No one would say I haven’t done some cool stuff. The problem, however, is clear: I’ve done a lot, but I haven’t stuck with anything. Not because I’m not driven but because I’m overly driven. When things get boring, I’m out. I have no tolerance for boring. And Hollywood—in all its layers of darkness and light, loneliness and romance—is anything but boring. What’s at the heart of this city, this melting pot of humanity? I know there are demons in the City of Angels; there is good and there is evil. And I’m curious to catch a little of the battle.
Above any reasoning, however, I can’t erase what’s been put in front of me. I’ve got the passion, I’ve got the calling, so I’ve got to see this through. Every once in a while in life, the fog clears and you can see that you’re in the right lane, even if it’s dark.
* * *
The more I work with Simon, the more I want to work with him. He is precise and calculating as a pap, and patient and forthcoming as a mentor. He never tires of my questions, and his explanations are thorough and intelligent. I am increasingly in awe of his skills and enjoying his new friendship. Not to mention, he’s hilarious.
Simon’s shoot of Nicole Richie was like a ballet. She fluttered in and out of stores; Simon danced around her. He had the instinct—he knew where she’d move before she was there. When I was shooting Nicole’s back, he was squatted three feet in front of her getting the full-length. Nicole had the instinct too. She didn’t make it easy for Simon; she also didn’t make it impossible. She just wanted him to work for it.
Have you ever paid attention to how someone exits a store? Or which way they face when they get in and out of a car? Or where the most natural route to walk is? You do these things yourself, by instinct, but they’re not what you notice in others. Paparazzi, on the other hand, do notice. They must notice. They need to know how people will move before they move, and where they will go before they get there.
Nicole’s photographs were beautiful. Movement flowed in the frames, giving the pictures a certain “tabloid” style, and one I am starting to appreciate for both its technical difficulty and its form. I notice that when a celeb is caught in movement, she is prettier (and most definitely thinner) than in real life. (I’m not exactly sure why this occurs. Maybe geometry could explain it, but I think it’s the same reason the celebs stand with one foot in front of the other when on the red carpet. For some reason, it tricks the eye and elongates the body.) When the dance is over, both Nicole and Simon are satisfied. Watching them, I realize I have a long way to go.
* * *
Today, J.R. assigns Simon and me to track down Jodie Foster. I can tell that Simon isn’t excited. I’ve learned that the tabloids don’t have much interest in lesbians (“except for lipstick lesbians,” Simon says, who according to him are “every man and woman’s dream”). But I had gotten a tip from a friend that Jodie drops off her kids at eight every morning at a private school in West Hollywood, so J.R. deemed it “worth a go.”
I arrive at 7:45 a.m. and pull to the beginning of the carpool line. Jodie is an easy spot in a silver Prius, and I pick up the follow (i.e., follow her) as she leaves the school. We go to a parking deck off Sunset and then on foot upstairs to a gym. Simon, who arrived too late for the follow (since he does not care about Jodie Foster), catches up with us there.
When he arrives, I have not yet attempted a photograph of Jodie. A shot with my long lens in the parking garage was impossible. I had no time to position myself the necessary number of meters in front of her, not knowing which direction she was going, and in the dimly lit garage my short-and-flash (versus my long lens/no flash) would have been necessary. Short-and-flash would have meant exposing myself, and “Jodie hates paps,” per Simon, so she would have made that difficult. I was smart to hide and wait for his backup.
Of course, an inside-the-gym shot would make a great picture. Jodie Foster climbs the Stairmaster just like Us would sell, lipstick lesbian or not. “Should I go in for a tour?” I suggest.
“Uhh, if you want.” Simon seems surprised that I’m making such an effort.
Jodie’s not hard to find in the middle of a large room filled with people and machines. She is running on a treadmill directly in front of me but what do I do now? I suppose I could whip out my camera, take aim, and fire. I mean, what’s the worst someone could do? Escort me out. Boo at me. Tell me to rot in hell. Throw spitballs, cups of water, smelly towels. Possibly clobber me over the head with a barbell. Obviously, this is why Simon did not come along. I pretend to get a text, cut the tour short, and leave.
Simon decides that though we can easily shoot Jodie as she exits the gym (we know she’ll have to take a brief walk to the elevator), it’s best to wait. “No need to blow our cover for a sweaty Jodie in a grey hoodie,” he says. “Something better may happen.”
This is a new tactic for me. I’m beginning to learn the ropes, but I’m still thrilled to just spot a celebrity. I have no experience waiting for a “better shot.”
Simon goes to his car and situates himself by the parking deck’s exit. He tells me to “lay low” and that he’ll “pick up the follow.”
“She may know your car by now,” he says. “I’ll call you in a few.”
In a few, Simon beeps. (CXN has finally gotten me a Nextel.) “I lost her, mate. Sorry. Don’t know what happened.”
“Bummer,” I respond casually. Inside, I am very annoyed. I have yet to develop “game” and my stealth follow was a big deal. How did he lose her? She wasn’t going fast. And why didn’t he take a shot when it was a sure thing?
Five minutes later, Simon beeps again. “Got her.”
“What? How?”
“Weave your web, luv. They’ll fly in.”
Simon found Jodie’s car parked outside a store a few miles from where he’d last seen it. This amazes me: in the clusterfuck of L.A., paps re-find people. It happens frequently. (With paps who have game that is. Like Simon. I take note.)
After Jodie’s errands, none of which we are able to shoot (there was never a clear shot without being seen, and like the gym exit, the opportunities were too lackluster to burn it), she returns to the school and picks up her young son Kit. He looks to be about five. As we follow, Simon and I switch positions of lead car and, still undetected, follow Jodie to the Grove, the open-air shopping mall and movie theater in West Hollywood.
Even though she could valet, Jodie instead parks like a regular person in the deck. We park nearby and follow her and Kit on foot into the mall.
“Get out your cell,” orders Simon. “I’ll watch her.”
Simon doesn’t trust me not to make eye contact. Frankly, I don’t either. As noted earlier, eye contact, or lack of, is one of the most important skills a pap develops. Once you make eye contact (unless it’s the distracted, fleeting kind as previously discussed, versus the stare-down kind), you’re done. In the car, on a follow, for instance, you often need to ID the driver, make sure it’s the celeb you think it is. Sunglasses, side-view or rearview mirrors, and tinted windows all help conceal your interest, but you need to be able to recognize the celeb by the back of his or her head (which I can’t do yet). A cell phone can help: while engrossed in a fake conversation, you’re able to dart your eyes in an unfocused manner while putting the subject close enough to your periphery to identify him or her. This also works well when checking out restaurants and stores. The hostess or salesperson won’t bother you if you’re on your phone, and if you’re actively chatting (to no one), it is an excellent way to stand still and look around for your next shot.
A celebrity’s eye contact toward you is equally telling. If you’re trying to figure out whether a star is on to you, Simon says, watch for his or her stare. Sometimes you’ll notice a celeb trying to catch your eye in his or her side-view mirror. “Don’t stare back,” Simon says. “It’s possible they aren’t sure. Then, proceed with caution. You’re a suspect.”
Jodie and Kit sit at an outside table and order lunch. Simon and I shoot the meal from behind a hat
kiosk about fifty meters away. We keep up a solid conversation about hats, and the salesgirl either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. Simon switches out a lens just as Kit gets on his mom’s lap, so we have to rely on me for that shot. (It ends up being the one they run in Us Weekly the following magazine cycle.) After lunch, Jodie and Kit ride the train around the mall. Their moments are affectionate and intimate, and there is no denying serious love between mama and son. My camera begins to feel like a violation of that love. At one point, I ask Simon if we can leave. “This isn’t fun,” I say.
He tries to reassure me. “These pictures are good for her. They show she’s a good mum, and that’s important for her career.”
This is the first time I feel guilty doing what I do. But soon, I will understand more about the symbiotic relationship of celebrity and paparazzi, and the truth behind Simon’s words will become clear, so today will also be the last time I feel guilty.
After the train ride, we “let” Jodie go. “We nailed it. It’s exclusive,” Simon says, and follows with his mantra, “Let’s not get greedy.” Getting greedy in this situation could result in being kicked out of the Grove by security or getting seen by Jodie. Nothing terrible, but no need to annoy anyone if we can help it. The chief risk, however, is getting jumped by other paparazzi. Paps trolling the Grove scan as much for other paps shooting as they do for the celebrities themselves, and since tabloids love celebrities with kids on their arms, we want to keep Jodie—and her son—exclusive.
7. Americans, who make up about 10 percent of paps, would also fall into the new-school category.
Chapter 6
In my desire to soak up information (and make money), I partner with CXN’s staffers as much as J.R. will let me. Though my percentage is cut from 60 to 30 when I work with another photographer, 30 percent of something is better than 60 percent of nothing, which is more or less what I get when I work on my own right now. (A year from now, Simon and Bartlet nickname me “Jen-Full-Sixty” because I never want to work with anyone. They say it’s because I want all the money for myself.)
I’m put with Aaron for most of the week. I like being with him. It’s comfortable, and we have that elusive chemistry that makes breathing shallow and bodies warm. (Well, I have that chemistry for him. It’s not clear whether it’s reciprocal.)
Today J.R.’s assigned us to Hilary Duff. I’ve worked her only that one unfortunate time. But she doesn’t worry me today, not with Aaron here. I’m starting to notice that when I work with a partner, anything seems possible.
Hilary lives in the eastern corner of the Valley in Studio City, an easy ten-minute drive from my house. I arrive at 8:30 a.m. Aaron comes a little later and brings the coffees. We park at the end of the street where we can see Hilary’s drive, i.e., driveway (British), yet still attempt a stealth follow. Her neighborhood is full of curves and side streets, which will require us to keep a close tail or risk losing her. But the little or no traffic there makes it obvious there is one stubborn car always going her same direction. She won’t have to be clever to suss us out.
I hop in Aaron’s car, grab my coffee, and proudly unfold the “Hollywood Stars Map” I bought the previous day on Sunset Boulevard, thinking it might give me a leg up.
Aaron nudges close to me on the seat and studies the map. “Celebs change their addresses as often as their lippy [lipstick]. They’re all wrong. You wasted ten bucks.”
An hour into the sit, an officious, heavyset man walks over from a nearby house. He approaches Aaron’s car and knocks on his driver’s side window. Aaron cracks it slightly.
“What are you doing?” the man asks.
“Not much. How about you?” Aaron says cheerfully, clearly not answering his question.
“I know what you’re doing.”
“What’s that, mate?”
“If you don’t leave, I’m gonna call the police.”
“Cool,” Aaron says like he’s just ordered pizza, and rolls up the window. “Nosy fucking neighbor,” he says to me. “Must be a bitch not being able to buy the street in front of your four-million-dollar mansion.”
Aaron tells me a story. “Was on Jessica Simpson last week,” he says. “The gatekeeper goes for a piss. Saw him leave, so went in with the next car. I’m sitting on her street for an hour, just down from her house, when some neighbor comes up and asks me what I’m doing.”
When Aaron speaks, I still have to concentrate hard to understand his thick accent. I piece words together as best I can so I don’t have to keep saying “what?” I’ve noticed that when I say “what?” too much, Aaron quits talking.
He continues. “I told him, ‘It’s a scavenger hunt, mate. I’m giving clues. Everyone’s picking up maps from me to get to their next place.’ The guy couldn’t think of what to say. He just left me alone.”
I love that Aaron does stuff like this. I mean, why are people so concerned with things that are not their business? If the guy had thought Aaron was a robber, OK then he should have called the police, but he didn’t think that. Everyone in affluent L.A. neighborhoods knows that when a blacked-out SUV is sitting in front of a celebrity’s house, it’s a paparazzi. In fact, we probably prevent robbers from hitting up the richest people in town. We are better than a neighborhood security watch. Just get a celeb on your street and you’re set.
The cops never show up at Hilary’s, and at around 11 a.m., J.R. chirps. He’s just seen a blog, and Hilary is in New York. We’ve been sitting on nothing.
It’s too late to jump on another celeb’s doorstep, so Aaron decides we’ll head to town instead. On the way, Toby, a new “friend” (a loose term when speaking of acquaintances in this business) from a competing agency, Rodeo2, beeps me with a tip: “Brit’s at the Chateau.”
Many paps like to give tidbits of information and let you piece together the rest. It’s part of the game for them.
I beep Toby back immediately—How long has she been there? How big a gangbang? I want to ask—but Toby’s already on with someone else and I get the long, flat tone of his busy Nextel.
Aaron decides it’s “worth a go,” but we don’t rush. We stop at McDonald’s for another coffee. “If she’s gone, no big loss,” he remarks over the Nextel while pulling into the drive-through.
Aaron says this because everyone gets pictures of Britney—in fact, she’s hard to avoid—but the Brazilians “own” her and they make most of the money. The Rodeo2 “Brazilian team”—that’s what they call themselves—put in the time, sitting on her in rotating schedules all day, every day, and most of the night. Because of that, they are there for her “big events”—when she carried her baby in the front seat of the car, for example. Or the day she shaved her head or, later on, when a bald Brit beat the shit out of a Rodeo2 car with an umbrella for no apparent reason. (Afterward, she sent a handwritten apology note to Rodeo2, which the agency posted on its website. And later she explained it in People magazine by saying it was prep for a movie role, which to my knowledge never materialized.)
Britney’s “BFF team” consists of about twelve Brazilians headed up by Mario, an older man who collects money bimonthly from Channing, Rodeo2’s hands-on French owner, and then doles out the cash to his minions as he sees fit. With this sizable team, the Brazilians are sometimes able to block other paps on a follow to keep Britney exclusive.
Britney is loyal to them too. (Except for that beating.) Sadly, she doesn’t seem to have many friends right now, at least not ones who stick around, and it appears that she honestly looks at the Rodeo-ers as her friends. To this point, Donna and I worked her doorstep last week, arriving early at her Hollywood Hills home at around 10:30 a.m. (Britney never leaves until the afternoon, but if you arrive after eleven, all the parking places are gone.) At three, Britney’s security team lead came out to the two dozen cars waiting on the shoulder of Mulholland and started asking around, “Who here’s with Rodeo2?” Mario came forward for a private discussion, and over the next hour, Rodeo2 cars fell off the doorstep one by one like p
lanes in an air show. When this happens—someone has inside information—everyone not in the know is left in a conundrum: Stay and wait? Follow a Brazilian? (Not that that’s doable or allowable.) What we do know is that when no Brazilians are outside Britney’s, she’s probably not home. We found out the following day that Britney did come out but not in a car we knew, so we didn’t follow. She gave an exclusive to her friends from Rodeo2—nothing salacious, just something inside a tanning salon, but solid worldwide money nonetheless. And bonus for Rodeo2, everyone else’s day was shot, either waiting for nothing on Mulholland, or late-day bottom feeding, as Simon calls it, in the city.
Shooting Stars Page 7