by Jay Manuel
“This business doesn’t make room for assumptions,” Keisha interrupted, pointing to the Iman copycat model, Heather. “You look the most like a model this evening, and I’m glad to see you owning your black version Mia Farrow haircut. You get immunity this week, will be safe at our very first judging, and free from elimination.”
“Congrats on winning this week’s challenge,” Pablo added.
The remaining girls clapped half-heartedly, heading off to the party. By the time Keisha and Pablo made their entrance, Sasha had already parked herself by the bar, Mason was deep in conversation with a handsome Indian editor from the New York Times and Miss Thing was showing off, parading up and down the long communal table in the famous oak room, like it were his personal runway.
Watching the deprived model coach’s need for attention, they were ready to go home. “He wishes he were me,” Keisha whispered to Pablo.
“Who wouldn’t?”
She giggled. “The problem is, he has a face made for radio.”
7
FIERCE CREATURES
IT WAS ANOTHER sleepless night for Pablo. Anxious about the morning’s photoshoot, the first time doing what he was actually hired to do, he rolled back and forth in bed, fretting away any chance of REM sleep. Looking up at the ceiling, counting Supermodels instead of sheep backward from one-hundred didn’t work, so he began singing a Tibetan mantra—Om Ma Tri Mu Ye Sa Le Du.
His call time was 6:30 a.m. Every time he did doze off, he’d wake with what felt like an electrical jolt and jerk awake. What if the alarm didn’t go off? What if he set it wrong? What time was it anyway? Fumbling in the dark, he tapped his iPhone at irregular intervals, double-checking: Alarm alert. Sound. The time: 12:05; 1:43; 2:31; 3:26 a.m. It was pointless. At least if he got up, he’d be doing something besides ruining his beauty sleep.
Pablo dragged himself to the bathroom and looked at his insomniac grey-haired self in the mirror. “Might as well be early.” There was a moment of disassociation. The reflection looking back at him did not look like a person he knew. The overhead bathroom light flickered, exposing his natural black roots beginning to sprout beneath his faux silver locks. He looked peaked and washed out. Model Muse was going to take a toll on his own good looks, and they hadn’t finished the first episode yet. Shit, how old will I look by the time we wrap season one? he wondered.
He shook his finger at the mirrored face. “Don’t go there, Pablo.” Turning the water on in the shower, he filled the chipped porcelain mug sitting atop the apartment’s original, pre-war bathroom sink. Everything in the apartment was original, Malaki liked to say, including the roaches. Pablo popped his antidepressant and, in a tribute to Bob Fosse, splayed his hands out like he was about to start a tap dance number and said, “Showtime.” And indeed, he was about to dance, for it was time to transform into his new persona Pablo Michaels, Creative Director of Model Muse. He jumped into the shower.
Before they’d even selected the models for season one, Pablo had worked hard to negotiate venues and secure fashion industry creative talent to support the show. It had been a game-changing deal to get Highline Stages. Their sponsorship included the gold standard of studio space coveted by the industry; the be-all and end-all of trendy. By getting them to host all the fledgling show’s photoshoots, Model Muse would reap all the benefits of working one day a week in the pre-eminent photo studio in Manhattan, the epicenter of the biz. Pablo was able to convince celebrated photographers to shoot for the show just because of Highline Stages’ prestige.
A few hours later, looking like a picture-perfect mannequin, Pablo was standing in Studio A and in front of the camera on his own for the first time. The grips were still fixing the lighting. Pablo tried not to feel anxious and practiced some deep breathing.
“You look great, Pabs,” Rachel told him. She nodded to the assistant director.
“Places,” the AD yelled. “Rolling!”
From where Pablo was standing, he could see Joe and Rachel looking at the video screen on a stand. Broyce was holding a cup of coffee in his hands. Vong was chewing on a pencil. Everyone’s eyes were peeled on him.
“Action.”
The models entered the studio in a line-up formation. Flanked by posters attached to easels on either side of him, Pablo couldn’t shake the sense of being in front of a firing squad. His. He took a deep breath and said, “Hey, girls.” His voice sounded a little high and tense to his ears. He inhaled. Held his breath for a moment and then exhaled. “As you can see by these amazing archival images next to me, shot for Vogue’s Spring 1999 issue by the late great Irving Penn, models back then were asked to pose through all the extensive hair, makeup and cumbersome wardrobe that completely camouflaged who they were.”
A surge of positive energy coursed through his veins as he began to own his solo moment. “This famous editorial hit stands and created major buzz for the Star Wars prequels featuring Natalie Portman as Queen Amidala.” He paused dramatically. “Let these characters be your muse. Today we’re gonna create new versions of these iconic shots.”
On cue, four major fashion celebrities stepped out from behind each of the four posters. There was a gasp and a few whispers. The Steadicam operators skirted the girls, to catch the moment of surprise on the first take.
“Your A-list team today. Legendary photographer Annie Leibovitz will be shooting; JLo’s personal style team, Mariel Haenn and Rob Zangardi, are on wardrobe; and hair/makeup illusion master, Raja, will whip you into shape.”
Jumping up and down uncontrollably, the girls over-exaggerated their reactions for what felt like five minutes. Rachel twirled her finger in the air, signaling the contestants to move on.
“But there’s a twist. Models are often asked to work with co-stars.” Pablo gestured to the white photo backdrop at the back of the studio. “Today, you’re working with these guys.”
“I bet they’re naked male models,” one of the models muttered. “These shows always pull this stunt to get sex stories going.” An A-1 eavesdropper, the sound man’s boom had swung over their heads and captured the hot mic moment.
“Shit…I’m game! Bring me a naked hot guy with a cute ass and I’m all good!”
“I really hope you’re game girls,” Pablo said, as a man wearing a safari hat and jungle shorts appeared carrying an enormous python wrapped around him. Following behind him was a crew of similarly dressed animal trainers leading or carrying everything from nature’s offering: a cheetah, a Dalmatian, a parrot, a sloth, a camel…
“It like Noah’s fucking Ark,” one of the girls said.
It was true. They just kept coming.
“A sloth!” There was a screech, followed by hysterical crying from one of the girls. Rachel pointed and a cameraman ran over to the emotional breakdown. “I love sloths. Ohmigod, I love sloths. Please, Pablo, please…can I…Ohmigod!”
“Caitlin, everyone’s already assigned,” he looked down at his sheet of paper. “Oh, psychic me.” He smiled. “You’re already assigned to Eli, the sloth.”
She ran over and hugged Pablo. “Ohmigod, this is the best moment of my life. I don’t care if nothing else happens.”
“Okay, calm down.” Pablo turned toward Rachel, who was laughing so hard she could barely contain herself. “Should I go back to my script?”
She nodded while wiping her tears and blowing her nose. “We’ll edit in post.”
Pablo gestured toward the collection of creatures. “Meet the furry, feathered and scaly celebs of Noah’s Ark.” Pablo was really enjoying the shocked faces of the girls. “We’ve already assigned each of you an animal friend. So, let’s take a few minutes to get to know your co-stars before we get you into hair and makeup.”
Pablo paired them up. Steadicams wove in and out of the bonding session. A kiss from a camel. A hug from a sloth. A lick from the Dalmatian. A nervous touch of the snake. A lot of oohing and ahhing.
“Okay, ladies, it
’s time to leave your co-stars, as they’re already dressed in their natural costumes, and you need to head off to be transformed.”
“Alright, everybody,” Rachel shouted, “I want—”
Across the room, there was a huge thud and a scream.
“Ohmigod. Is she dead?”
Adrianna had fainted. Out cold.
“Keep rolling, but get me the fucking medics. NOW!” Joe ran in, screaming.
“Medic,” the AD shouted.
“Medic.” A PA ran toward the craft service table where the trained nurse was chowing down on brioche and croissants.
“Ohmigod! She just went grey!” Pablo was completely freaked out. “I should’ve asked if she was okay.” He rushed to Adrianna’s side.
“Never,” Joe hissed. “This is how we’re all getting an Emmy out of this.”
“Move aside. Give her air.” The medic pushed through the group gathered around the model. “What’s her name?”
“Adrianna.”
“Adrianna?” the medic repeated. She blinked up at them. A lump was beginning to form on her forehead. Pablo’s heart pounded in his chest. He was mortified. They’d already lost one contestant this week with Keisha’s impromptu firing. Was Adrianna out for the count as well? Who was going to face the judges at the first elimination this week? If girls kept dropping like flies, they’d have to start adding them instead of taking them away each week.
The medic was helping the lumpy-headed model wannabe to her wobbly feet. “She’s okay. She’s suffering from ornithophobia.”
They looked at him blankly.
“She’s deathly afraid of birds.”
The parrot squawked.
“Okay, we’ll switch you with the…” Pablo looked desperately around at the girls, “the Cheetah!”
“Could I have the Dalmatian instead,” she looked plaintively up at him and rubbed her forehead.
“Okay, the Dalmatian.”
Pablo swore Adrianna’s smile had a wicked twist and wondered if she hadn’t planned the whole fiasco so she could get the dog, who was almost as gorgeous as Keisha.
The studio transformed into a flurry of chaotic excitement as the artists whirled their subjects into hair and makeup, the stylists selected couture for the models and the animal handlers ran around keeping the co-stars occupied. It was mayhem of the best kind. Pablo bustled about checking on the progress of the girls, while the Steadicam operators wielded their hefty cameras amid the chaos. Rachel seemed to be everywhere at once, beckoning for a camera here then over there. “Catch this. Got that?” It was stupendous.
Working with animals is never quick or easy and it was well after 2 p.m. when they finally began the photoshoot—twelve girls to shoot.
“Parrot first,” Pablo announced. The medic had suggested they wrap the parrot before Adrianna had to come back on set.
“It’s a blue and yellow Macaw,” the handler said.
“And already causing me too much drama.” Pablo turned to Annie Liebovitz. “How would you like the bird?”
“Let’s try something traditional and on the shoulder first. There’s so much costume that I don’t think we need to be overtly original.”
The model had a hairpiece with glittery gold ribbon and tiny reflective mirrors. Sitting quietly on her shoulder, the blue and yellow Macaw began to bob up and down. Then he reached up and pecked her head.
“What’s he doing?” the model asked.
“Do you have lice?” Pablo asked.
“Of course, I don’t have lice! Ouch.”
The handler pointed out that the Macaw was reacting to the mirrors. “He’s flirting.”
They moved the parrot to her hand and got a fabulous kissing shot, profile bird and model.
“Next up, Cheetah,” Pablo announced, sighing heavily into his mic. One down, eleven to go. He was a nervous wreck and had been up since 3 a.m. Note to self: get a prescription for Lunesta—you need to sleep.
The Cheetah rippled across the room over to a velvet couch, where the handler instructed the oversized cat to stand statuesquely beside the ebony beauty of Heather—its noble head and tail erect, ready to chase a gazelle to the ground. “Annie, she’s all yours.” Pablo backed away.
“You look great with the cat.” Annie smiled at the girl. “Place your hand on his back. That’s it. Let the wildness of this magnificent creature come out of you. You are two of a kind. Wild.”
Heather turned her head, her profile matching the cheetah’s.
“Nice. Now turn slowly toward me. You’re unfettered. Nothing can stop—”
“Achoo,” she sneezed.
“Stop. Her hair got mussed.” The hairstylist ran in to fix the wig that had flopped to one side.
“Give me the Canon.” Annie Leibovitz held out her hand for the assistant to switch cameras. “Where were we?”
“I’m wild. Unfettered…Achoo.”
Raja stood up and threw his hands in the air. “Her eyes are all red, suddenly.”
“I think I’m allergic to cats.”
“Adrianna, you’re with the Cheetah,” Pablo yelled across the studio floor.
“I wanted to be with the dog,” she whined.
Pablo raised an eyebrow at her.
“Sorry, Pablo. I just felt like we bonded.” Adrianna walked away from the dog and replaced Heather on the couch. The Cheetah was her new co-star.
“Even better,” Annie said. “Your wardrobe coloring and the cat’s are one and the same. And Heather will look great with the Dalmatian.”
By the time they were on the last model, Pablo was leaning on the digital tech station, beyond exhausted reviewing the photos so far. He’d been up for sixteen hours and looked twice his age. “Whose idea was it to use animals?” It was a rhetorical question.
“Yours.” Rachel shook her head at him.
“Remind me to never do that again.” He called for the last setup.
“It’s gonna make a great episode, though.”
As the camel strode out onto the set, the Steadicam guys worked the room.
The white-blonde Hannah was last. “Have you ever ridden a camel before?” Pablo asked.
“No.”
“Are you allergic to them?”
“I don’t think so.”
The animal handler was dressed as an Arab sheik and motioned for the camel to kneel. As he helped her get astride, Liebovitz reached for her Hasselblad. “Slow down. I want to get this action.”
Hannah worked the movement of the camel as it swayed forward then back. Unfolding its long legs from beneath her, Hannah rose toward the ceiling. She looked like a female Lawrence of Arabia, with the same ice blue O’Toole eyes. The handler was dark and swarthy. The camel was pale cream, Hannah luminescent.
“She looks great,” Pablo murmured.
Then the camel belched.
After all the tension of the day, the studio erupted into laughter. Atop the camel, Hannah laughed so hard her head tilted back, opened mouthed, turning toward Annie, who was the only one not laughing. Focus. Shutter frame. Clicks captured the entire moment in less than 10 seconds.
“Got it.” Annie turned to Pablo. “I’m all good.”
Cameras pushed into Pablo’s face for a closeup. “That’s a wrap!” he yelled.
“Annnnd, cut!” the AD shouted.
Pablo sighed and sat down.
“Can’t handle the pressure, blondie?” Joe cracked.
“Of course, I can. Just like you’ve effortlessly executed this Steve Jobs, black, mock neck get-up with sneakers,” he fired back. “And P.S. I’m not blonde. I’m silver grey.”
“Watch yourself.” The pissed off Korean stomped away, looking like Napoleon in Converse.
Rachel applauded. “Don’t mind Joe. He was forced to be the Showrunner here.” She plopped herself next to Pablo and put her arm around his shoulders. “He wanted an EP po
sition on another show, and he’s arrogant enough to believe that his film school side job as the guy with camera taught him all he needs to know.”
“He needs to stay outta my lane. I know what I’m doing here,” he added, “almost always.”
“You were a rock star today, Pablo. A natural, and he’s jealous. All he’s ever done is that testosterone-fueled, COPS knockoff show.”
“Well, he should’ve been arrested for the fashion crime he committed on this set today.” Pablo liked Rachel and sensed a friendship blossoming between them.
“Touché,” she whispered. “But let’s be real, where Model Muse is concerned, Joe couldn’t produce his way out of a Gucci, printed paper bag.”
8
LOOK WHO’S JUDGING
THE MASSIVE JUDGING set was still getting final touches when the crew loaded into Silvercup Studios in Queens the next day for the first model elimination—well, the first official elimination anyway. Judging days were going to be thrilling, and seeing which contestant got sent packing was exciting for the entire crew. It would’ve been more thrilling if the studio didn’t smell of dusty insulation, and the faint whiff of mold wasn’t blowing through the air-conditioning ducts. It was freezing too. There was simply no warmth in the oversized space except near the giant studio lights and, even then, it was cold. Keisha liked the A/C on max, which meant the crew had to come dressed for a polar vortex.
Pablo was learning how reality shows were made. He wasn’t on camera, for once, so he sat with De La Renta, Joe and a small team of producers in what everyone referred to as “video village” along the “fourth wall.” It was the one angle that all cameras shot from, covering the three-sided set where Keisha and the judges would interview and evaluate each model while looking at the images from their photoshoots. In truth, video village was nothing more than a makeshift area full of monitor screens and folding tables, but it offered a front-row seat to the in-person drama of the judging soundstage.
Rachel was lucky enough to sit upstairs with the directors in the warmth of the control room, with all the soundboards, large screens—with every camera view—and snacks. She would remain in communication with Joe and the team via IFB—also known as interruptible feedback or interrupt for broadcast. This was a monitoring and cueing system used in television and video production for one-way communication from the director to other producers or on-air talent.
