* * *
Late in the day, I follow Ellen Pompeo to Griffith Park. I catch “Meredith Grey” by doorstepping the Grey’s Anatomy set, which I’ve found highly profitable: there’s never competition, everyone from Grey’s sells, and the actors don’t always go home after work. Besides, it’s convenient, only two blocks from my house.
The light is extremely low—it’s cloudy and almost 6 p.m.—and I’d like Ellen to not know I’m here. I’m unsure what her reaction would be should she see me, and I want her looking natural. Right now she is: she’s playing fetch with her dog. And I know that animal shots always sell.
A flash is ideal, but impossible. Short-and-flash requires getting in my subject’s face, not practical in a game of fetch. Without a flash, I will take a hit on the number of usable frames (many will have action blur) and the quality of frames (they will be “softer” and “noisier” than they would with a flash or in strong light).
I select my six hundred, a fixed 600mm lens, a beast of a thing that Aaron has loaned me. He doesn’t like it because it’s too heavy. I would like to shoot through the tint on my car window—this would allow stealth—but that’s impossible in the existing light. I crack my window and at times hop out and hide behind my car, which besides Ellen’s is the only one in the vicinity.
After fetch, Ellen gets in her car and pulls up beside me. I hang my head low—I’ve been a bad dog. I knew she’d seen me halfway through the shoot when she put her sunglasses on.
“I understand you have a job to do,” she says. “I don’t like it, but I know you’re gonna do it anyway. Next time, I just want to know you’re here.”
This is the first time a celebrity has said this to me, and it makes perfect sense. It’s how I would feel. Of course, what Ellen doesn’t factor in is that when a celebrity knows we are there, she doesn’t always cooperate or she becomes self-conscious and does something like put her sunnys on, as Ellen did, making herself less identifiable and thus less valuable. There are good reasons why we hide.
But I’ll respect Ellen’s request. “Sure. OK. I won’t try to hide next time.”
She adds, “I’m not the kind of girl who’s gonna get all dressed up for you. I just like to know when someone’s taking my picture.”
“I understand.”
Then I can’t help myself. Ellen, this itsy-bitsy woman, has a giant Northeastern accent, something you never hear on Grey’s.
“Your accent,” I say. “I never knew.”
She smiles, blushes, and says, “See you around.”
“Make ’em smile” was Aaron’s advice to me in the beginning; and from here on out, I will always announce myself to Ellen and she will always smile for me.
* * *
It’s been three months since I followed Katherine Heigl home from the same Grey’s Anatomy studios. I barely knew who she was then. Now she’s won an Emmy and the tabloids pick up every set of her I take.
When someone starts to get hot, they get hot fast. There’s a window, and by catering to the public’s interest during that window, a celeb can make a significant impact on her future star power.
With Katherine’s convenient Los Feliz home, close to my apartment, I am working her at least once a week. Other paps haven’t caught on yet, so I usually have her to myself. My secret won’t last long, though, and I know it’s wise to take immediate, unrelenting advantage when it exists.
After getting seen by her a few times—as you inevitably do when you overwork a celebrity—I realize that when my friend Katherine Heigl knows I’m there, she looks down the barrel, smiles, and waves. She actually gives me better shots when she sees me. (Aaron constantly reminds me: “She’s not your friend.”)
Whether she is my friend or work acquaintance, Katherine Heigl is my new favorite celebrity. One day as she orders a soda at an outdoor kiosk in the Grove, I put down my camera and approach her. I want to say thanks. Plus I see her all the time, and it’s starting to feel awkward that I haven’t introduced myself yet. Often it’s just the two of us, walking around, running her errands.
“Hey, Katherine.”
“Katie,” she corrects.
“Right, Katie.” I suddenly have shaky-voice-syndrome; talking to a celebrity still makes me nervous. “I just wanted to introduce myself—I’m Jennifer—and also say how nice it is that you’re always so agreeable and generous with pictures. It’s really pleasant to work on you.”
I say “work on you” and know that sounds strange. I don’t know how else to put it.
“No problem,” she says. “Some people just take it so seriously.”
“Well, thank you, Kath—I mean Katie.”
“Sure,” she says smiling. Then she says, “And, thank…you.”
“Huh?”
“I would have killed to have my picture taken by you guys for the last fifteen years. So yeah, thanks.”
Ssssssnap! It sure is nice when someone finally admits it: I need you, darling paparazzi, as much as you need me. ’Cause even us paps like to be appreciated!
* * *
“Katie” lives about a half mile up Griffith Park from Adrian. When I work her, instead of sitting right on the house (which in pap/celeb etiquette isn’t very polite), I usually hang near Adrian’s house in a shaded area where I can keep tabs on his doings as well. There’s one problem with Adrian’s doorstep: the bathroom.
By now, it’s probably obvious that if I were to leave my doorstep to go pee at Starbucks, the celeb could come out during that time, and I’d return to an empty house and never know it. Depending on the doorstep, there are a few peeing options. At this particular location, besides peeing in a cup, which the guys do and which, as I’ve mentioned, I’ve tried and hate, the only option is the front lawn across from Adrian’s house.
Horrible! Believe me, I know. Claudia refuses to use it. But this morning after a Starbucks Venti Misto, I’m desperate.
His neighbor’s lawn is sort of a small field, about thirty-by-thirty feet, and full of tall, willowy grass. I make my move and race to the field. A cursory scan of the area reveals no one and I quickly kneel. I am squatted when—you know it—Adrian pulls up. Shit, I will never get a date with Adrian if he catches me publicly urinating in his neighbor’s yard. Half done, I pull up my drawers, fall flat to the ground, and do not move a muscle until I hear his front door open, then close, then count to twenty. Then I scramble back to the blacked-out safety of my truck. Phew.
Twenty minutes later, Adrian leaves and I make a quick decision to ditch Heigl and file behind. On the way to wherever we’re going, I pin my hair back in a decent ponytail and apply some makeup. Adrian hasn’t seen me since “the note,” and although my crush has waned, I still feel gauche. I even consider hiding—he’d never notice me—but then, I want to discuss his documentary project and push, again, the ride-along idea. I opt for being seen.
At this point in his career, Adrian is rarely followed so he has no idea I’m on him. I trail his steady-paced Prius until we end up downtown, where he pulls into an exterior parking space, gets out, and feeds the meter. I hop out next to him and take pictures. He looks at me. To eschew awkwardness, I attempt conversation. “Is it true? Are you dating Paris?”
We both know the latest tabloid rumors are absurd. Paris and Adrian have nothing in common. Besides, paps are on her 24/7 these post-jail days. There’s no way he could sneak in or out unnoticed.
He doesn’t answer. When his friend walks up, Adrian turns to me. “What’s your name again?”
“Jennifer,” I say incredulously. He must know it.
He introduces me to his friend, they chat for a while, then he turns back to me. I’m standing ill at ease, camera down, having already nailed what little there was to nail. By now, I should be back in my truck moving on.
“Was that you who left the note on my door?”
I feel my face flush. “Yeah.”
“Well, you know that was trespassing.”
“You’re my neighbor. I jog by your house e
very day,” I manage to stammer out this non-response but am mortified. The note was supposed to be “cute.”
At this moment, I dream of crawling down a manhole, slogging under the streets of the city, and re-emerging in the grassy field facing Adrian’s house.
“Do you want to do an interview?” he asks.
“Huh,” I say, a little confused. “Of course.” I may not be able to sell his photos, but I bet I can sell a video. And I’m very excited to change the subject.
After more discussion, however, it becomes clear that Adrian is not offering himself for an interview. Rather, he wants to interview me. For his documentary.
Now, here’s the thing about paps: with few exceptions, we do not want to be famous and we do not like to get photographed. That’s not why we’re in the business. I back off a little.
“Maybe. I’ll think about it.”
“Think here. Give me your number. I’ll call you in five.”
I jot it on a scrap of paper. He leaves and goes into a building with his friend.
In that five, my nerves react, my throat constricts, and I can barely breathe. I know I should consider his offer—it could help me in the future—but I suffer from severe stage fright. I consciously hurl all my Adrian fantasies under the red truck. (It wasn’t that hard. He killed me at “What’s your name again?” and stomped on me at “That was trespassing.”) I try to pull myself back into paparazzi mode: Get what you can out of them. Don’t care if they like you. Don’t need them to think you’re normal.
My phone rings. “Hey, it’s Adrian.”
I smile. I can’t help it. I’ve never been called by a celebrity.
“So you’ll do it?”
“I don’t know, Adrian. I really don’t wanna be in a film.”
“Ah come on. It’ll be good for you.”
“Why? What’s in it for me?”
“Well, what do you want?”
I want a lot of things, but I don’t think that’s what you mean. So I say, “I suppose if you interview me, then I should be able to interview you. You know, perhaps I could make some money…”
“Deal.”
“A ride-along interview,” I add.
“Deal,” he says again. “Wait there.”
Thirty minutes later, he comes out, says, “Can’t do your ride-along today, but we’ll do it soon. Promise,” and before I can respond begins instructing his four-man crew with setting up cameras, lights, and mics. The crew obviously thinks I want to do the interview. I suppose since they are making such an effort, I should give it up.
* * *
Two exhausting hours later, we wrap. I guided the majority of the interview, and the crew couldn’t get enough of me. Adrian’s questions made no sense—he’s obviously better at acting—so the co-director took over. He sparred with me, equating papping to pornography (but worse, because according to him, porn has merit while the paparazzi don’t). Everyone was, in general, clueless about the way paparazzi work, and nobody wanted to hear that many pap/celebrity relationships are symbiotic. (None of them had ever heard of doorstepping either. Did any research go into this?)
When it was over, the crew was extremely impressed (of course, I’d redirected their whole documentary project with my one interview)13 and told me that they thought there was hope for me of one day escaping the dark and evil world of paparazzi.
“Very nice,” said Adrian as I was leaving. “I’ll call you.”
As much as I told myself, Stop it! I was giddy again.
The “Loo”
Home renovation crews abound in L.A.’s rich neighborhoods, so much of the time paps can take advantage of the Port-O-Lets that crop up conveniently. But since we can’t always count on one being nearby, male paps pee easily in a cup or bottle they keep in their cars expressly for this purpose. Simon has had the same plastic Baja Fresh cup since I first met him, and he empties it strategically: “Always pour me piss out on Montana. Love it, dirty Brits soiling the Westside.” I witnessed Aaron swigging out of his once (his own that is, not Simon’s), which was quite funny.
I did experiment briefly with “the cup” technique, but as a girl I’ve come to discover a much more agreeable modus operandi—en plain aire, a hassle-free and sanitary system so enjoyable that, lately, I’ve taken to using it even on my days off. It works as follows: First, I find a tall fence, a row of thick bushes, or a steep slope of land next to the road. These block the view of my “bathroom” from homes (which in L.A. are generally near to the curb). Next, I employ my truck as a blockade, angling it such that the front of my truck is jutted out about three feet while the tail is snug to the curb. I put the vehicle in park and walk to the curbside, opening the passenger door to serve as a shield for the “jutted out” angle. Then I eye-sweep the view, giving special attention to strolling pedestrians, and do my business. It’s much cleaner than a public restroom, and it feels like I’m out camping.
Like a man’s best friend, I do have my favorite spots at different celebrity doorsteps that do not necessitate concealment-by-truck. Britney’s street, Mulholland, is steep enough to pee off the cliff, providing a scenic and breezy loo. Kirstie Alley’s neighbor has a giant oak with low-hanging branches that is situated on a hill by the curb. And at Adrian’s, well, you know about the small field at the neighbor’s house.
13. A few years after this, Adrian invited me to the screening of the documentary, titled Teenage Paparazzo. I chatted with the film’s editor for a half hour and he confirmed: “Your interview changed the whole film. We all owe you.” That was nice to hear!
Chapter 14
Heigl is a chain-smoker. When I arrive at her doorstep the following Saturday morning and do my requisite drive-by, she is sitting on her front stoop, five feet from the street, having her morning fag. I roll down the window and wave. “Don’t worry, I won’t photograph you,” I call out. (Mags don’t like smoking shots anyway. Remember, celebs are beautiful people doing beautiful things.)
“Thanks. I don’t expect you guys here this early,” Heigl says cheerfully. It’s nine forty-five. Not early. That she thinks it’s early makes me love her more.
To take advantage of my window, I’ve been working Katie to death. Only she’s not dying, but blowing up. My sets publish in several mags every week. I’ve been trying to get her alone so I can ask her a question. The opportunity presents itself now—no paps and no people, other than Heigl.
“Would you mind if I talked to you for a sec?” I ask.
“Sure. Of course.”
I pull to the curb and park, walk to her steps, extend my hand, and remind her of my name. Unlike Adrian, she acts like she remembers.
“So, this is kind of a strange question.” My breath retracts and she looks at me expectantly. I begin to ramble. “The thing is, you and Josh are getting married over Christmas, and I was thinking about coming to shoot your wedding, but that would mean missing Christmas with my family and, well, I was just wondering if you could reschedule it.” Heehee. Of course I don’t say that last part. I mostly just want to know if she wants her wedding featured in magazines or totally private.
You probably can imagine that this is not something a pap typically asks a star. But Bartlet has offered to fly me to Utah over the holidays where it’s well publicized that Heigl’s wedding to musician Josh Kelley will take place.
Katie smiles kindly. “I’m so sorry. I would have you there in a second. But I can’t. We’ve signed an exclusive.”
What she means is that one mag has bought the wedding story and photo rights from her in exchange for lots-o-cash. With most celebrities (not Heigl), I find the signing of exclusives quite hypocritical. You’ll often see celebs who claim to dislike us (Drew Barrymore, Halle Berry, even Brangelina) making deals with the tabloids—which are, effectively, our employers—for photos of their weddings or new babies.
She continues, “If we give any shots to other photographers, the magazine will pull the deal.”
I get it. I also know that when mags s
pend that kind of money on exclusives, they spare no expense on SWAT teams to quarantine the area. Unless CXN wants to hire a helicopter, getting a shot of Katie’s wedding without her permission will likely be impossible. Plus, I couldn’t do that to her. It’s like…we’re friends. (Aaron’s Cardinal Rule buzzes in my ear: “Do not need or desire to be liked by these people.” Shut up, Aaron.)
As Katie and I talk, others come by—her brother finishes his run, her dad walks out of the house, and Martin the neighbor stops by. She introduces me as “Jennifer, a photographer.” I love that she calls me that. It humanizes me.
I don’t seem to be bothering anyone but don’t want to push it. One more question, then I’ll go. “So, the honeymoon,” I say. “Is that part of it too?”
“No. We don’t have a deal for the honeymoon. But you probably don’t want to come to Cabo.”
“Well…actually…I probably wouldn’t mind coming to Cabo.” I try to sound like what she’s told me is No Big Deal. But it is. It’s a HUGE deal. Her honeymoon plans are unpublished.
I continue, “I could pap-scout for you. Make sure there are no other paparazzi that get photographs. You’d, of course, have full edit power on my photos.”
“That might be nice. Make sure no bad bathing suit shots get out.”
“We’d only use perfect shots.”
She laughs. “I’m not sure how many of those you’d get with my bikini-body!”
She plugs my number into her phone and promises her publicist will call me next week. Then, later that morning, she leaves with a girlfriend and gives me an exclusive mani-pedi set inside a Los Feliz nail salon. ’Appy days!
* * *
While I’ve been chasing down my new friend Katie, I’ve also been chasing Aaron. I can’t help it. I’m desperate and he knows it fully well. We’ve still only had the one kiss, but the sexual tension is mounting again and the flirting is out of control. He called last night to tell me that he and Claudia were over. Then he said he wanted to give me a massage.
Shooting Stars Page 18