouldn't have gone to film school in the first place. You'd have bought a second-hand camera and just. Started. Making movies. Granted, once you reach a certain level of skill and attention as a filmmaker, this system becomes indispensable owing to it's innate efficiency.
But really, for the most part, a truly good movie's dependence on this system we're locked into is non-existent. You really should've figured that out before you took on that crushing debt. In order to pay that off before you're old and grey, you'll be stuck on sets like this, crapping out schlock for a paycheck. Well, you could always go work for your dad, and make your own movies on your own dime, I suppose. But then you wouldn't be able to impress girls at bars when you try and pick them up, would you?"
"Wow! You should really look at yourself in a mirror! You just aged a decade in two minutes! Ha-ha, I love that. See, petty ego battles and power games are really why I stay in this business. Yes, crushing the hopes and dreams of the young are all I pretty much have to look forward to these days. Well, that and porking script girls, actually."
"Okay, so your first errand of the day is to head to the DMV and wait in line for several hours to renew my driver's licence for me. Then, head over to this address on the bad side of town to purchase some crystal meth for me. Yes, mm-hmm, out of your own pocket. Well, I'll say I'm going to reimburse you, but I'll brush you off until the shoot's finished, then I'll just threaten to turn you over to the cops for trafficking, and blacklist you from working on a movie set for the rest of your life. Hurry! Go! Oh, and pick me up a Venti Latte on your way back as well, would you?"
"Not too much foam, mind, or I'll slap it out of your hand in front of everyone else on the set to their glee and your humiliation!"
"Ha-ha! Look at him run off on his stubby little legs! He's gonna work out just fine!"
"Oh, right, that's another thing. You'll notice how everyone around here acts like they're some sort of super-human demi-god that deigned to come down from Olympus to make a movie. That's S.O.P. for the movie business. Since you're low man on the totem pole- well, actually, you don't even rate a spot on the pole, really - expect to be the butt of everyone else's jokes. That's called 'hazing' and it's quite common on movie sets. We like to call it 'paying your dues', but really, it's just the manifestation that we're all conscious of the fact that our jobs, and by extension, our lives, are vestigial flailing failures. We're all quite bitter about the path we've taken, resent your youth and optimism, and will be taking out our frustrations and disappointments on you."
"What's the movie about? My, you are eager, aren't you? Well, that's a good sign! I've been involved with this production since day one, and as far as I know, it's about lesbian space vampires. Yes, that's right. Yes, they're lesbians. Yes, from outer space. Mm. Actually, if this movie ever sees the light of day, it'll be a direct-to-video release that goes straight to the bargain bin at Blockbuster two weeks after it hits the 'new release' shelf. I believe when it was pitched to the studio producers, it originally started out as a young girl's coming-of-age story. My goodness, what a picayune path the movie business is, eh?"
"Look, kid. I like you. Really. Even though I'll be regularly screaming abuse at you in front of the cast and crew, and especially when there are attractive women present, and slapping the proffered lattes you bring me out of your hand because 'there's too much foam' or something, I really like you. Perhaps because you remind me of a young me, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and rarin' to be a part of the magic of the cinema. So, move in closer and I'll impart to
you the secret of the movie business."
"Yes, closer."
"I SAID 'CLOSER', YOU LITTLE SHIT!!"
"There. The secret of the movie industry is this: All movies make money. Even the shitty ones. Even the god-awful, hacked-out, indifferently acted-produced-directed ones. Someone put up huge sums of cash to finance this picture. And that some one's almost certainly got insurance on their money. And if they don't, it's a tax write-off. And, even if by some act of God, this picture makes a dime, the money guy will turn around and plow that dime into another tax write-off. And so on and so on, amen. But why, you ask. You don't think anyone in their right mind would do all this shit for free, do you? Well, you practically are, but that's because you think you're 'paying your dues', and one day it'll be you standing around with the air of a god, wearing headphones not connected to anything, sipping five dollar lattes, surveying your domain like you're the lord of all creation. All the while, a baseball cap with the movie's title sits atop your swollen head while men and women who actually make things and have actual, useful skills kowtow to your every petty whim."
"The movies that people watch and enjoy, you know, the type of films that inspired you to follow your path, were made in spite of this system, not because of it. If you really wanted to make movies, you wouldn't have gone to film school in the first place. You'd have bought a second-hand camera and just. Started. Making movies. Granted, once you reach a certain level of skill and attention as a filmmaker, this system becomes indispensable owing to it's innate efficiency.
But really, for the most part, a truly good movie's dependence on this system we're locked into is non-existent. You really should've figured that out before you took on that crushing debt. In order to pay that off before you're old and grey, you'll be stuck on sets like this, crapping out schlock for a paycheck. Well, you could always go work for your dad, and make your own movies on your own dime, I suppose. But then you wouldn't be able to impress girls at bars when you try and pick them up, would you?"
"Wow! You should really look at yourself in a mirror! You just aged a decade in two minutes! Ha-ha, I love that. See, petty ego battles and power games are really why I stay in this business. Yes, crushing the hopes and dreams of the young are all I pretty much have to look forward to these days. Well, that and porking script girls, actually."
"Okay, so your first errand of the day is to head to the DMV and wait in line for several hours to renew my driver's licence for me. Then, head over to this address on the bad side of town to purchase some crystal meth for me. Yes, mm-hmm, out of your own pocket. Well, I'll say I'm going to reimburse you, but I'll brush you off until the shoot's finished, then I'll just threaten to turn you over to the cops for trafficking, and blacklist you from working on a movie set for the rest of your life. Hurry! Go! Oh, and pick me up a Venti Latte on your way back as well, would you?"
"Not too much foam, mind, or I'll slap it out of your hand in front of everyone else on the set to their glee and your humiliation!"
"Ha-ha! Look at him run off on his stubby little legs! He's gonna work out just fine!"
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