Who Stole the Funny? : A Novel of Hollywood (21 page)

“Hey, where’s the wasabi?” Devon complained in his whiny

New York way. “I ordered extra fuckin’ wasabi, man. Dude, what

does it take to get wasabi?”

“I know,” Betty sympathized. “At least they remembered the

ginger.” She nuzzled up to Devon, the Alpha Buddy. “So whattaya think of this new director?”

“He sucks,” Devon blurted. “I want some goddamn wasabi!”

Kirk reached for some chicken teriyaki but Rocky Brook

grabbed the bowl and dumped the whole thing on his plate first.

“Sorry, chump,” Rocky slurred, pulling out his Vicodin for an-

other swig.

“No problem,” Kirk whispered. He went for the vegetable tem-

pura instead.

“Speak up! Shit! You think you’re on mic?” Rocky snapped back

at Kirk. Obviously that Vicodin swig hadn’t been big enough.

Helena was on a hunt for chopsticks. “Please don’t tell me they forgot the chopsticks again. Please. William?”

William came running.

“Yes, Helena, my favorite of all favorites.”

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“Funny,” Devon snorted. “You’re so funny, William, maybe you

should be . . . I dunno, an
A.D
.? Leave the funny to the funny people. Clear?”

“Don’t tell me,” William said, sincerely, “they forgot the wasabi again.”

“This better be the last fucking time this happens,” Devon shot over his shoulder as he wandered to the end of the food line—where there was a mountainous pile of green Japanese mustard: wasabi by the pound. “Never-fucking-mind,” Devon belted out “from the dia-phram,” and took a big swipe of wasabi with his fingers.

Janice was not about to be derailed from her purpose by eat-

ing. She thought she’d test her
trust issues
with J.T. After spending a couple of minutes hovering near the food table, she wandered

back to the imaginary set where J.T. stood in concentration, imagining the real set that was supposed to be there.

“I don’t like where I’m sitting in the ‘A’ scene,” Janice said

sweetly, knowing all too well that those words were catastroph-

ic for J.T.—for the production. They meant a complete reblock

of the scene in those five minutes that were left before the run-through. Five minutes before all the producers, showrunners, and studio and network reps arrived.

“Janice,” J.T. said sternly but with a hint of give in his voice,

“why don’t you like that particular seat?”

“Because . . .” and then Janice began to weep. She tilted her

head slightly north, so that the light caught her tears and magnified the moisture. “I can cry on cue. Whattaya think of that?”

“I’m not sure that’s a skill you’ll be needing in a sitcom. Now, what is it about that particular seat that makes it . . . unsittable?”

Janice wiped away her tears and answered flatly, “Look, J.T.,

I’m the highest-paid actor here,” she said too loudly, “and if I don’t want to sit in a certain spot, I have every right to sit
elsewhere
.” Janice smiled to herself, obviously enjoying this little power play.

J.T. tried to ignore the murmuring her comments immediate-

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W H O S T O L E T H E F U N N Y ?

ly provoked from the other actors back at the food extravagan-

za. “Janice, I thought this through. I put you there so I could see your reactions on camera, not the back of your head—which is

lovely, might I add. But there is a purpose behind what you may perceive as blocking madness on my part. I want to take care of you and your character. And it is five—no,
four
minutes before run-through, and I refuse to give the powers that be a sloppy run-through. That is my job requirement. And I don’t care if you despise me for it. I’m the boss on the floor. And I’ve gotten used to being hated.” J.T. stayed calm, but his tone was urgent.

“Sorry. No go.” Janice smiled and walked away from the set.

J.T. tried to take a deep breath. William smiled at him, sincere-ly. Ash was ready to act, waiting for the cue he figured was about to come from J.T. The friends had been through similar routines before.

“Okay. William, round up all my actors for Scene A,” J.T. said

loudly. “We’ll re-block in the four minutes we’ve got. Please tell Janice she isn’t needed since we only see the back of her head and she has her shit together and knows exactly where she wants to sit.

Kirk, I think you deserve to be taken care of in this scene,” he said even louder.

Of course!
Ash smiled.
Perfect play!

“What the fuck?” Devon bellowed.

Betty complained, “Jesus, Janice, I need my ten minutes. I want my ten minutes. The director gave me ten minutes.”

“Eat me, cunt,” Janice spat. “J.T.,” she protested to the director,

“you know I’ve been nominated for two Golden Globes and four

People’s Choice Awards, don’t you?”

“I don’t believe in awards for television, so forgive my igno-

rance,” J.T. said.

“Well, the point is, the
people
love me. That’s what counts. People.
Ordinary people
. They just
love me
.”

“I get it. People love you.”

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“Look, J.T., I didn’t mean to make your life harder, I just feel more comfortable sitting in the other chair.”

“Can you give me a reason, Janice? Is it a power move, or is

there a purpose behind this?”

“My
left
side,” Janice said, as if it were code that J.T. should’ve understood immediately.

“Janice, you mean to tell me that you want to move to a differ-

ent chair because—”

“Yes. My left side is
my best side
. I refuse to be photographed from the right.”

“Janice, do you want me to block this entire episode based on

the fact that you never want the right side of your face photo-

graphed?”

“What’s the big deal?”

“Well, Janice, the big deal is that a show should be blocked

and shot for what is best for the show, not what is best for the left or right side of your face. This is not a photo shoot, nor is it a feature film. There are any number of other decisions that have to be made about camera angles, on top of which, Janice, do you realize that this is a FOUR-camera show? Four cameras shoot

the show simultaneously from different angles. If one camera is shooting your left side, another camera is shooting your right

side so that the scene can be cut together. So what you’re asking me to do is not only selfish and vain and honestly beyond my

comprehension, but Janice, don’t you get it? It’s also mathematically impossible!”

“That’s not what Jasper said last week.”

“Janice, I could tell you, just like Jasper probably did, that I will only shoot the left side of your face, and you’ll feel satisfied and that would be the end of the story. But I’d be lying to you, as Jasper obviously did. I can’t lie to you. It’s absurd.”

“Okay then, it’s very clear that you’re not going to take care of your actors like Jasper did. Did everyone hear that? J.T. doesn’t give 1 5 2

W H O S T O L E T H E F U N N Y ?

a crap about his actors. He’s not an actor’s director. He’s a techie, camera director. So, everyone,” she went on, gesturing widely with her arm, “spread the news: We’ll just have to take care of ourselves.

I am sitting in the other chair. No discussion. End of story.”

Devon leaned over to Betty. “Told ya he sucks.”

“You’re so . . . savvy. You can feel these things instinctively,”

Betty said adoringly.

“Yeah, well, I’ve been around awhile. This is my third sitcom.”

J.T. turned to Ash and just smiled. “Okay! You’ve got it. Now,

please get ready for run-through. I have to reblock the scene and put Kirk in the good seat. Excuse me.”

“Why Kirk?” Rocky asked, now in a paranoid state. “Is he your

favorite? Is it because he gets the most fan mail?”

“I didn’t know that. I get a ton of fan mail,” Devon said, sud-

denly feeling hollow. “I’ll bet I get more hits to my Web site.”

“Excuse me!” J.T. abruptly stopped the lunacy. “I’m putting

Kirk in the chair because it makes sense for the scene.”

“Says who?” Rocky volleyed.

“Says the director,” J.T. returned.

“So that’s how it’s gonna be, huh? We’re supposed to do what

the director says? I mean, grow up.”

“Rocky, I am a grown-up. I’m also your director. Please behave

with the courtesy that is deserving of that relationship.”

“Huh?” Rocky took out his bottle of Vicodin and took another

hit. Then he grabbed a quaalude from his pocket, popped it in his mouth, and chewed on it.

Kirk whispered to Rocky, “How are you even standing, dude?”

“Don’t force me to treat you like a child,” J.T. warned. “Allow me to treat you—all of you, like artists I respect.”

“Oh. Well . . . okay then.” The quaalude hit that fast. And Rocky and the other cast members started to get into their positions for the top of the scene, with Kirk sitting in Janice’s chair.

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J.T. had his eyes glued on Ash, both knowing this particular

part of the routine. And on cue:

“Wait,” Janice said. “J.T., you know I have all the respect in the world for directors. As a matter of fact, on any set that I’m on, the director is king!”

“Perfect. Then, as king, Janice, I proclaim: YOU SIT IN THAT

SEAT! Are we clear?”

“We’re clear,” Janice seethed. “We’re very clear.”

“Janice, if you want to storm off, storm off quickly. Run-

through is in three minutes,” J.T. said. “Everyone else, last chance to hit the boys’ and girls’ room. Let’s set for run-through!”

Ash and J.T. caught each other’s eyes. William came running

up to J.T. “Boss, should I set for run-through?” he asked, oh so sincerely.

“We should’ve already been set,” J.T. said, his voice flat.

“Well, seeing how Janice—”

“William, have I ever, in all the years we’ve worked together,

ever been late with my cast for a run-through?” J.T. asked bluntly.

“Never, sir,” William said, disappointed. He would’ve liked

nothing more than for this to be the first time.

“Set for run-through, please,” J.T. repeated, and walked to the men’s room. His only chance to relieve himself. He made it a point never to call a five-minute break on his own behalf.

“Man, this director just sucks,” Devon said, not even trying to keep his voice down.

As soon as the break was called, Helena had headed back to her

trailer. In her peripheral vision, she caught sight of Marcus Pooley jogging (a jog he had been working on to match the jogging style of Tom Cruise) over to her.

“Helena?”

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W H O S T O L E T H E F U N N Y ?

“Hello, Marcus.”

“A wittle biwdy told me you weren’t happy? Marcus is here to

make all things better again!” Marcus took out a small Altoids tin.

Slowly, mischievously, he opened the tin and revealed a fine white powder. “Mommy says it’s nice to share.”

“Step inside my trailer, little boy.”

When J.T. returned to the set (from the men’s room used by any

and all on the lot, not the one in his office, because he hadn’t been given an office—another DGA violation), he saw an entire audience of 18-to-34-year-olds (killer demographics!) being seated in the bleachers.
This can’t be
, J.T. thought.
This is a run-through. Our
first run-through. Without sets. How could there be an audience? The
actors will be holding their scripts. They’ve barely had two hours with
the material. They should be nurtured at this point in the week, not
judged.

J.T. ran over to William. “What the hell is going on?”

“I’m setting for run-through, boss.”

“The audience. Why is there an
audience
here?”

“Oh! What is,
The Pooleys want to see if their jokes are landing
?”

“Wrong, William. The Final Jeopardy! answer is: What is,

That’s absurd!
? We haven’t worked on the jokes yet. We haven’t finessed anything! How insecure are they? Do the Pooleys understand what an accomplishment it is for everyone involved to even give shape to this many pages in this little time? Do I win for losing, William?”

“Huh? Hey, man,” William said, sincerely, “I think I know what

you mean. It’s really tough on you.”

“Not me, William! The cast! They’ll tank if they don’t get any

feedback. This is the time when we should be building confidence for the week.”

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“Man, J.T., that’s why you get the big bucks. You about ready

for run-through?”

Over the next few minutes before the run-through, J.T.

watched the reactions of the cast members as they each realized in turn that they would be playing their first cold run-through to an audience. To J.T.’s surprise, they weren’t angry. They were excited like schoolkids peeking out from behind the curtain in the audi-torium.

The Pooleys entered the stage like royalty, pretending to know

people in the audience and waving to them in three different Miss America styles of waving.

The run-through came and went—without a single laugh or gig-

gle from the audience. It was a tornado of action and words—in-

dividual actors’ trademark bits, laughs from the writers who were trying to protect their territorial jokes, awkward moments of silence.

They had pulled it off, in J.T.’s world. In his world, just making it from page one to page seventy-eight was a victory. In the actors’

world (on this set, anyway), getting from page one to page seventy-eight meant they should have the rest of the week off until it was time to shoot.

J.T. congratulated his cast on the effort, and then it was over.

J.T. could finally take his first healthy deep breath and look around.