• And, the biggest news of all: Forget about the Year of the Rat. I declare that this will be the Year of the Baby.
* * *
A few weeks after getting back into the swing of things, I run into Adrian. Instead of the humorless stare I’ve gotten the last few times, he greets me with a giant Hey, how are you! smile that sets off his four thousand sparkly-white teeth and those lips. He even initiates conversation: “You’re changing it up,” he says. Today, I have my video camera versus my still.
I walk backward, video rolling, feeling like a proper celebrity reporter. We are in the parking lot of a strip mall.
“Your pictures aren’t selling, so I thought I’d try video,” I say cheekily. Then my voice turns serious. “Adrian, I have an important question for you.”
“Sure.”
He appears in a fabulous mood. I suppose this could look good to a first date, which he seems to be on. Before arriving at our present location, the strip mall, Claudia and I first followed Adrian to an apartment complex where he picked up a girl and greeted her with a “new acquaintance” hug. She looked petrified. He didn’t look nervous enough to be remotely interested in her, but you never know.
I continue, “You’re doing a documentary on the paparazzi. Based on what you’ve learned, do you believe we are to blame for Britney and her situation?” (Britney is currently being hospitalized for something or other.)
Adrian responds ineloquently, a pattern I notice when he hasn’t memorized lines. His bottom line is that the paparazzi are “partially to blame.”
I follow up with a question I’ve been planning ever since I heard the Adnan story: “And what do you think of Adnan, the paparazzo who’s dating Britney?”
Adrian continues to poorly express himself—“It’s strange. Post-modern. Weird,” he says—but gives me the perfect segue into my follow-up question.
First, I peer over the video screen and grab his eyes. After a dramatic pause, I ask, “Would you ever date a paparazzi?”
In perfect movie-star style and brilliantly on cue, Adrian stabs my eyes right back and says, “You’re kinda cute.”
We flirtatiously continue the piercing stares for a few seconds longer while the forsaken date, who has way overdone her hair, makeup, and clothes for a one o’clock lunch, refuses to look anywhere but the ground.
Before he steps into the restaurant at the corner of the mall, he says to me, “I owe you that ride-along. I always keep my promises. I don’t know if I have your number anymore. Give it to me again.”
“You’re gonna call me?” (The video is still rolling.)
“I’m gonna call you,” he assures me.
So I give him my number for the third time, and he plugs it into his phone. I shrug to myself. He probably won’t call, but it doesn’t hurt to dream.
* * *
Bartlet and Simon have stopped calling me Jennifer. They now refer to me only as “Jen-Full-Sixty” (as in my 60 percent cut of my photo sales), like I am greedy. But if you don’t need a partner, or if a partner actually impairs you and gets you busted by the celebrity—which many of them do—why not take the full cut and be successful at the same time? Hey, they wouldn’t question a man doing that.
But, as I’ve said, working solo too frequently destroys the soul. The negative energy that circles me each day does penetrate, and I need support. Thus, I am thrilled to have made a new friend. Abbey is my age, petite, and has a pixie hairstyle that accentuates a delicate and beautiful face. Her looks don’t match her character, though: she is tough, with a manly voice and a heavy step. Abbey is a lesbian but tells me not to call her that—“I’m a dyke,” she explains. Her partner, an equally adorable and minuscule Asian girl, holds the female role in their relationship.
Abbey works on staff for TMZ and shoots video. Since I shoot mostly stills and TMZ isn’t a pap agency—although it does buy our material, it doesn’t sell its own video to anyone else, and it only hires “video paps”—the two of us can easily share information. We met a couple of weeks ago outside the Beverly Wilshire Hotel waiting on Rihanna and hit it off so quickly we speak several times a day already.
This afternoon, after a nasty, multi-car Lindsay Lohan follow from the Valley into Beverly Hills, Sid, a hulk of a guy from West Coast Wing who doesn’t like me for who knows what reason, comes over to bully me. He spouts fallacies about how I drove poorly and blocked his car on the follow, hollering out these inaccuracies for others to hear. He wants people to think I was out of line, that I didn’t obey “the rules,” and hopes they’ll use it against me.
But I’m not worried. Sid and I both know I can outshoot him. My reputation strengthens every day, and it’s clear to everyone.
That doesn’t mean his cruelties don’t hurt. The negative energy he hurls my way has an impact like lead balls slamming against my stomach. They bruise and will eventually lead to permanent scars. That’s my fault, though.
When I’m asked by an outsider to explain the paparazzi world, I describe it as an ungoverned street business run similar, I imagine, to that of gangs or the mafia. Like these “businesses,” papping has its rules, but as in theirs, no police or unbiased authority steps in to mediate. Thus, street politics—intimidation and power—enforce the rules of our games. Now that I understand pap rules, mostly I adhere to them, and mostly I succeed. But I still get hurt.
When Abbey sees the commotion, she runs over and jams her elbow into Sid’s dinosaur ribs. “Get the fuck away from her,” commands little-bitty Abbey. She doesn’t know the details of our argument, but she doesn’t need to know. She doesn’t care about pap-rules. She doesn’t care about Sid. She’s loyal, and I’m her friend.
Sid backs down—he would never hit a girl—and leaves. I get out of my car and lift the doll-size video-pap off the ground in a hug as tears leak out. Those tears arrive not because of Sid’s attack, but because my new friend Abbey—this woman I’ve known only a couple of weeks—is the only pap, after a year in the business, to ever stick up for me.
“Put me down!” she directs. “We got each other’s back.”
* * *
Speaking of doll-size, you know Hannah Montana, don’t you? Born Destiny Hope Cyrus, her dad called her Smiley when she was a baby, which became Miley. Miley is fifteen right now, barely old enough for the tabloids to buy her. And as with Zac and Vanessa before her, no one older than a tween knew who she was last month.
Just ten minutes from my house down the 101, Miley lives at home with her parents in Studio City. I’d hate to live in the Valley—it’s suburbia at its finest—but work-wise it’s a pleasant break from the city. Besides, a decent group of paps work Miley regularly, and her family’s not so bad either. (Interestingly, I find that “parents” rarely have a problem with us. And why would they? For years, they’ve been working toward this, possibly even more than their kid.)
Last week, Miley’s look-alike mom Tish got everyone out of parking tickets when a puffed-up cop spotted us waiting in an alley. “Oh, Officer,” said Tish. “They’re being so respectful. I don’t think they need tickets. We’re leaving now anyway.”
Miley’s responsible for our good behavior. She and her dad have established the rules.
One afternoon, Billy Ray came outside to have a talk with us. “What happened yesterday was unacceptable,” he said. “I can’t have you using vocabulary like that around my Miley. [F-bombs being dropped by us were what he was referring to.] And this rushing up on her, getting in her face to take a picture, it has to stop.”
We all nodded in agreement. And we meant it. Rules make our job easy: they tell us how everyone else is going to operate.
A few days later, we followed Miley to the Coffee Bean where she smiled and waved to all of us on our long lenses. Once she was inside, Sam, a burly Aussie with two black holes where his two front teeth used to be, turned to a non-regular Miley pap who had decided to join us that day, and in a flat, stern voice said, “We do NOT use language like that in front of Miley.”
Later that morning, a Sunday, Billy Ray invited us all to church. “Don’t think y’all can bring the cameras inside,” he said. “But you’re welcome to join us.”
No one took him up on the offer, but it went to show what a pleasant environment we were working in. Like I said, no one wanted things to change.
* * *
When we photograph Hollywood’s fountain of youth—stars like Miley, Zac, and Vanessa—the mags snap up the stills and video. Sixteen is usually the bottom age limit: you can be sexy at sixteen, but much younger borders on gross, even for the tabloids. Miley Cyrus, Zac and Vanessa, Ashley Tisdale, Selena Gomez, Hilary Duff, the Jonas Brothers, and most of the teenage celebs that live with their parents in Studio City (all these peeps, at this time, live within walking distance of one another) began to see paps when they turned of age. (Notably absent from this list is Justin Bieber. He is a bit younger than this crowd and won’t become “adult-famous” for a few years. Besides, at this time, he doesn’t live in L.A.)
For at least the first few months, the teenagers all love it. Even I, a pap, think it would be pretty cool to be papped in high school. They are fun for us to work on too. They “perform.” They can’t seem to help themselves. They pose and smile, take direction well, and they love props. Vanessa, for instance, once walked out of her house cuddling a teddy bear for no other reason than a photo-op. And for me specifically, Zac put quarters in his meter three times—three “takes”—until I assured him I got the shot. The teens are smart too, and intuitive. Maybe because they’ve engaged in hide-and-seek games more recently than we “grown-ups” have, these kids figure out our tricks much quicker than their adult counterparts usually do.
But always, after a few months, something happens. Like trees on their street, we become part of the neighborhood landscape. At the same time, agents and producers whisper in the up-and-coming teenager’s ear: “You’re so wonderful and talented. You don’t need the paparazzi. Don’t give them any pictures. You’re a king or queen already.” Some of the teenagers will listen to their PR people. They will get coy and stupid. And, they will find as quickly as we arrived, we will go. The young celebrity might find his picture—and his prominence—just disappears. Poof.
But some—the smart and the confident, I notice—will work it (at least for a bit) and we will watch them climb, climb, climb the popularity ladder. At a young age, they will establish their celebrity. And for better or worse, they often need us to do that.
By giving it up, “kids” like Miley Cyrus and Zac Efron SKYROCKETED into adult money, fame, and power. In a season, they went from being famous to tweens and their parents to being famous to everyone. And in this business, name recognition equals more opportunities and more choices. Who doesn’t want that?
How to Get Famous
Speaking of fame, like gravity, Hollywood operates predictably. And if you recognize and understand the laws of fame that govern this town, then you as a celeb have much power. You can influence how often you are worked, how frequently you are in the tabloids, how much name recognition you have, and how your “celebrity” is defined. It is your choice if you want more photos or if you desire peace—you hold the controls. But beware: it’s diamonds—not stars—that last forever.
Hot Buttons
Besides the baseline criterion—being a beautiful Hollywood woman under forty (or better, under twenty)14—there are specific things that make someone temporarily hot:
• If you are pregnant. We love to see you grow and glow. And yes, you are beautiful. Just go with it.
• If you are somewhere with young children or dogs. No one can resist animals and babies.
• If you are currently relevant to Hollywood, i.e., you’re a sought after movie star or are in a hot TV show. Extra hot-button points if you are a spectacular dresser—good or bad.
• If you are new to the scene. Mostly these are the under-twenty girls, but occasionally, as in the case of the “Desperate Housewives,” they can be near forty.
• If you are involved in a scandal or story: a bad breakup, a drug or alcohol addiction, a new movie, a new romance, or a loss or gain of weight. As soon as the news hits, that afternoon, we’re on you. In a few days, you’ll get accustomed to the multitudes outside your door. After a week, you may stop coming out, thinking we’ll never leave. But we will. Unless you actively work it, work us, unless you do something to keep us interested, then you probably have a hot (salable) window of a few weeks, i.e., two tabloid cycles. (Except for getting fat. If you become fat, we like to look at you as often as possible.)
• If you are involved with another celebrity, romantically or just as friends. One plus one is MUCH greater than two.
• If you make yourself interesting by “performing” for the paparazzi and change it up. Reality show people are great examples. Also, young stars like Zac and Miley, as discussed. When you do the same thing over and over, the mags will get bored. Madonna once said, “I wore this [outfit] many days in a row so paparazzi would stop photographing me.”15 And that’s how it works: make yourself a non-story, make yourself rote, and you live pap-free. But make yourself a story, and…bam!
• If you are in the right location. If you want to be seen (photographed), hang out where we do. If you don’t, move to Pasadena, deep in the Valley, south of Venice Beach, or out of L.A. altogether. You’ll rarely be worth the trip. Case in point: the cast of Lost. Because they lived in Hawaii and weren’t accessible to paps during the show’s seasons, they never got tabloid-huge and most were quickly forgotten after Lost ended. Now, if a Hawaiian pap had made a conscious decision to work, say, Evangeline Lilly (the brunette heroine), and she were amenable to it, then the two of them could have made her tabloid-hot in no time.
In summary, there are a few celebrities—for example, those with young children (Jennifer Garner, Reese Witherspoon, Heidi Klum), those who dress colorfully and smile (Gwen Stefani), those who are a mess (the usual suspects)—who can effortlessly stay hot. There are also those who are consistently fashion-savvy (Kate Bosworth, Sarah Jessica Parker), stylized (Katy Perry, Lady Gaga), awful dressers (the Olsen twins, Drew Barrymore), or practically naked dressers (Matthew McConaughey, David Beckham), and they will always sell too. But for most celebs, staying salable takes effort.
* * *
And speaking of David Beckham (which we were…sorta), when people ask me my favorite paparazzi story, this is the one I tell.
Claudia and I start the day as partners. We arrive at the Beckhams’ at 7:30 a.m. David has a game this weekend, and ever-prompt Claudia saw him leave early the previous morning, presumably on his way to practice. Generally paps don’t follow him to soccer practice—there’s rarely a shot—but Claudia and I are both having profitable months and we’re up for a challenge.
At 7:55 a.m., David pulls out of his driveway in his DB-monogrammed convertible Porsche. Kitschy, but he’s not to blame: he and Victoria received his-and-hers cars as a “Welcome to America” gift from TomKat Cruise; it would be rude not to drive them.
Claudia and I decided in advance that I would follow David and she would stay at the house and wait for the lovely Posh Spice to appear. I fall in behind two security cars which trail him and his nine-year-old son Brooklyn. We stop first at Brooklyn’s private elementary school, the Curtis School, and David pulls down the drive to the entrance. I take my cue from security and pull over beside their two cars on the shoulder of Mulholland.
One security guard who looks a little like David and is wearing a suit and a small earpiece comes up
to my car and knocks on the window. Except for limo drivers and Oscar attendees, no one wears suits in L.A.
“Hello, Miss. May I have your card, please?” His accent is formal, refined British, and he’s intimidating—reminds me of airport security or the Secret Intelligence Service. I’m still amazed at the power that mere “people” can command when they just look the part (Dukes of Hazzard Larry). I’ve figured that out, though, so I just smile politely and respond, “Mmm. No, I’d rather not.”
“We just like to know who we’re working with, ma’am,” he tries again.
“I’m Jennifer.” I offer up, and put out my hand to shake Security’s.
“He’s just going to practice.”
“I know. You think he might stop for coffee?”
“I doubt it.”
“OK. No worries.”
Security doesn’t push it further and walks back to his car. About ten minutes more go by before the Porsche exits the school. David gets on the 405 South and drives at a moderate speed. He has his hand out the window and is playing with the wind. The traffic is light, it’s a relaxed follow, and I’m enjoying being out this early—the Southern California spring morning is crisp and cool with plenty of sunshine.
Before today, I’ve only seen David once in real life, and only through the lens. I had gotten a tip and had shot the Beckhams around midnight leaving a restaurant with no fewer than ten security guards. One guard had pushed my camera into my face. It was the most violence I’d ever incurred from a celebrity or his entourage. I guess, like Aaron said, if video’s not rolling, the Brits aren’t afraid to scuffle. (I did manage a few decent shots that night—exclusive too—and when I was in Thailand over the holidays, I ran across a two-page spread of my photos while thumbing through Heat, a British magazine. That was wild.)
Like in his photos, David is, in person, undeniably one of the finest specimens of a human being who has ever walked the earth. Desiring to smell the rose that God put in my path this morning, I casually pass the two security cars and pull up in the adjacent freeway lane beside David.
Shooting Stars Page 22