Aaron leads me through the party, introducing me to everyone. Brian is a Kiwi, a New Zealander, but most everyone else is British—about ten “snappers,” as photographers are called in the United Kingdom, and the half dozen office staff. I meet Simon, a Brit from a small village in Essex who will later become my closest pap confidant and partner. He has an appealing, weathered face and is about forty. I like him immediately. Simon’s wearing a wife-beater T-shirt, jeans, and a Lakers hat, and when I ask him why he shaves his arms, he says, “Keep me whole body clean, mate. Shave all me hair.” Interesting.
The night passes quickly and festively, no one missing out on free drinks. And like every British or Commonwealth company I’ve ever worked with both in the United States and abroad, it appears perfectly acceptable to drink, party, and perform naked lap dances with your coworkers—and come Monday, expect no repercussions. All is forgiven, forgotten, or laughed about, and often repeated the next weekend.
At two when the bars close, J.R. is unable to stand and his staff carries him to a cab. Then Aaron and me, and Brian and Donna (holding hands at this point) drive back to Aaron’s Hollywood apartment. We scramble eggs, open two cans of baked beans, and make tea. Sometime after four, Aaron wraps me in one of his bear hugs, and we fall asleep on the floor.
3. For the record, red carpet photographers are considered press and not paparazzi.
Chapter 3
With a stack of phone numbers from the company Christmas party, pestering my new coworkers for advice is a cinch. Even though the other CXN snappers are much more competitive than Aaron, they don’t seem threatened by women and certainly not by my questions.
Paparazzi 101
Below, a few tips, though putting them into practice remains another matter:
1. It is often advantageous to establish fleeting eye contact with the celebrity. That way, he or she will know you are not a threat. Then ka-boom, pick up your camera and shoot. If, however, you are not careful with your eye contact and instead eye-fuck them (as we say), you will be busted: “PAP” is tattooed on your forehead.
2. If busted, don’t then try to hide. This seems obvious, but truly it is not. You always feel like you want to hide. Once they know you’re there, give them some space and wait for the shot. Often they’ll give it up anyway.
3. Try to shoot from your car. Your car is your best hiding place. (Although this point is arguable in my case—no pap in L.A. drives a tint-free blue station wagon like mine.) Another technique you can try from your car is to honk your horn in an attempt to get the celeb to look up. “Don’t holler their name, though,” advises Vince, a Brit who rarely leaves his car. “Then they’ll know you’re a pap. Just honk, or holler some random word.” (“Fire”?)
4. Make ’em laugh. If you can do this, Aaron says, you’re golden. No bad energy, everyone goes home happy, and most importantly you get a smiling shot, which is what the tabloids want. I find this last point odd. Don’t the mags want ugly, embarrassing, and scandalous? That seems to be what’s often in there. “Nope,” advises Aaron. “Ultimately, they don’t like to tarnish their stars. They’re all in bed together.”
5. Don’t “get greedy,” as Simon calls it, with your shots. This is a HUGE mistake for new paps because we don’t yet know when we’ve nailed it. When you get greedy, you get into trouble. “Get the shot, and get out,” says Simon. (Though “trouble,” it seems, isn’t usually big trouble. Just inconvenient and embarrassing.)
* * *
Six weeks into my new career, I’m ready for a big break. Having answered a casting call for extras, I am on the movie set of The Invasion, starring Nicole Kidman and Daniel Craig. Nicole’s “good money” and “hard to get,” and because I’ve done extra work before and know extras are usually in close proximity to the cast, I cautiously conjecture, Have I found the secret to success? Why don’t other paps do this?
I have been hired for a two-day shoot and am on the set by seven each morning. To be clear, extra work is horrible. Besides an early start, you have no idea what time you’ll get off, so you can’t make plans for the evening. Then, your entire day involves sitting around with the other extras in a “holding area,” like you’re a herd of cows. For a ten-plus-hour day (at minimum wage), you spend approximately one hour on set. There, you will be required to move your lips and make appropriate hand gestures but not utter a word. No one keeps track of you while you’re in the holding area, which is why I think maybe I’ll be able to sneak away and shoot.
At around noontime on the second day, Daniel is off set, milling around. It takes me more than an hour to work up the courage to approach him.
“Hi, Daniel. Would you mind if I took your picture?” My small point-and-shoot camera is in my hand, not hidden, but not aimed at him either.
He shakes his head and appears disgusted that I’ve even dared to ask. I feel horribly gauche, but truly, Daniel doesn’t know I’m anything more than a presumptuous fan. (In retrospect, I find his reaction arrogant.)
That evening, all the extras don evening attire and are called to the set. I am one of about a hundred in a dining room scene. Nicole is brought in last and is conveniently seated at the table adjacent to mine. I am now holding my camera, which I smuggled in in my beaded clutch, underneath my white dinner napkin. My finger is on the shutter. With the camera on Automatic/Flash Off, I attempt shots of Nicole via the make-a-hole-in-your-napkin-and-shoot-through-it trick. When the scene is over, I run to the bathroom in the studio warehouse and check my shots. I have fifteen of napkin blur.
No other opportunity presents itself. By eleven that night, I’ve more or less given up and am off set waiting for wrap. Suddenly, Nicole’s husband, country music singer Keith Urban, walks up and embraces her. At the moment, rumors are circulating about problems in their new marriage and his need for rehab. Right now, Keith and Nicole are big. Mind you, I have no idea what “big” means in terms of money (same as I don’t know what “good money” and “hard to get” mean), but that’s what J.R. told me. I know I must try again.
Like a robber contemplating a holdup, I lurk. No one watching would mistake me for a professional paparazzi, however. My hands shake and I’m scared like a rat in a snake’s cage. The feeling of adrenaline-overload sickens my gut and my over consumption of “craft services,” the term used for gastronomic catering on film sets, moves upward from my stomach. Keith keeps looking my way, so I know they notice me.
I take shots, this time with the camera-hidden-in-a-scarf-hole trick. I take a lot of shots. And then some more. I don’t stop to look at my pictures but think I must be getting something good. Keith and Nicole are holding pretty still, and I’m barely ten feet away.
Keith is attractive, but it’s Nicole’s beauty that’s overwhelming. It would be hard not to stare at her even if I weren’t taking pictures. She’s at least five-foot-ten, but her limbs are narrow and long, and she looks highly breakable. Until she saw Keith, Nicole had not smiled in two days, and I wondered if she was sad. It’s no secret Nicole is desperate for kids. She may be rich, famous, and exquisite, but she’s still pushing forty and has the same biological clock tick-tick-ticking as the rest of us.4
I continue shooting. The two chat and embrace and are affectionate together. More shots. Still more. You can see where this is going. My mind starts to swirl, it blurs, and with gusto I completely disregard Pap Tip No. 5: Don’t get greedy.
Oh, but I do get greedy. Very, very greedy. Why, I ask myself later, couldn’t I have stopped after twenty shots?
Suddenly, the flash goes off.
Time stops. I am in a dim, quiet tunnel, and my catered dinner lying heavy in my stomach moves closer to my mouth. The feeling is not unlike stubbing one’s toe—nailing one’s toe—and waiting those few seconds before the pain crawls up to tell the head, “Mother—r, that hurt!”
I’m frozen with my head curled down when Keith grabs my arm. I don’t look up, but I imagine his face leaves no question about his thoughts. In front of twenty-five e
xtras and a production crew with whom I’ve been fairly friendly for two days now, he yells, “Let me see that. What are you doing?”
Keith knows full well what I’m doing.
“What are you taking pictures of? Huh? Huh?”
The only thing I can say—and I can only whisper—is, “I’m sorry. Just please don’t embarrass me. I’m sorry.”
He shows a tinge of sympathy and still holding me by the arm roughly escorts me outside and hands me over to his personal security guard, sort of like he’s throwing out the dog who just shat inside. I am most thankful though. Out of the studio, out of the limelight. I did not come to L.A. to be the star.
“She’s taking pictures of me and Nic. Take care of her,” he orders his guard. Then returns inside.
To my surprise, Mr. Security smiles and offers me a seat in the passenger side of his black leather sedan. Kindly, he explains that “everybody has to be careful these days because, you know, there are paparazzi out there.”
Yes, I know. Visions of courts and prisons and criminal records explode in my head.
He tells me we’ll work it out. “Don’t worry,” he says. “We just have to delete the photos.”
As we’re deleting, Keith comes out again—this time with “Nic”—and points, arm fully extended, at me. My car door is open, and I look into both their eyes: they deserve a mug.
They don’t say anything, just stare at me for a few seconds, then turn and go back inside. A few minutes more and the production crew—apparently having convened and discussed my “invasion”—come to tell me that I will be immediately dismissed from set (good, it’s almost midnight), and though they are sure that I’m more embarrassed than anything, they are still obligated to report the incident to the agency for which I am an extra.
Huh? That’s it? You aren’t gonna press charges and call the police?
Once everyone is sure the photos are deleted, I’m released from Mr. Security’s car. I run to the holding area, quickly change out of my wardrobe, and haul myself off set before anyone can change their mind. The sight of the baby blue wagon in the dark parking lot is as comforting as seeing a lover at the airport after a long separation. She starts immediately, and her worn but reliable wheels lead me through the gate to safety. I audibly pray to never have to return to the scene of the crime, Warner Bros. Lot 5 in Burbank.
When I get home, I rummage through the bathroom cabinet collecting all the Western and Eastern sleep aids I can find, climb into bed, and pray to the sleep god to whisk me away to a far-off galaxy—one with no stars! My request is ignored and replaced with torment for the next eight hours: back to Lot 5, flash going off again and again, Keith grabbing my arm over and over…
* * *
“Good morning.” J.R. calls at eight when I’m still in bed. “How’d it go last night?”
I feel groggier than he sounds, the clonazepam et al. still in my system. I fill him in, apologizing that I had to delete all my photos.
(Five seconds.) “Ahhhh,” J.R. exhales. (Five seconds.) “That’s no problem.” (Five seconds.) “Ahhhh,” he says again. (J.R. is the world’s longest pauser.) “Just bring your card in and we’ll recover them.”
Do what? It wasn’t all in vain?
When I get to the office, J.R. plugs in my memory card, pulls up a $30 Internet program, and in a few seconds images start popping up on the screen. They are dark and grainy, but undoubtedly of Keith and Nicole.
We will sell them, but not in the United States because I’m too scared I’ll get sued. CXN isn’t worried about this, but I’m smart enough to know they won’t protect a freelancer. Besides, they didn’t see how blazin’ mad Keith and Nic were.
On my way back home, Ulysses Bartlet, the only one of CXN’s three owners that I didn’t meet at the company Christmas party, rings. (“Rings” is what my British coworkers say, instead of “calls” or “phones.” I love it, so now I say it. It seriously annoys my American friends.)
Bartlet lives in New York, sells photos from his home office—“while naked,” Simon thinks—and coordinates his undercover staff like the unseen boss on the speakerphone in Charlie’s Angels. He introduces himself, then says, “You have more balls than any of my staff.”
“I just don’t know any better,” I reply. And, we’re off to a great start.
* * *
Early on, J.R.’s advice to me was, more or less, “Use your breasts to get tips.” My breasts are small, but he made his point: people who give star spotting tips are much more receptive to harmless, non-thug-looking females. When I burn out looking for celebrities on a given day, I traipse through stores and restaurants giving out my card in hopes that someone will call me about a sighting. Today, my two-month anniversary on the job, this tactic finally pays off.
(Side note: My future protocol when someone does tip me off: I usually give them $50 to $100 depending on how much I make. I could make $20 or $200 or $2,000 or more. I generally don’t pay the tipper—or “tipster,” as they are more commonly called—if I don’t get a shot. If Bartlet, the CXN boss who controls the money, is in a good mood, he’ll pitch in for half of the tip money, which is only fair since he’s taking a heavy cut.)
It’s noon when J.R. calls. He’s heard that Ashlee Simpson is moving into a new house. He knows the street, but not the exact house, and wants Aaron and me to go look for trucks or other signs of moving. We pick up sandwiches and head over. After a sweep with no sign of movers, we park at the bottom of the street, and I hop in Aaron’s car to wait.
Aaron spends the next hour trying to teach me how to extract sunflower seeds out of their shell with just my tongue. I would never have imagined that watching Aaron’s tongue maneuver in this intricate manner could be such a turn-on.
A call from Joey, a grocery stocker who works at Bristol Farms in West Hollywood, interrupts our tongue games. I met Joey one day when I was shopping and he was stocking. We started to chat, I told him what I did, and he took my card. Over the next couple of years, Joey will end up being my best, most consistent tipster. He is a good-natured American guy, not in it for the money, more for the fun, and he gets it—he understands what information I need to know and how to communicate it fast— which makes him easy to work with. When Joey calls today, he tells me that Ashlee Simpson is there. The irony. During the twenty-minute speed-drive to Bristol Farms (I stay in Aaron’s car), Joey texts the play-by-play:
She’s wearing a green hoodie. She’s in the fruits and veggies. She’s got a full cart. A girlfriend is with her. GET READY, she’s on her way out!
With thirty seconds to spare, we get to the parking lot of Bristol Farms. Aaron spots Ashlee’s car immediately (he knows most celebs’ cars by sight) and rams his 4Runner into position. When he sees her exit the store, he drops his back window (the only vehicle I know of with this handy feature), circles his body around from the driver’s seat, and chuh-chuh-chuh, chuh-chuh-chuh, Aaron nails it, fast and forcefully. I’m too slow to do anything but watch.
Ashlee never knows we’re there. And now, relaxed and confident with shots in the bag, we follow her home to the street where we were parked earlier. Aaron lags so far behind I’m surprised we don’t lose her, though his shrewd follow skills do get us there without being noticed. (I come to notice Aaron loses celebrities often. He doesn’t seem bothered by this. “Part of the game,” he says. He also says that I’m an awful follower because I get right up on the car’s ass and the celeb knows I’m there. But at least I don’t lose them.)
We catch up to Ashlee’s Range Rover just as she pulls into her new driveway. But Aaron continues on, not wanting to alert her of our voyeur eyes. We circle back hoping she’ll unload the groceries but more intent on not blowing our cover so we can use the address later, unnoticed. The garage door is down and the gate is closed, but from the street we can see into Ashlee’s second-story bedroom. The curtains are up, the bay window thrown open, and she’s unpacking.
Aaron doesn’t reach for his camera. He tells me that we wo
uldn’t be able to sell the shots anyway. Supposedly one of CXN’s owners has pictures of Mischa Barton buck naked, but they’re unsalable because they were taken through a bedroom window. “Celebs have privacy rights in a few places,” Aaron explains. “In their homes, in their backyards (not their front), and in bathrooms.”
It’s worth noting here that the U.S. Constitution (and most other Western governments) give paparazzi their rights too. The Constitution allows a public person’s privacy rights to be circumvented in the interest of the public’s right-to-know, a sensible law with regard to political figures; an arguably unfortunate one for movie stars.
For now, we call it a day. Tomorrow, Aaron and I will start fresh on Ashlee. We assume we’re the only ones with her new address, which we know will be a short-lived advantage. In the case of someone like Ashlee, who at the moment is riding the coattails of her sister’s fame and is “out there” most every day, other paps are bound to spot her, follow her home as we did, and get the new address.
* * *
Who’s Who
Paps are all over the world, but most live in Los Angeles, the city with the highest concentration of worldwide celebrities. To put that in perspective, probably three paps live in Stockholm, ten live in Sydney, one hundred live in New York, and five hundred live in L.A.
Most paparazzi are tied to an agency, either as staff or freelance. If a pap is not tied to an agency, he or she must find a way to get addresses, tips, and most critically, morale.
Shooting Stars Page 4