eat, Harry reminisces about the first time he came to the Ivy—ten years ago with his parents. He was so awed by all the celebrities, powerbrokers and paparazzi that he didn’t even eat his meal. He took the whole thing home in a doggy bag, another humiliation that he insists we must suffer. (“If we’re lucky, Gerald will roll his eyes.”)
Harry came out to L.A. to be a movie star. “Don’t get me wrong,” he says, sipping the wine, “I love the theater. There’s nothing like adulation from a live audience. But acting is dull and repetitive. I hate memorizing lines and learning blocking and all that other stuff you have to do as a performer. I’d much rather lounge in my air-conditioned trailer while assistants plan my lunches and squash games.”
Harry’s speech strikes the perfect note of irony, balancing between sour grapes and genuine indifference, but I know better than to take his words at face value. A veneer of cynicism is necessary for survival, especially in a place where failure is dished out daily. You can take only so much disappointment before it eviscerates you completely.
To Harry’s dismay, the busboys wait until we finish our salads before clearing the plates. “It’s a Monday night,” he explains apologetically. “Things are probably slow.”
But in an instant, our main course is on the table and I’m cutting into a golden crab cake. It smells delicious, but the crust is soggy and the center is cool. This is what we get for lingering too long over our salad.
When Harry asks how it is, I tell him it’s yummy. He cuts off a piece of his prime rib. It’s dry and overcooked but I gush about that as well because I don’t want to seem like a New York food snob. In Manhattan it’s virtually impossible to get a bad thirty-dollar crab cake. In fact, it’s almost impossible to get a bad thirty-dollar anything. Unless you’re in Times Square. But if you’re eating there, you deserve what you get.
“Do you go on lots of auditions?” I ask while the busboys hover. I’m eating my crab cake slowly because it’s hard to swallow but it has the desired effect of curtailing the rapid service. Harry gives me a nod of approval.
“Not anymore,” he says. “They’re a total drag and nothing ever comes from them.” He shrugs. “True success isn’t the result of hard work; it’s pure serendipity. I see other actors scurrying around and worrying about their headshots and their craft—and don’t get me wrong, I admire their diligence greatly—but that’s just not going to work for me. I prefer shortcuts.”
I laugh because I know it’s not true. Only a hardworking person could say something like that. The truly lazy have to maintain the illusion of their industriousness for themselves and others.
But I don’t call him on it. He has the right to whatever image he wants to project. Instead, I ask about his friend John Vholes, a successful screenwriter who teaches classes in the art of screenwriting. His course isn’t cheap—it runs $995 for four three-hour classes—but it’s considerably less than enrolling in the film program at USC. It’s also a better value than Robert McKee’s famous Story seminar, an intense four-day session with hundreds of other hopefuls. For an additional $995, I’d get personal attention. For twice that, John would work with me on my screenplay.
I hesitate. Two thousand dollars is a lot of money to an unemployed paralegal.
Harry reads me easily. “Hey, no pressure. You have to do what’s right for you. The four-session course is a great intro. It’ll give you the principals of storytelling and explain the ins and outs of Hollywood as a business. It’s a really good start. So it doesn’t get into the nitty-gritty details of the story you’re telling. But it gives you a firm basis to figure out all those maddeningly frustrating points on your own. I couldn’t afford it. Then again, my book isn’t about to be turned into a movie with Moxie
Harry came out to L.A. to be a movie star. “Don’t get me wrong,” he says, sipping the wine, “I love the theater. There’s nothing like adulation from a live audience. But acting is dull and repetitive. I hate memorizing lines and learning blocking and all that other stuff you have to do as a performer. I’d much rather lounge in my air-conditioned trailer while assistants plan my lunches and squash games.”
Harry’s speech strikes the perfect note of irony, balancing between sour grapes and genuine indifference, but I know better than to take his words at face value. A veneer of cynicism is necessary for survival, especially in a place where failure is dished out daily. You can take only so much disappointment before it eviscerates you completely.
To Harry’s dismay, the busboys wait until we finish our salads before clearing the plates. “It’s a Monday night,” he explains apologetically. “Things are probably slow.”
But in an instant, our main course is on the table and I’m cutting into a golden crab cake. It smells delicious, but the crust is soggy and the center is cool. This is what we get for lingering too long over our salad.
When Harry asks how it is, I tell him it’s yummy. He cuts off a piece of his prime rib. It’s dry and overcooked but I gush about that as well because I don’t want to seem like a New York food snob. In Manhattan it’s virtually impossible to get a bad thirty-dollar crab cake. In fact, it’s almost impossible to get a bad thirty-dollar anything. Unless you’re in Times Square. But if you’re eating there, you deserve what you get.
“Do you go on lots of auditions?” I ask while the busboys hover. I’m eating my crab cake slowly because it’s hard to swallow but it has the desired effect of curtailing the rapid service. Harry gives me a nod of approval.
“Not anymore,” he says. “They’re a total drag and nothing ever comes from them.” He shrugs. “True success isn’t the result of hard work; it’s pure serendipity. I see other actors scurrying around and worrying about their headshots and their craft—and don’t get me wrong, I admire their diligence greatly—but that’s just not going to work for me. I prefer shortcuts.”
I laugh because I know it’s not true. Only a hardworking person could say something like that. The truly lazy have to maintain the illusion of their industriousness for themselves and others.
But I don’t call him on it. He has the right to whatever image he wants to project. Instead, I ask about his friend John Vholes, a successful screenwriter who teaches classes in the art of screenwriting. His course isn’t cheap—it runs $995 for four three-hour classes—but it’s considerably less than enrolling in the film program at USC. It’s also a better value than Robert McKee’s famous Story seminar, an intense four-day session with hundreds of other hopefuls. For an additional $995, I’d get personal attention. For twice that, John would work with me on my screenplay.
I hesitate. Two thousand dollars is a lot of money to an unemployed paralegal.
Harry reads me easily. “Hey, no pressure. You have to do what’s right for you. The four-session course is a great intro. It’ll give you the principals of storytelling and explain the ins and outs of Hollywood as a business. It’s a really good start. So it doesn’t get into the nitty-gritty details of the story you’re telling. But it gives you a firm basis to figure out all those maddeningly frustrating points on your own. I couldn’t afford it. Then again, my book isn’t about to be turned into a movie with Moxie
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