Shooting Stars

by Jennifer Buhl

  When deciding where to sit at a doorstep, we naturally consider the best place to hide from the celebrity. But we also must consider the best place to hide from other paps. Assuming most photographers don’t sit on an empty house, late-rising paps often troll doorsteps to see if another pap’s already there, and if they get verification, plop down next to them. Sometimes, if we see a slow-moving vehicle coming our way, we duck under our seat in the hope that the passing pap doesn’t see us and leaves. Lastly, before situating ourselves in our parked car for what could be an eight-hour day, we factor in comfort: frequency of cops and meter maids, traffic buzz, ease of watch, and direct sunlight.

  When working a doorstep with a partner, we cover both street exits if it’s necessary. If one person is sufficient to watch both directions (or if we know the celeb being doorstepped departs only in one direction), then we may opt to cover two doorsteps that are located close to each other, ultimately working whichever moves first. As well, a seasoned pap knows who lives in which neighborhoods and often spots celebrities whom they weren’t even waiting for. For example, once I was sitting on Mandy Moore and Vince Vaughn jogged by. Dax Shepard, Kate Walsh, and Christina Ricci also live within walking distance of Mandy. And if I expand by another two miles, I can count a dozen more.

  J.R. checks in between eight and nine every morning. It usually goes something like this:

  “Ahhhh. Hi, Jen.” (Five seconds.) “How’s it going?”

  “Great, J.R. She looks home. Car’s in the drive.”

  (Eight seconds). “Ahhhh. Great.” (Five seconds). “Ahhhh. Give it a go.”

  Then we wait, with J.R. or Bartlet checking in every few hours. The only thing worse than sitting outside a celebrity’s house all day long with no action is sitting outside a celebrity’s house all day long among nasty paps with no action. Nasty paps like to mill around the sidewalks smoking cigarettes, eating peanuts, and giving out menacing stares. Having a periodic call from the boss helps us keep it together.

  It’s polite protocol to visit with our partner for a while—morning niceties, then a review of the action plan should the doorstep move. If we’re chummy, we might jump into one car to visit a bit more. When I do, I always pick my partner’s brain: “What do we do if this happens?” “Let’s go through the camera menu.” “How does your edit workflow go?” But eventually we’ll work our way back to our own vehicles, since that’s the best place to be if our doorstep takes off. Nothing like busting yourself first thing running to the car in front of a celebrity.

  It’s amazing how much I can find to do in my car. I make phone calls to my mom, JoDeane, and Georgia; I do trade reading by browsing a tabloid or two; and I check in with a half dozen other paps. It’s important to be in contact with other paps, primarily ones from your own agency so that you can share information. Unless we’re on a top-secret doorstep which J.R. has forbidden us to reveal (“Loose lips sink ships,” he loves to say), we call each other and report our location. It’s not unlikely that another pap will have additional information about our doorstep—“Beckham flew out yesterday,” for instance—and this saves many wasted hours. On the other hand, if we check in with our competitor “friends,” we don’t tell them who we’re on at the moment. They may not know he or she is in town, and we don’t want our story scooped the next day.

  Once our doorstep moves, we radio our partner (if we have one) and follow. Unless there’s a reason to be seen, e.g., the celeb gives us better pictures when he or she knows we’re there, we attempt to hide. We may be on our target all day, or he or she could go immediately to an unshootable location, a studio for instance, in which case we may “leave it” right away.

  If our doorstep goes to pot, i.e., we lose the celebrity or he or she goes somewhere and we don’t think it’s worth waiting, or if the doorstep doesn’t move by 1 or 2 p.m., then we generally head to the city. I prefer to get to town by 1 p.m. for lunch-hour spottings. I troll cafés on Melrose and Beverly, the Fred Segal department store, celebrity gyms, and Robertson Boulevard. All paps have similar paths, so we’re constantly passing one another on the road.

  When trolling, paps look for celebrities’ cars—both on the road and in parking lots. As well, we look in cars, on sidewalks, and on restaurant patios for the celebrities themselves. We also look for other paps, or their cars, engaged in a follow or lurking outside an establishment. Memorizing other pap vehicles—and their drivers’ reputations for productivity—is as important as knowing celebrities’ cars.

  Most paps are too lazy to get out of their cars and instead rely on outside clues (other paps, the celebs’ cars) to tell them if famous clientele are inside. I’ve found, however, that actually walking in stores and restaurants significantly improves my hit rate. Interestingly, when scanning a restaurant or store, it is not necessary to look at each person individually. By simply breezing one’s eyes over an area, the subconscious will, without fail, register “recognition.” I’m not exactly sure why this works, but Malcolm Gladwell covers it in Blink: The Power of Thinking without Thinking. Soon I will come to see celebrities out of the far peripheries of my eyes, when I’m out with my girlfriends, not even looking for them. As well, more and more I am beginning to spot celebrities by their builds or gaits, so I can easily recognize them even if their backs are to me. If I’ve seen someone once, I find I see them frequently. If I do make a spot, I post up strategically on the sidewalk or in my car, try not to get jumped (by actively watching for and ducking when I see another pap), and shoot the celebrity exiting. Depending on the location, I occasionally attempt to shoot inside, but mostly I reserve that for the paps more experienced than me.

  Late in the day, I may ditch the car altogether and go for a stroll around the Grove or traipse through Barneys in Beverly Hills where celebs enjoy shopping for items over a thousand dollars apiece. Or sometimes I just park on Sunset or Doheney and wait for them to drive by—and get stuck in my web.

  * * *

  It’s been months since he first tipped me off, and Rob, Inn Love’s deep throat, shows no signs of stopping. He tells me that he doesn’t feel guilty giving me inside information about the boss because she and Dean do the same thing. As I mentioned, in exchange for tips on Tori’s whereabouts, Rob asks not for money but “for photos.” I wasn’t sure what he meant by this at first—pictures of Tori? Of celebrities? Eventually, however, it became clear: Rob wanted pictures of…himself. Rob wanted to be papped!

  We did this a couple of times on Robertson. He shopped there, and I was always passing. He loved it. Before long, it turned into a full-on fetish with Rob texting at least twice a week:

  Rob: Shopping at the Grove if you’re nearby; taking Tori’s dog to acupuncture at 2; with my cousin on Robertson…dressed alike—it would make a great photo.

  After I take his picture, I edit the best few images and email them to him. I do not ask what he does with them.

  Today Rob texts:

  Going to the Standard with a few friends at 6. Dressed up. Will make a great photo.

  He always adds that it will make a great photo, like that determines if I’ll come or not.

  Me: Let’s stay in touch

  Turns out, the hotel, which is also a bar and restaurant, is going to be on my way home, and at six I’m nearby. Little effort for the next Tori tip.

  Here’s how it goes down, in texts:

  Rob: I’m 2 minutes away.

  Me: Don’t go in yet. I’m not ready.

  Rob: Circling. Give you another min.

  I find a lucky meter on Sunset and get out with my short-and-flash, the camera Rob prefers. The titillation apparently comes when others think he’s famous, so a long lens from inside my truck is not the point. There are a slew of valets in front of the Standard, and I’m not sure what the hotel’s attitude is toward paps. Some locales embrace us as healthy publicity, while others pride themselves on being celebrity hideaways. Of course Rob isn’t a celebrity, but the valets won’t know that, and I don’t want to cause a sce
ne on Sunset over Rob. Feeling like a tool, I crouch behind a potted plant with my camera in my bag.

  Rob: In a black Prius. I’m driving. Three other guys.

  Me: OK. Almost set.

  Rob: I’m here. Do you see the car? I’ll get out on the street side.

  Me: I’m in the bush. I see you. Wait a sec. [I fiddle with a few settings.]

  Me: OK, go.

  Chuh-chuh-chuh, flash-flash-flash.

  I’m not sure what he wants exactly—Pictures of him alone? All the guys? Is everybody in on the ruse?—but I think it’s better not to ask now. I say, “Hey, Rob. How you doing tonight? Don’t mind if I get a few frames, do you?” I concentrate on trying to be professional and not doubling over in laughter.

  He doesn’t respond. He acts coy, like he can’t much be bothered by the camera but will “tolerate” it. He doesn’t smile, but doesn’t cover (of course!). He gives me the peace sign (the money shot?) just before he goes into the hotel. Once they’re gone, I hurry back to my car hoping no one’s seen me.

  A couple minutes later:

  Rob: How was it? How did I do?

  Me: Perfect Rob. You’re gorgeous, so my pictures are gorgeous.

  Rob: There weren’t that many people there to see it?

  Me: [I think I know where he’s going with this.] Oh, there were plenty. A car stopped on Sunset to ask who you were.

  Rob: Really, what do you tell people when they ask?

  Me: [Uhhhhh…“whatever you want me to tell them,” or “nobody.”] Oh, I say you’re from a reality show.

  Rob: :)

  Me: Just wondering…What do you tell your friends? Do they know what’s up?

  Rob: Oh they just think it comes with the territory, working for Tori.

  * * *

  It might be easy to laugh at Rob’s vanity, but he is not alone or even uncommon, especially in L.A. The intensity with which people crave fame here is unbelievable. I sometimes wonder if I could make more money as a hired pap who gives nobodies the thrill of feeling famous than I do by going after real celebs. But at least the Rob mystery is solved.

  I am also discovering that it is not unusual to have insiders among the stars, or insiders who are the stars. Many celebrities make themselves famous or more famous through active participation with paps and tabloids—i.e., they give it up all the time or they set up their own jobs. For example, it is well known that Rodeo2 has some sort of arrangement with Britney, and I know several of “Lindsay’s paps” who have her personal cell phone number, and I’ve seen what appear to be her texts. Besides the two of them, Nicole Richie, Denise Richards, Jenny McCarthy, Hilary Duff, Tori Spelling, many of the Bachelors and Bachelorettes, Hayden Panettiere, and even Katie Holmes and Angelina Jolie, at different times in their careers, have purportedly coordinated with us or the tabloids (or had their agents do it for them). These are just a few I have heard of; I am sure there are many more. Everyone has a different deal. Some do it just for the publicity, but many also make money off their photos.

  “Speidi” (Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt) is a classic example of working it for the money. I know about the couple because their deal was with CXN, and it was no secret. It started in 2007 when CXN set up bathing suit shots with Heidi. “Spectacular” shots were put out each subsequent week, and before the year was over, the girl that only a few of the Hills’s viewers recognized was on the cover of Us Weekly talking about her nose job. The kicker: Speidi made 40 percent of all the sales, and CXN and the photog divided the rest.10

  Once Keeping up with the Kardashians blew up, Kim reportedly entered into a similar situation with another photo agency. Other celebrities like Tori and Dean use a company called StarTraks Photo for their setups. I don’t know whether they get paid or not, but at the very least, notice that an image with a StarTraks, WireImage, AP, or Getty photo credit usually looks posed11—almost a guarantee that the celeb was complicit. Just leaf through mags with a conscious eye; you’ll find it easy to spot the setups.

  10. Specifically, what happens is this: Spencer calls Bartlet and they brainstorm. “What would make a salable picture? What haven’t we done already?” Sometimes Bartlet will ring the mags. “What do you want to see Speidi doing this week?” Remember, the mags like pictures and stories. Over the next several years, Spencer (the business mind of Speidi) and CXN create comic-genius, salable sets one after the other: Heidi at the grocery store strategically holding two melons; Spencer and Heidi in rabbit ears at Easter; the couple on July 4th waving American flags outside the U.S. Capitol; and a perfectly coiffed Speidi caught kissing in a row boat. Not only do these self-made millionaires make money off their photos, but the mags also pay them for exclusive stories, clubs pay them appearance fees, and companies pursue them for product endorsement deals. Spencer bragged on David Letterman that in two years he and Heidi made over $3 million in “self-promotion.” Gotta give him some credit; that’s not easy.

  11. These four photo agency names have not been changed. They sell celebrity images, but they are not paparazzi agencies.

  Chapter 11

  Two weeks before she goes to jail for violating probation by driving with a suspended license, a small gangbang of men—and I—meet up with Paris Hilton as she departs a building into underground parking. Three savages form a semi-circle around her to get the front-facing shots and to prevent others from doing the same. This isn’t “allowed,” but no one else is big enough—in stature or status—to prevent it. Their blocking pushes me to the left, so I come out with only side shots of Paris.

  I am furious. Profanity spews from my mouth like crud from a clogged sewer. Elif has to drag me back to my car. “You can’t win every time,” she says, trying to calm me down.

  It isn’t until we get home and I look at my photos that I notice something interesting: Paris Hilton is holding the Bible. And it isn’t until a few days later that I realize the value of one photo: I had gotten a shot with the full “Holy Bible” words exposed. And no one else had.

  That shot made nearly every tabloid and major newspaper in the United States. It claimed the entire front cover of the New York Post and was printed in papers around the world. It was the punch line of the late night talk shows. Even CNN bought the picture. Had I been shooting Paris from the front that day, as the three guys were, I would have shot only the rim of the book. From my angle, I got the whole Holy Bible.

  I may not have realized what I was getting when I shot Paris from the side. But she did. When Paris walked out that day toward her car, she had neatly tucked the Bible under her arm, along with The Power of Now, and she had feathered them in a way no one carries books. She had it all planned out.

  The best thing about that shot, though, was the Bible itself. It was a hardcover, golden-colored Gideon’s Bible, the kind you find at hotel chains. I betcha all the money I made on that shot—five grand at least—that it came right out of one of Daddy Hilton’s hotel rooms!

  * * *

  But saved or not, Paris still went to jail. After her release, the media genius (and I’m not being flip) selected Larry King to conduct her first interview. So after Paris’s midnight walk from the jailhouse, CNN’s studios became paps’ first opportunity for a photo-op with Paris as a free woman.

  I arrive early at CNN wearing the “Free Paris” T-shirt I bought at a tourist shop on Vermont Avenue. My plan was to get a space on the second floor of the parking garage, enabling me to get a head-on shot of Paris when she exited the building. I knew everyone else would be on the street fighting for a ground-level shot, and I wouldn’t have much of a chance in the throng of aggressive men. Regardless, I didn’t come today to make money; I came to witness history.

  I get into position as planned and over the next few hours watch the media converge. In one location, I’ve never seen more—we are well over a thousand. By 1 p.m., every U.S. news agency and many photographers on location from around the world are at the Cahuenga and Sunset studios, hoping to get a glimpse of Paris.

  Her
limo—a large blacked-out Escalade—arrives at three, but she is blocked by officious security and there are no entry shots. During her hour-long taped interview, we wait, hoping the exit will be different.

  It didn’t seem possible that Paris’s celebrity could get bigger. But it did. I’m not convinced that she wanted to go to jail, but I am sure she used her internment to her advantage. To be clear, Paris is no dumb blond. Quite the contrary, this bombshell knows exactly what she is doing. All Of The Time. She controls her media, not vice versa, and hers is a beautiful performance to watch. Even when you think that it’s an accident that she’s wearing something, holding something, doing something (even perhaps going to jail), you come to realize later that it was no accident (or if it was, she’s turned it to her favor). Paris thinks ahead. Of all of us.

  While she is inside, I soak in the scene. From my vantage on the second floor, Cahuenga buzzes electric and excitement swirls around the entire city block. Like steam rising off the street’s asphalt, the paparazzi and the news media rise, erect and ready. Most people are smiling and I don’t see any ravens today. We are beautiful blue and yellow hummingbirds, sparrows, and starlings. To witness something so newsworthy is electrifying. I haven’t felt this kind of human media energy since I worked in CNN’s Control Room. Thankfully, this is a happy news day. We all missed Paris while she was away. Twenty-three days is a long time.

  * * *

  The only person who has the idea to shoot from the garage is me, so the space is mine to maneuver, and I position myself facing CNN’s exit door, one level up. We know the time the interview is supposed to end, and I have a former colleague from CNN who will text me confirmation. About an hour after Paris entered the building, I am out of my car, camera up to my face. I expect her to come into my view for a split second when she walks out the door before she descends the stairs to her limo.