• Gaffers. Working closely with the grips, the gaffers are the onset electricians. They make sure that the lighting systems, cameras, dollies, cranes, fans, rain and wind machines, and video playback monitors are all wired correctly. Because of the enormous amount of power needed to run the equipment, gaffers must be experts, making sure that no fuses blow, which would delay production.
• Best Boy. This can be either gender and is divided into two categories: best boy grip and best boy electric, working as an assistant to the key grip and gaffer, respectively. Larger productions have multiple best boys. Their duties are often determined by what’s needed at any given time, be it unloading equipment from a truck or finding a larger fan because the director wants even more wind.
• Location Mixer. Although very few sounds (footsteps, breaking glass, traffic, etc.) recorded on set in modern feature films ever make it to the final cut, most of the dialogue does: It must be recorded clearly so that the editors, sound designers, and actors can reference them later in postproduction. The boom operators stand just outside of the shooting area holding long microphones over the top of the action while the location mixer monitors the scene with headphones.
• Second Unit Director. The second unit films any shot in which the principal actors are not needed, such as a close-up of an object, an explosion, crowds, or background scenery. On a larger production, third and even fourth units may be necessary.
• Leadman. In charge of the swing gang, the construction crew that builds and breaks down the sets. Next come the set dressers to add in objects such as furniture and wallpaper, as well as matte paintings (photorealistic murals used to convey distant locations) and green screens (monochrome curtains that will be replaced digitally in postproduction). The swing gang is already gone and working on the next set when the crew arrives to film.
• Stunt Coordinator. Not only choreographs the stunt performers for any shot deemed too dangerous for the actors, but must ensure the safety of the actors when they insist on doing their own stunts.
• Wranglers. In charge of any nonhuman performers.
• Still Photographer. Takes pictures for various purposes: framed photographs that will end up in the movie, promotional photos for advertising, as well as reference pics to aid in continuity.
• Caterers. Provide all of the meals for a legion of hungry people.
• Transportation Coordinator. In charge of getting the principal actors to and from the set each day as well as assembling a convoy of semitrucks—and sometimes airplanes—to transport the equipment to the location.
Éclair means “lightning” in French.
For Part V, go to page 531.
Reel-Life Wrangling Example: On the set of The Shawshank Redemption (1994), animal trainer Scott Hart set up a shot in which Brooks (James Whitmore) feeds a maggot to his pet crow. Per requirement, a Humane Society representative monitored the shoot to see that no animals were harmed—and deemed the scene “cruel” to the maggot. The only solution: They had to wait for the maggot to die of “natural causes” before the shot could be filmed.
“Talk is overrated as a means of settling disputes.”—Tom Cruise
“WE’RE LOOKING
FOR PEOPLE WHO
LIKE TO DRAW”
Most of us are suckers for a sales pitch that promises to make us smarter, slimmer, better-looking, or richer—it’s human nature.
That’s probably why these guys were so successful.
FROM THE COMFORT OF YOUR OWN HOME
In 1948 Albert Dorne, a well-known and highly paid American illustrator and advertising artist at the time, came up with a home-study program to teach wannabe commercial artists to draw, paint, illustrate, and cartoon. He called it the Famous Artists School (FAS) and enlisted eleven other “famous artists” as founders. “We’re looking for people who like to draw,” they confided in full-page ads in magazines and newspapers. “If you have talent, you can be trained for success and security. Find out with our FREE ART TALENT TEST.” And the ads, put together by a high-powered New York advertising agency, showed photos of the FAS’s biggest selling points: the twelve famous illustrators who were also the school’s principal shareholders, surrounded by the tools of their trade, looking prosperous, contented, and friendly.
THE FOUNDING FATHERS
Dorne was born in poverty in 1904 on New York’s Lower East Side. He quit school after the seventh grade to support his mother and three siblings, slaving at menial jobs while longing to become an artist. Working in an artist’s studio and teaching himself to draw turned his life around; by the time he was 22, Dorne was earning $500 a week (a huge sum in the 1920s) doing magazine illustration, and he went on to become one of the highest-paid, most sought-after illustrators in America. Throughout his career, he took an interest in younger artists. Art was Dorne’s way out of poverty, and he wanted to share it with others. But he also saw that sharing his enthusiasm for his craft could be a way to make money for himself.
The world’s first veterinary school was founded in 1762 by King Louis XV of France.
The other eleven founders of the Famous Artists School were Norman Rockwell, Jon Whitcomb, Stevan Dohanos, Robert Fawcett, John Atherton, Ben Stahl, Al Parker, Harold Von Schmidt, Fred Ludekens, Peter Helck, and Austin Briggs. All were commercial artists making substantial incomes as illustrators for magazines, books, and advertising, and all were household names. Their familiar signatures were found on the pages of the top magazines of early and mid-20th-century America: Saturday Evening Post, Life, Harper’s Monthly, Boy’s Life, Cosmopolitan, Esquire, Fortune, Good Housekeeping, McCall’s, and many others. Their success stories proved that anyone with talent and drive could make it in the world of commercial art.
I CAN MAKE YOU A STAR
Dorne promised that he and his very successful colleagues would share the secrets of their studios and the tricks of their trade. For a tuition fee (nonrefundable), the Famous Artists School promised enrollees a set of special textbooks written by the founders, a series of sequential mail-in assignments, and return-mail critiques of the completed work. Here’s where things got a little fuzzy: it sounded, from the ads, as if students were going to get evaluations from the famous founding artists. Not true: Instead, less-known and totally unknown freelance artists wrote the critiques. The founders periodically dropped by the office to review the instructors’ work, but aside from those brief visits, their main role was simply to profit hugely from their stockholdings in the school. Dorne himself kept a pristine mahogany drawing board at the school’s headquarters in Westport, Connecticut—not to work at, but just to show off to the visiting students who regularly toured the premises.
BUT IS IT ART?
Dorne and his co-founders all worked in realistic style, and he figured that was what students wanted to learn. So the school offered three courses: Painting, Illustration/Design, and Cartooning. Each course comprised 24 lessons. The instruction books began with basic techniques and worked up to more complex ones—the first few lessons, for example, were on materials and their use, simple anatomy and figure drawing, and perspective. These are all subjects a student would find at any fine-art school. But the Famous Artists School was selling fame and fortune—not fine art—so the lessons quickly moved into subjects that reflected their students’ interest in the commercial art world: draperies, costumes, animal anatomy, the human figure in motion, one called “Pretty Girls,” and another called “Today’s Men and Women.”
Most widely worshipped Roman god: Mars, the god of war.
ADMAN WITH A PLAN
The Famous Artists School put a lot of money into magazine ads, each featuring one or more of the famous founders of the school. Dorne’s pitch:
We found that many men and women who should have become artists—didn’t. Most of them hesitated to find out how much hidden art talent they had. Others who knew they had talent simply couldn’t get topnotch professional art training without leaving home or giving up their jobs. My colleagues
and I decided to do something about this.
Dorne was appealing to the timid, the fearful, and the stuck-in-arut—exactly what he and the founders had not been when they’d launched their own careers. But it worked, not least because the rest of the ad was packed with success stories (undocumented) of FAS “graduates” who had embarked (supposedly) on lucrative careers in ad agencies, art studios, and design departments, or worked as freelancers for greeting card companies, galleries, newspapers, and magazines. The same success stories were repeated, ad after ad, but thousands of people still took the free art talent test to qualify for admission to the school. Rarely was any test-taker revealed to have no talent.
In 1948, the founding year, a two-year course in Painting, Cartooning, or Illustration/Design cost $300, payable in monthly installments (plus an extra $11.50 for art supplies). To an aspiring commercial artist, that would have seemed like a small investment compared to the possible returns, since the ads also claimed that the market for illustrators and designers was wide open, waiting to be tapped. “Never before has there been such a demand for artists to fill high-paid jobs,” read an ad from 1954, ostensibly written by Jon Whitcomb, “famous illustrator of glamour girls and faculty member of the Famous Artists Course.” There’s no evidence (other than the dubious endorsements in the ads) that FAS students ever actually found those highly paid jobs.
Human lice must feed every 24 hours or they will starve to death. (Eww!)
GET IT IN WRITING
The financial success of the Famous Artists School got Dorne thinking about more ways to make money using the FAS model. Moving from the world of art to the world of writing seemed logical, so in 1961 Dorne and two luminaries from the publishing world, Bennett Cerf (Random House’s publisher) and Gordon Carroll (a Reader’s Digest editor), came up with the Famous Writers School (FWS). This time they had a “guiding faculty” of 15, including Rod Serling (of Twilight Zone fame), Bruce Catton (Civil War historian), Faith Baldwin (best-selling romance novelist), Mignon G. Eberhart (best-selling mystery writer), J.D. Ratcliff (nonfiction author), Red Smith (popular sports writer), and others. They offered “an opportunity to have your writing talent tested by a group of America’s most successful authors” by taking the Famous Writers Aptitude Test.
“What every creative person should know about writing for money” was the come-on in the ads, and the pitch for the FWS was basically the same as the one for the FAS: Discover your hidden talent, take the home study course, get a great job in the field, and make a bundle of money. The ads assured budding writers that jobs were plentiful, salaries were high, and markets were numerous. And there were the usual success stories “documented” in the ads as well. The only problem: None of it was true.
NAILING THE BAD GUYS
In 1970 muckraking journalist Jessica Mitford wrote a piece titled “Let Us Now Appraise Famous Writers” for the July issue of the Atlantic Monthly. She didn’t mince words.
“How,” she asked, “can Bennett Cerf and his renowned colleagues find time to grade all the thousands of aptitude tests that must come pouring in, and on top of that fulfill their pledge to ‘teach you to write successfully at home’? What are the standards for admission to the school? How many graduates actually find their way into the ‘huge market that will pay well for pieces of almost any length,’ which, says J.D. Ratcliff, exists for the beginning writer? What are the ‘secrets of success’ that the Famous Fifteen say they have ‘poured into a set of specially created textbooks’? And how much does it cost to be initiated into these secrets?”
John Lennon shoplifted the harmonica that he played on the song “Love Me Do.”
THE AWFUL TRUTH
The answers to Mitford’s questions were shocking, as her research clearly showed. The 15 guiding faculty members had absolutely nothing to do with either grading the aptitude tests or teaching anyone anything about writing. The admission standards were nonexistent beyond an ability to pay for the course, and high-pressure salespeople weren’t above coercing gullible would-be writers into forking over their money once they’d passed the “aptitude test.” According to an Authors League study, at the time the average freelancer was earning not the big fees promised by the Famous Writers School but roughly $3,000 per year—an income barely above the poverty level. And the cost of one course was $785 ($900 if paid in installments). That may not sound like a lot, but compare it (as Mitford did) with the $35 that the University of California Extension at Berkeley charged for a 15-lesson home study short-story-writing course. Mitford wrote:
What have the Famous Fifteen to say for themselves about all of this? Precious little, it turns out. Most of those with whom I spoke were quick to disavow any responsibility for the school’s day-to-day operating methods and were unable to answer the most rudimentary questions: qualifications for admission, teacher-student ratio, cost of the course. They seemed astonished, even pained to think people might be naïve enough to take the advertising at face value.
In 1969, only a year before Mitford’s article came out, the FWS had tuition revenues of $48 million, and the school’s stock hit $40 per share. The article was picked up by newspapers and circulated to high schools and had national television shows clamoring to interview Mitford. Result: The Famous Writers School’s stock steadily lost value, and in 1972 it filed for bankruptcy.
People born under the zodiac sign Sagittarius make fewer insurance claims than any other sign.
WHERE ARE THEY NOW?
But only a few years later the school was, Mitford lamented, “creeping back,” and in 1981 both the Famous Artists School and the Famous Writers School were acquired by Cortina Learning International, a company that specializes in home study courses for foreign languages. They still offer the instructional textbooks and the critiques by professional artists and writers. But now students who are “stuck or need some answers” can contact their instructors by e-mail, snail mail, or toll-free telephone number. The advertising for each school emphasizes the acquisition of skills rather than the pie-in-the-sky financial success and publication that figured so largely in the advertising of the past. “Unleash your inner artist. Learn the secrets of famous artists; study at your own pace,” reads a current online ad for the FAS. Cortina isn’t making any unrealistic claims for its courses. There’s not a word about jobs, markets, or stardom.
WHY ARE YOU YELLING AT ME, BILLY MAYS?
Do you know Mays? He’s the burly, bearded man in a denim shirt who hawks products on TV commercials, infomercials, and home shopping channels, usually shouting superlatives about the product. Here’s a sampling of the stuff Mays has sold:
• HandySwitch: a remote control for a lamp
• Mighty Putty: strong glue
• Steam Buddy: a handheld clothes steamer
• Fix It: a car scratch remover
• Liquid Diamond: car polish
• Samurai Sharp: a knife sharpener
• Engrave It: an engraving tool
• OxiClean: clothing detergent
• Six Shooter: a cordless electric screwdriver
• Lint-B-Gone: a lint removing brush
• Awesome Auger: a hole-digger/weed-wacker
• Zorbeez: super-absorbent towels
• Hercules Hook: a superstrong hook that holds up to 150 pounds
• Turbo Tiger: a vacuum cleaner
• Orange Glo: an all-purpose cleanser made from orange oil
• Kaboom!: tile cleaner
Sound travels 15 times faster through steel than through air.
MORE POLITICAL
ANIMALS
A few more “tails” of elected officials who weren’t quite human.
BOSTON CURTIS
On September 13, 1938, in the small town of Milton, Washington, 52 citizens voted for Boston Curtis to serve as their Republican precinct committee member. Curtis hadn’t bothered to campaign, but since he ran unopposed, he won 52 to 0. When results of the election were announced, the town was shocked to learn tha
t they’d voted for a mule. Milton’s mayor, Kenneth “Catsup” Simmons (a Democrat), was the mastermind behind the election. He’d brought Boston to the courthouse, inked one of his hooves, and used the mule’s hoofprint as a signature for all the legal documents needed to register a candidate. Boston was registered as “Boston Curtis” because he belonged to Mrs. Charles Curtis, who lived in town. Simmons told the press (including Time magazine) that he ran Boston to make a serious point: Primary elections were a problem because voters often didn’t even know who they were voting for. But people who knew the mayor claimed that he’d also done it to trick the town’s Republicans into voting for an animal that resembled the donkey—the mascot of the Democratic party.
BOSCO
If animals can run for office—and win—what happens when they actually get to serve out their terms? The answer lies in the hamlet of Sunol, a tiny rural community located east of San Francisco. In 1981 two locals were arguing over which of them would make a better mayor and decided to hold an unofficial election to settle the dispute. Another local, Brad Leber, entered his dog Bosco, a Labrador-Rottweiler mutt, who ran as a “Puplican” with the platform of “A bone in every dish, a cat in every tree, and a fire hydrant on every street corner.” And when all the votes were counted, Bosco was the new honorary mayor.
According to a study by Visa, most identity thefts are perpetrated by someone the victim knows.
In 1981 few people, even in San Francisco, knew much about Sunol. That changed after Bosco’s election made world news. The Chinese newspaper People’s Daily reported that Bosco was proof that Western democracy was a failed system—it couldn’t even distinguish between people and dogs. Sunol residents, now the focus of international controversy, retorted that the newspaper had no sense of humor. Bosco served the community, mainly by being himself. Residents enjoyed “bribing” the mayor with beef jerky or ice cream. Tourists were encouraged to pet him. He made the spotlight again when he appeared on The Third Degree, a TV game show where celebrity panelists tried to guess his occupation (they failed). And the national media—including Tom Brokaw of NBC—would sometimes meet with Bosco for an “interview.” Bosco was such a success that Sunolians reelected him six times. He was mayor until 1994, when he died at age 15. He is memorialized in the Sunol restaurant Bosco’s Bones & Brew, where a life-size replica stands atop the bar and dispenses beer with a lift of its leg.
Uncle John’s Unsinkable Bathroom Reader Page 50