“Paris!” I scream her name over the street noise when I see her. I am hoping she will look up and I will get the shot.
And she does—she looks directly at me and smiles.
And I get it.
And we have a moment. (Or at least I do.) I may only see her through my lens, but when I do, the media silences and like an old black-and-white slow-mo turns a half-second into about five. Paris and me. Just us. And for the first time—in real life—I see emotion in those stoic doe eyes of hers. There’s true joy in them, no doubt. She is happy to be a free woman. Yes, twenty-three days is a long time. And I’m not embarrassed to say it, I choke up!
After my shot, Paris walks down the stairs and gets into her limo.
UPROAR! The media and the paps are standing behind a blockade on Cahuenga and cannot get a shot. They are being blocked, unintentionally, by Larry King’s car which has been pulled up behind the Escalade.
Par-is! Par-is! Par-is! Everyone begins chanting.
From inside the car, she sees the media’s dilemma and she reacts. Arising like Sleeping Beauty from her castle bed, Paris pulls herself up and out the door. Then, standing on the seat of the car, her head and torso well above the massive vehicle (a slightly unladylike move that normally she would not do), Paris waves wildly to the salivating photographers (also a very non-Paris-like gesture). Even though my shot is no longer exclusive (though it is the one they pick for People.com the next day), her action pleases me more than my loss disappoints. I pat a moist eye dry. Paris missed us too.
* * *
Cardinal Rule of the Paparazzi (per Aaron): Do not need or desire to be liked by these people.
But I can’t help myself. I am completely schoolgirl giddy. Adrian Grenier checked me out—subtly but definitely—not once, not twice, but thrice tonight. Yep, three times. Up and down. Maybe it was his girlfriend he was with, but they honestly didn’t look like they were having much fun at dinner.
I had gone to the movies alone, one of my favorite indulgences. Ocean-moist air was floating around the city, and the evening energy felt hot and exotic. On my way home—I walked—I passed Figaro, the French café. I was wearing a long, fitted summer dress cut down the front and my thin-strapped silver Havaianas. Casual but sexy. I had slept ten hours the night before and knew I looked my best.
He was sitting outside along the Paris-style sidewalk, and I passed his table. We saw each other at the same time, and I stopped. We both smiled and he scanned my body, but not in an obnoxious way, more in an automatic way. I was not looking like I do at work. “Jennifer,” I said awkwardly, to be polite and to remind him of my name.
“I know,” he said. He introduced me to the girl he was with, and whoever-she-was, we ignored her for the rest of the conversation. I stood next to their table and close to him. He reflexively touched my arm and my hand familiarly as we spoke. Again, he looked at me, all over.
“What are you up to tonight?” he asked. And we chatted about the movie I’d seen and movies in general. He didn’t mention to the girl that I was a pap, and we didn’t talk about the paparazzi. He never acted like he wanted me to leave, and he kept a slight smile on those amazing kiss-me lips, unquestionably his best feature. When I thought I couldn’t stay anymore—maybe five minutes—I leaned down and kissed him lightly on the cheek. It was an automatic gesture, like it was what should have happened. As I left, he looked me over once more, a bit less subtly.
So, the next morning, my celebrity crush in full force, I digress a la Bridget Jones: Must find way to get phone number to Adrian Grenier. Think pushing ride-along card is best way to go. That way don’t come across like a groupie—can’t have him thinking I want him too much. He must want me. But ride-along will make it seem like I only want to make money off him (versus make love to him). The Cardinal Rule is stupid.
Boy, I was in trouble.
* * *
Bitch—that’s another derogatory and sexist term the paps use. A bitch is a celebrity who makes getting his or her photograph difficult.
Drew Barrymore qualifies. I put her in that category with reverence, however. Drew’s smart, just like her friend Cam. Both girls are a guaranteed sale but not easy to get—and Drew’s often not worth the time put in. Besides her dreadful outfits, she’s just not that interesting and goes to her office, an unshootable location, all too frequently. A shot of Cameron Diaz will sell over and over for reasons of fashion. One of Drew will sell only once, for a fashion faux pas.
Still, Elif and I like working her. She lives on an untrafficked street in Hollywood—less than a ten-minute drive from my house—and Hollywood neighborhoods are pleasantly more low-key to doorstep than their counterparts in West Hollywood or Beverly Hills. As well, there are lots of other celebrities who live nearby if hers goes to pot.
Drew’s main pap-avoidance strategy is based on her assortment of vehicles: she’s got more cars than a CarMax lot. Sometimes when I arrive, I peek under her iron gate and into her wide driveway and note which vehicles are nearest to the exit.
Drew’s house is situated atop a steep dead-end street, and when you doorstep her you can’t sit right outside the house. (If she saw you there, which she most definitely would, she would never give you a shot.) Instead, you must sit down the hill and look inside every car that passes. She may still see you, but by giving her “space,” you won’t immediately piss her off, and she might give it up.
At around noon, one of Drew’s many cars comes out—a Prius. A young guy is in the driver’s seat, and through the car’s untinted windows, I see no one else inside. I grab his eyes intentionally. He averts my stare, which is odd. Though I delay, I follow. I am able to catch up to the car after about a minute. Still, I see only his figure inside. If a celeb were “hiding by ducking,” she normally would have popped up by now, especially because I hadn’t followed at first. But this is Drew. I don’t trust her.
A few blocks later at a light, I pull into the adjacent lane and from the high cab of my truck am able to see inside the car. And there she is, scrunched up on the passenger seat floor like a Nordstrom’s shopping bag. Nice one, Drew. I pull in behind the car, but the driver U-turns and goes directly back home. Drew continues to stay down—stubborn, won’t even admit she’s caught.
Probably we’re now wasting our time—Drew knows we’re here and is obviously not in the mood for it—but neither Elif nor I feel like trolling. We “park up” and wait for her next move. There will be a move; that we know. She wants to leave.
We get out of the truck and sit on the curb. In the middle of a Los Angeles summer, it’s too hot to stay in your vehicle unless the a.c. is on or the windows are down. Since Drew now knows we’re here, we might not get anything, but at least we don’t need to hide in the truck anymore.
Aaron beeps. “Any action? Any action?”
I tell him what’s happening at Drew’s. He tells me he’s just shot Naomi Watts, exclusive, and is now trawling.
“You got Adrian out of your head yet?” he asks. After the Figaro encounter, I fessed up to Aaron about my Adrian crush. It made him angry. I don’t think he was jealous, just more protective, which was pretty sweet too.
“You know, Aaron, it’s not out of the question that I could date a famous person.”
“Ahhhh. Yes. It is. Your crush is juvenile and ridiculous, and more than that, dangerous.”
Whatever.
Over the next hour, three cars pass us in the direction of Drew’s house. We follow them up the hill and watch as they enter her gate. She’s surely devising a plan.
We’re back in position when we hear a loud motor coming down her street. It’s her old pickup driven by the same guy, this time disguised in a low-brimmed hat and a different T-shirt. I am standing outside my car, and again he doesn’t look at me. It’s suspicious.
The pickup rolls by too nonchalantly, and it’s moving so slowly that I am able to tiptoe up and peer inside. There’s a dog curled up on the passenger seat floor, but that’s all I see. The truck
carries on.
It takes a minute to register: no normal dog would lie on the floor curled up in a ball when he’s just gotten into the car.
“Elif, get in the car! Drew’s under her dog!”
We race. But it’s too late, and they’re gone.
It’s that simple, celebs. You don’t want us around, then make our job hard. If you checkmate us too often, we’ll find a weaker opponent.
* * *
When you enter a hotel or any private commercial property in America, unless “No Trespass” signs are posted, you cannot be cited for trespassing. And those look unsightly: no fancy hotel or venue is gonna tack them up. Besides, hotels and restaurants want to encourage patrons—they want most people to enter. It is not until you are at some point asked to leave the private property and you refuse to do so that you become an official trespasser and could be cited.
You might wonder, since it’s not illegal to go “inside,” why don’t paps do it more often? A few reasons: One, depending on whose interior is in the shot, the magazines are sometimes scared of lawsuits. Perhaps the pap they bought the photograph from was asked to leave but didn’t. The mag is usually the one slammed with the lawsuit (in addition to the snapper who took the picture). Two, interior light is usually too dim to get a magazine-worthy image without a flash, and while we could use a flash, that would mean getting right up in the celeb’s face, spraying white light all over him or her, then facing the consequences of the inevitable bust, which brings us to number three. Hands-down-no-question, the BIGGEST obstacle to interior shooting—and papping in general—comes down to one measly human factor: the Fear of Embarrassment. Yep, even paps have the desire to fit in, to be “cool” and “normal,” and like you, we dread public humiliation, especially in front of our “clients,” the celebrities.
It’s worth mentioning one exception to this code: crashers. A crasher is a person (not usually a paparazzi) who lives for that intestine-knotting rush that makes most of us vomit. Crashers (think The Wedding Crasher but at celebrity events versus weddings) don’t do it for the money (or to meet girls) but for the thrill. And for the recognition from other crashers, a small tight-knit group who lurk within Hollywood.
I am aware of only one crasher-pap—a guy who was recently recruited by the iPIX agency and who would probably love for me to mention his real name, but I’m just gonna call him “Crasher Joe.” Over the last twenty years, Crasher Joe has gone ticket-less to hundreds of events including at least a dozen Super Bowls and most Oscars and Golden Globes (the events themselves and the post-parties). Per Crasher Joe, the sole objective of the crasher (at least before he started carrying a camera) is to get as close to as many celebrities as possible. The bigger the celebrity, the bigger the crash (obviously). At the Oscars, for instance, a coup would be to sit near enough to an award-winning celebrity so that when he or she gets up to accept the Oscar, the crasher would stand along his or her side and shake the celebrity’s hand. Not only would the crasher have “touched” the celebrity, but he would have done it on television in front of the world. Even though it’s his little secret, everyone has seen it. Later, the crasher may run into another crasher at a post-Oscar party and get a subtle nod, a sign of envy and approval.
Now that Crasher Joe carries a camera and is his own special kind of paparazzi, he does things like walking into fancy restaurants, going up to tables where celebrities are eating, and flashing his giant SLR in their face. He doesn’t use a long lens or hide. He doesn’t break any laws or trespass. He leaves when he is escorted out. And he keeps the picture.
The reason I bring up Crasher Joe is to illustrate who the paparazzi are by showing you who they are not. It feels to me like “crasher-style” paparazzi is how the media often portrays us. Take Courteney Cox’s bomb of a TV show Dirt, for example, whose main character was a schizophrenic paparazzi who would do things like sneak into hospital rooms with his spy camera and take million-dollar photos. That is ludicrous. What is also unbelievable is that Courteney, who’s been a Hollywood star for twenty-five years, doesn’t get it. But I’m finding that’s the norm. Except for the paparazzi themselves, no one gets our world.
To be clear, paparazzi are not Crasher Joe. There is Crasher Joe, then there is everybody else. And everybody else may have more kahunas than Average Joe, but other than that, the paparazzi are… Just like You!
The Battle of Bosworth, Round 1
Kate: 0; Simon and Jen: 1
Eventually, it came time for my dear Elif to return home. She had only planned to stay for a couple months, and her family and country were calling her back. I understood. Teary-eyed, I put her on a plane to Turkey. More than a sidekick, more than good company, for three critical months—those in the infancy of my pap career—
Elif was my inspiration. Like Donna, she believed in me when no one else did. She knew what pained me and what thrilled me, and she picked me up each time I fell down, which was often. Elif was my biggest fan and often my only one. So when I wave good-bye to her at LAX, I know I will miss her a lot.
After eight months, I am becoming somewhat self-sufficient. Still, I know I need a partner. Combatting heroes, nosy neighbors, nasty paps, and moody celebrities is not possible with a single person’s energy, no matter how positive. Simon says yes to my pleas.
“If you’re my new partner, luv, it’s time you met Kate,” he informs me.
Kate Bosworth is a two-man job: if Kate has any inkling you’re on her, you will never get a shot. It’s my first time on her doorstep, so Simon fills me in with the logistics. Pap No. 1 (this time, Simon) will post up on the popular Runyon Canyon jogging path nearby her house, walking in about fifty yards from the street. From there, he can see Kate’s whole property in a bird’s-eye view. Ideally he will be equipped with binoculars useful in making out license plates parked in her drive and looking for signs of life.
Pap No. 2 (me, by default) will post up in my car (making it look empty by ducking when passed or by sitting in the back) near enough to Kate’s drive to go whichever direction her car departs but far enough away to not alert her that someone’s on her doorstep. Kate lives in the Hollywood Hills on a remote road where it’s a challenge to hide. She also has more than one car and can go down the canyon or up the canyon, and on the way can take at least twenty different routes in the maze of streets.
At around 11 a.m., Simon beeps. “She’s out.”
“Copy.” I start my car.
“Going down hill. Repeat, she’s going down hill.”
“Copy,” I repeat.
I lose reception just as I start the follow. We’re prepared for this. There’s limited cell service in the adjacent Nicholas Canyon which Kate follows toward town. I don’t pick up the car right out of her drive, but when I do pick it up a few streets down, there are too many detours to follow loosely. It takes about five minutes to get down the switch-backed streets, and I have to hope they don’t suspect me.
Not until we get to Hollywood and hit Franklin am I able to get a clear look into the car. Turns out, it’s only Kate’s current boyfriend, British model James Rousseau, inside. Simon’s tipster is Kate’s best (and only from what Simon says) friend’s tennis coach. We knew from her that James was in town, which was why we decided to work Kate.
I can’t imagine that James has ever been papped, so I’m a bit surprised when he clocks me. Simon figures that Kate briefed him on how loved she is in the States, so he was on the lookout. James makes his way to the Grove, and then gives me a nasty look as I pull in behind him in the valet line. Oh park your own car, lazy teenager, I think.
About that time, Simon makes it down the hill to cell reception. “Let’s leave it, Jen. He’s worthless without her.”
Though we’ve been gone only fifteen minutes, we decide not to go back and wait on Kate. Our gut tells us she’s either not going out without him, or she’s gone straight out after him (and her garage was shut so we wouldn’t be able to tell). Instead, we’ll spend the afternoon trolling.
When you start the day with a partner and Plan A, your doorstep, either finishes or goes to pot, you have the option of doing the day’s remainder together or splitting. Simon and I, fond of camaraderie and each other (and now official “partners”!) tend to stick it out. I take one troll route to check certain restaurants. Simon scouts the opposite side of town. If I see something I may shoot it myself, but I’ll put his name on it, or if there’s time or it’s complicated, I might call him in. And vice versa. Doing the day together cuts our cut in half, but it also doubles the chances that we’ll get something. So if your partner has an equal skill and reliability level to your own, partnering up makes sense. As well, you may spend an hour or so in the same car: this means less of a sun-headache from not having to drive and spot, and with all the parking difficulties around town, it’s much speedier to jump out if you see a gangbang or a lone celeb walking down the street.
After four unproductive city hours—Simon and I seem to turn up to every star sighting just as paps are dispersing—he suggests finishing the day at Kate’s. “Maybe the car’s back? Maybe they’ll go out for an early dinner?”
About fifteen minutes ahead of Simon, I’m not in a rush and meander through the curves toward her street. Halfway up the canyon, a car catches up to me and a quick glance in my side-view mirror reveals James’s eye-fuck. Uncanny.
I divert my stare. Maybe he’s not certain, Simon’s advice reminds me. James leans his torso out the window to make sure I see him. He seems certain. I ignore her street and continue to climb the canyon. For intimidation purposes, James follows for a few curves before turning back.
I wait only five minutes before heading to her doorstep. Then I plop my car fifty feet from her drive so I can see both directions. James has already busted me, it’s late in the day, and I’ve got nowhere else to go. I radio Simon to tell him to stay in Hollywood, that this sit isn’t promising enough for two of us to pursue.
Shooting Stars Page 14