My Week in La La Land
A 1960 model is an incredibly presumptuous role to submit for. Yet, when the ping to work on Marvelous Mrs. Maisel came into my inbox, I finally succumbed to pimping myself out for the interns at the background casting agency service I have been subscribed to for the past year. Hoping that the list of criteria for these “glamorous young model types” they were scouting for began and ended at “pretty”, I uploaded my school ID photo to their site, pressed submit, and kept doing my homework. Hours later, they requested more photos- candids. Full body. Smoke OK? Tattoos? Their communication was sporadic and frantic, but within 24 hours I was booked.
I arrived at the studio for my initial covid test and my imagined immediate rise to stardom was instead immediately dwarfed by the sheer magnitude of the lot. If I were to turn the wrong direction, I would find myself crashing the set of a completely different series. The thrill that bubbled beneath my skin was a familiar one, sourced from a line I often find myself repeating back to myself from one of my favorite movies. As Mia escorts Sebastian around the studio, she sighs and says (to herself? To him?) “I love it.” That feeling of pure ecstasy in belonging was palpable when I first moved to the city, and I used to rewatch that scene from the perspective of finding myself in New York City. This week, I rewatched the scene with the perspective of finding myself instead in the middle of la la land, seeing eye to eye with Mia herself.
At my initial fitting I did my best to appear present, but thank god I was there to act, for beyond my carefully composed facade were my eyes glossing and my mouth foaming- a natural reaction to finding myself in a floor to ceiling warehouse full of period clothing. Whisking past me were hangers of authentic vintage lingerie and giant skirts. I tried on multiple dresses, hats, gloves, and the costumers kind enough to repeatedly remind me how young, beautiful, and skinny I am.
Throughout the week, I needed to be corona-cleared prior to my shoot date. This meant beginning my days at seven AM; I would train then bus into an inaccessible corner of Brooklyn where the studio lies, then I would shove a stick up my nose and leave in tears. On my way to school, I jogged and sweat, coming up with as many honest-ish excuses for why I was late to campus every day. I was on the run, but the exhaustion was diluted by the fact that I could describe my morning activities to my friend(s?) as being “on” or “off” set.
On the slated set day, I had my second moment in La La Land. As the other 1960s models approached the check-in table, I suddenly suspected my father must have had copious affairs. Above the mask, we’re are all the same: groomed brows with light eyes, auburn hair above our shoulders. Below the mask, were the same too- all of us over 5’6” but still to short for modern model-hood, comparably thin, and pasty white with acne scarring.
Equal in looks and thus equal in status, we sat in holding for hours straight in failing makeup and falling hair. What once was an Italian curl and vintage lips was now a disheveled memory (the masks with a DIY silk guard for make up were no match for Craft Services). I sat patiently as my phone battery wained, restricted to shallow breaths thanks to my belt that was now becoming one with my waist. The image of us adults in silly costumes in neat rows at our fake holding desks in this vast building made me giggle, which I tried even harder to stifle as the crew paired up each radiant Lolita with a man in their 40s. I should be nicer, they were all kind, but if you’re exclusively hiring hot women you should also exclusively be hiring hot men. I had studied for my looming Monday math test, read over 100 pages of my novel, and even wrote the initial portion of this very blog entry before the we glamorous extras were called for lunch. We were surveyed by the crew as we pulled ponchos and bonnets over our precious cargo (costumes), and they provided van service for the ladies so our feminine sensibilities wouldn’t be exposed to the harsh elements (once again, thank you patriarchy). Once we were all fed, us gals remembered all of us had been waiting the same amount of time, in our satiation we found solidarity: we were friends, not competition- we joked about how when masked we all thought the other one was Rachel.
Oh Rachel, we laughed, our good friend Rachel. When it finally came time to shoot, the three prettiest girls- if I do say so myself- were positioned in the back of the circle bar, and when the camera panned up to Midge’s face, in the background you might see mine; proudly dragging a herbal cigarette and pretending to be a confident sober flirter. We held for a total of 9 hours for a scene that lasted 45 seconds and took a total of 5 takes. No moment felt like play, but this is work I could do always. Watching Rachel work felt intrusive, but I have a naturally nosy disposition anyways so I didn’t hold back. I marveled at her note that Midge’s martinis always have two olives, and sympathized with how adamantly she avoided eye contact with the extras while simultaneously trying to get her to acknowledge me (even just a little!). It took my almost running into her and being wrangled by crew because I was going in the wrong direction for us to break into each other’s worlds, but the bubble has been broken!
And in the end, I wasn’t even that upset standing in the storm while waiting for the bus for 30 minutes after being released because calling a car would’ve absorbed half of my honest paycheck. The day was long and actors are weird, but god it feels so good to be a weird actor after a long day of “work” again.
(I’m also realizing how much whatever I’m reading influences what/how I write. I’m reading Straight Man, and while I’m no Richard Russo, I can play that role.)
