Each agency—and in L.A. there are five or six big ones and a handful of small ones—has its own “street culture.” ZZP and West Coast Wing, two large agencies, are similar to CXN in that they are run by Brits and hire mostly their own kind. Much of CXN’s staff was recruited and brought over with visas from the United Kingdom. The snappers are ex-news photogs, which Bartlet says is good paparazzi training, though I don’t see why Americans couldn’t do the job just as well. Besides its British staffers, West Coast Wing scoops up most of the stand-alone freelancers as contributors, though Rodeo2, a mostly Latino agency, beats it out in sheer street numbers. British paps seem to place blame on Rodeo2 for “ruining” the business with its copious numbers, but I view its existence as an inevitable by-product of the proliferation of the Internet (where everyone can now find lots of information on celebrities, including their whereabouts) and the emergence of digital photography (which has decreased the overall cost and skill level necessary for market entry). Anyway, the Rodeo-ers aren’t so bad. They ignore me, but not with disrespect.
Where respect deteriorates is on the European side. It’s too early in my career for me to understand why this is, but I will eventually figure out the problem. It’s called “Tall Poppy Syndrome,” and I was first introduced to this Commonwealth ailment three years ago while in New Zealand on my backpack adventure. Tall Poppy is the idea that if you rise above the norm, i.e., if you’re a “tall poppy” in the community, then you should be cut down. Community members will make every effort to nip that success of yours in the bud. This is counterintuitive to our American culture, one that worships success from anyone regardless of how they came to it. The syndrome explains why many Brits from West Coast Wing and ZZP will not acknowledge me on the street. Aaron says they’re disdainful of the fact that I’m not “institutionally trained” yet seem blatantly confident. Plus, I smile too much. JoDeane says it’s because they realize I’m a threat. For some reason, all the British photogs at CXN like me—perhaps because I’m quick to admit I know nothing. Or maybe just because they like having “birds” around.
The tabloid magazines—the glossy ones in the United States at the moment being People, Us Weekly, Star Magazine, Life & Style, and In Touch, and on the seedier side, the National Enquirer—are dominated by Brits as well. Weekly, I sift through the issues at the newsstands exclaiming, “That’s Simon’s picture”; “There’s Aaron’s”; and occasionally, “There’s mine!” We’ve already seen the pictures on CXN’s private website, and after talking to our coworkers, often know the stories behind the shots. All the paps say seeing their pictures in print is still a rush. I’m guessing many stars feel the same.
Besides checking out our artwork, paps read the tabloids to glean information. For example, a photo may reveal which gym a celebrity frequents, what car a celebrity drives, or when and where a film is being shot. Plus, the mags’ choice of photos tells us who’s selling, reminding us whom we should target.
As Aaron said, the mainstream media primarily wants pictures of pretty, happy stars. I know this sounds surprising, but I will soon witness firsthand many instances of tabloids and blogs (besides the National Enquirer and Star Magazine) not printing unattractive photos of stars. There are three reasons for this: One, pretty pictures are, well, prettier to look at. Nobody wants to flip through an entire magazine of photos of celebs having bad hair days. Two, the mags want you to think that we—the celebs, the paps, and the mags—are one big happy family. This is because if it looks like the stars want to be photographed, then consumers feel no shame in looking at their pictures. The public can have all they want while not feeling the slightest bit guilty of contributing to supposed “stalking” (which you’ll come to see, usually isn’t nearly as stalker-ish as people think). And the third reason the tabloids print pretty, happy pictures is because they view the celebrities as their clients, and the last thing they want to do is piss off their clients (or their clients’ studios) with too many bad photos. If they do that, they may get blacklisted from exclusive stories or other information. (I see this behavior within hard news too. Many papers and networks cater to their newsmakers—politicians, for instance—in the same way the tabloids cater to the celebrities.)
But the mags are trashy, you probably say.
When you think about it, however, what kind of trash are you really looking at? A celebrity’s weight and wrinkles, celebrities without makeup, a single celebrity’s dating life—those topics are always fair game and yes, they are trashy. But others—a star’s sexual preference, marital infidelity,5 nudity (accidental or intentional), and drug abuse6—in other words, the really trashy items the paparazzi often discover on the job—are more often than not taboo, particularly if the celeb postures him-or herself as high-end or a family person. Under no circumstances will a tabloid “out” someone if he or she is gay. Even if there are pictures. Which there often are.
But, but, but…you might say. OK, there are noted exceptions. Specifically, two groups of people are often not afforded these “really trashy” exemptions. Those are the celebrities at the TOP of the ladder (the top 10 biggest celebrities, more or less), and the celebrities at the BOTTOM of the ladder (like reality show people). For example, some stars are so big that the tabloids will write just about anything to justify a cover story. Take Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie: tabloids will pull something out of thin air because they know they’ll never get an “exclusive” with Brangelina anyway. On the other hand, some stars are so unimportant that the tabloids will print anything ridiculous—or true—they hear about those stars because the repercussions are minimal. For example, they know that no matter what they say about the latest Bachelorette or one of the Kardashians, another interview with either is always an option. But besides the top and bottom celebrities (and perhaps the self-induced “train wrecks” too), most of the other thousands of movie stars are given a break.
The above is true for the American tabloids. The tabloids across the pond, however, like their news media, operate differently. They’re self-admittedly rawer and meaner than their American counterparts, and they don’t shy away from blasting their governments or their celebs. Without fail, British tabloids always pick the most unsightly celebrity pictures to print. They will, for example, in the future, pick the one unflattering shot of Heather Mills from a set that I will take during her ugly divorce with Paul McCartney (her mouth is at a funny angle) to use to blast her. And from then on, every time they talk about Heather “keeping her mouth shut,” they will reprint that picture. (Which will make me a bit sour because she had been so gracious as I’d photographed her.)
Another example of European versus American press: a CXN colleague shot Cameron Diaz and Drew Barrymore in Hawaii smoking what anyone who has ever smoked pot would say looks just like a joint, if it isn’t one. (Google it. It’s a great set.) The tropical photos blanketed Europe’s tabloids, but in America there wasn’t a mention of it. I could just hear CNN saying, “But how do we know it’s marijuana?” Now, if the two were arrested on possession charges and the police reported it, then CNN would have been all over it. ’Cause if the police said it happened, by all means, it must have.
Bottom line, hardcore “trash” (adultery, nudity, drugs, and very ugly pictures) is generally printed only with a few unlucky celebs. (Homosexual orientation is never printed unless it’s been press-released by the actor/actress themselves. And nudity, well that’s an American puritanical thing, thus it’s only barred from our media.) So while this may not be what stands out at you in the tabloids (and slowly, like in many things, America is inching toward the European way), it is what’s really happening. And I know this because time and time again, throughout my career, I will witness it when consistently my own and my colleagues’ “unbecoming” photos do not print (at least not in America).
So what does print? Generally, the tabloids want stories that are either completely subjective (fashion, for instance) or completely factual (a legal divorce, for instance). For the most part,
Hollywood spends her time on love stories, babies, divorce, fashion, beauty, and failing beauty. She reports stars doing things that regular people might possibly do: falling in and out of love, buying houses, being stylish, being beautiful, combating aging, and battling weight. Tabloids show us what they think will keep us entertained, without taking too many legal risks and without including too much hard-core trash (so you won’t feel guilty about what you’re reading). And ultimately, that boils down to the paparazzi’s bread-and-butter: pretty, happy pictures…much like Us Weekly’s stars who are “Just like Us.”
4. It’s worth mentioning here that, while at that specific point in time, Nicole did not have biological children, she did, in fact, have kids, a tidbit the media delicately ignored. When she and Tom Cruise were married, they had adopted Isabella and Connor.
5. If the celeb is actually married versus just bf-gf, the tabloids are much more wary of exposing a tryst.
6. If a celeb has been to rehab and drug abuse is “official,” then the tabloids will talk about it. Without rehab though, or a DUI, or something else “official,” then it’s usually shoved under the rug.
Chapter 4
The days flew by during those first few months. The job was fresh and exhilarating, but at the same time extremely challenging. Two things quickly became clear. One, I was nowhere near to becoming a professional photographer. (While I’d owned an SLR since I was sixteen, “action” photography—while hiding—was not something I’d ever honed in on.) My celebrity shots were, more often than not, out of focus, improperly exposed, or otherwise unusable. Usually they had an important body part (notably feet or forehead) missing. And two, I had absolutely ZERO abilities at stealth. If I was—miraculously—able to keep up with the targets all the way to their destination, every one of them, without exception, saw me once I was there. And since I had usually pulled up in the wrong position to get a clear shot, I would need to yell their name (or some “random word”) in the hopes they would turn my way, which they usually didn’t. Even if they did, I was rarely quick enough to get the shot before they turned back around again.
Sometimes, however, the lost shot was more than my beginner’s incompetence. I simply did not have the proper equipment.
So I caved, went to Samy’s Camera, and purchased equipment on credit. A bare minimum pap kit: a “semi-professional” camera body (the “body” of the camera is the camera without the lens), a short and a long lens (we never call them “wide-angle” and “telephoto” like other people do), a detachable flash, a small point-and-shoot (which I will use for “pretend to be a fan” shots, as well as video), and a few other odds and ends—set me back about four grand. No matter, I still hadn’t gotten a shot all week—it was already Thursday—and I’d peed in a cup twice! Everyone said it would come to that: “Never leave your doorstep [i.e., your celebrity] to pee!” (because they could leave). But I didn’t think it would happen so soon.
* * *
Armed with my new kit, this morning starts with my doorstep, Eva Longoria, leaving her house. (I know this sentence sounds strange, but that’s how we say it. “She,” Eva in this case, and “her doorstep,” Eva again, are the same thing. Eva’s doorstep is both her and her house.) Eva blows me at the first light she comes to. (Which, despite your first thought, is not as it sounds either. Blow is simply another British term the guys use to mean “to ditch.”) Now I am left to troll. I’m terrible at trolling; I never see anyone despite the fact they’re supposedly all around. The streets are not short of beautiful people though, ones I think may be famous, so I shoot them just in case. They never turn out to be celebrities.
Courteney Cox is on my newly mapped “troll route” because she lives in town and jogs. J.R. says she’s not worth much. “A pretty face, but boring. And a bit old.” (Courteney’s forty-two at the moment.) I drive by her house anyway.
’Appy days!—as Simon (the pap who shaves his whole body) says when something goes his way—Courteney is jogging. I pass her as she heads down Loma Vista, a street perpendicular to hers. Skinny and straight with hair to match, Courteney looks just like she does on TV. Anyone would recognize her. Don’t be impressed.
She must have just left her house. There’s time to figure out what to do, but this scenario is foreign to me, and I have no experience from which to draw. How do I photograph her without her seeing me? Or do I let her see me?
I come up with three options:
1. Hide in my car and shoot her.
2. Get out of my car, hide in a bush, and shoot her.
3. Wave and say something like, “Hey Courteney, can I get a shot?”
I try to think about what Courteney will do. Best-case scenario, she won’t see me, and I’ll get into perfect position in front of her so that she’s looking right down the barrel or slightly adjacent. She’ll be running naturally into the setting sun and chuh-chuh-chuh, I’ll hose her.
Working toward best-case scenario, first I look toward the sun. I’ll need to get in between it and her. Even with my limited knowledge, I know that if the picture is backlit, i.e., the sun is shining into the frame, it won’t be salable, especially in the case of a non-event like Courteney Cox jogging in all-black sweats. I don’t know her jog route, and though I could follow her, I think that might be obvious. One thing I do presume: she will eventually run back to her house.
I decide it’s safest to wait on her street where the sun’s angle is not perfect, but acceptable. Now, where do I hide? Is there a full bush or a thick tree trunk? I haven’t hidden in nature before, but paps say it’s a reasonable tactic. I look around. Courteney’s house is situated atop a steep hill with city views to the south. I contemplate ducking behind some shrubs in her neighbor’s yard, then realize I’m wearing an orange top. I will learn to keep a change of clothes in my car. And a jacket. It’s cold.
What about my car? Most paps have SUVs with vertical (not sloped), heavily tinted windows. The Mazda’s windows are transparent, and the back window slopes significantly, which will distort my shots. And you should never shoot through the front window, everybody tells me—it won’t work.
Maybe I’ll be straightforward: I’ll just ask her for a shot. It definitely takes the pressure off. According to Simon, who’s been in the biz five years, asking used to work, but now with the “Mexican influence” (as he calls the large number of Latinos who have “taken over” the paparazzi business) the stars don’t often comply. “No matter how lovely my British accent is to their ears, we have just become too many for them to cooperate anymore.” Plus, if I want to use the “ask” method, I need to know my star, know that there will be a decent chance she’ll say yes. Some stars always duck and hide—Demi Moore, Sandra Bullock, Leonardo DiCaprio. Some always comply—Paris. And some are fickle and it depends on their mood—Jessica Simpson, Reese Witherspoon. I don’t know enough about Courteney to know what she will do. Simon would know; he used to be a painter and once painted her house. Plus, he’s obsessed with cougars. But I don’t think to call him now.
Courteney turns the corner and heads up her street. I have opted for No. 1 and am “hidden” in my car. My car is parked practically in front of her as she climbs the hill to her house, so I must lean my head, elbow, and camera out of the window. She can’t miss me.
Before I take a shot, Courteney covers her face with her hand. I move to option No. 3, asking, “Hey Courteney. Could I have a shot?”
“This is my private time, and I don’t look good now,” she responds and keeps her hand in front of her face until she passes my car.
“OK, thanks,” I say since I feel really boorish and don’t know what else to say. I’m pretty sure I’m not thankful though.
An hour later, David Arquette, her husband at this time, goes for a jog. He also sees me, covers, and I get no shot.
Defeated and feeling like a nitwit, I give up for the day and head home. I call Donna, who couldn’t join me today, and tell her what happened.
“I’m not worried, Jen.” (She always
says this.) “You can’t learn if you don’t fail.”
“But I don’t like failing.”
“Which is why you won’t.”
* * *
As appreciative as I am for the new dose of testosterone surrounding my life, the hormones are so potent that I must take care to stay a woman. Thankfully I have “the girls”: my four best friends, my BFFs, my besties. Several times a week, we meet at Figaro, our neighborhood French café, sit outside, something we can do any time of year thanks to the heat lamps they put out in the winter, and talk about every detail of each other’s lives. At Fig, we are always flanked by overly beautiful people, smokers and diners wearing high-style hipster fashions. And lately Fig is becoming an in spot, so it’s not unusual that there is an actor or actress sitting near us. (Usually my friends spot celebrities before I do. Then I often try to ignore them unless they’re somebody really big, in which case I’ll call a colleague with the tip. I can’t be “on” all the time, especially in the evenings. Plus, I haven’t mastered nighttime flash shooting.) My friends fit in perfectly in Los Angeles, each unmistakably gorgeous and stylish. They would say I’m their equal, but that’s because they love me. I’m not gorgeous, not by Hollywood standards.
I met Georgia and JoDeane my first month here, and we’ve expanded our circle with two more handpicked members: Georgia’s sister Alexandra and my roommate Amy.
Alexandra’s in the city for music, her passion, and worries that I’m forsaking my dreams for money and adventure. I recently dragged her and Georgia to an evening shoot of Paris, but they both got bored and decided to wait in the car. Georgia’s lack of interest in my job, however, doesn’t diminish her support for me. “If I were famous,” she told me (and it’s no secret, Georgia would love to be famous), “I wouldn’t mind being photographed as long as the paparazzi stayed far enough away.” JoDeane, an avid tabloid reader and celebrity spotter extraordinaire, wishes I wouldn’t impose on the lives of people, in particular the celebrities she likes, but she’s coming around and has even started tipping me off. Amy, an actor (in L.A., females call themselves “actors” versus “actresses,” which I assume has to do with equality), applauds anyone who can make money in this town and pompously proclaims my skills to all her thespian friends. She wishes she were pap-worthy and laughs with her gut when I tell her my stories. All us girls are in our late twenties to mid-thirties, me being the oldest, and live within walking distance of one another. We hang out several times a week usually at Figaro, which is not conducive to meeting boys but is our local (another British term), so we lack motivation to go anywhere else.
Shooting Stars Page 5
