There is a poster that someone gave my boss. It is a black and white picture of Clark Gable on a movie set. Clark looks very dapper with his pencil mustache and his leading man smirk, and he is leaning back in a cloth-covered chair, drinking a glass of milk. My boss’s friend was attracted to the image as a gift for my boss because he liked the juxtaposition of a glamorous Hollywood golden-age actor with an ordinary American glass of milk. He said he found something of the same glittering naturalness in my boss.
I think of that image now as I sit in a movie trailer in London. The decorating theme of the trailer could be described as “Country Casual”—or “Linoleum Chic”. There is blonde fake wood cabinetry, fancy gold drawer pulls, gray, leaf-motif furniture. We sit here, my famous boss and I, basking in the light of some fluted glass light fixtures, sipping on tea because the coffee on set tastes like sewage, awaiting the second AD to call us to set. It is 10:10 on a Sunday. We’ve been here for over two hours. My boss is wearing makeup and watching some, “aliens are responsible for the Cuban Missile Crisis” DVD. (Quote from the DVD: “What about the flying saucers!? What about the UFOs?!”) I’m so glad I’m not having brunch right now, or sleeping.
Speaking of glamour, someone just popped into the trailer to ask my boss how hairy his legs are. My boss had to pull up the leg of his trouser to demonstrate. Oh how I wish I could be a movie star!!!
Last night was dinner and drinking and dancing in celebration of Dan’s 31st birthday. Who’s Dan? He’s a chap, you know? A chappie bloak. A bugger of a bloakish chappy fellow. It was a marvelous evening, replete with:
English piss-taking: “Oh Dan, is that your brother? He looks just like you, but, of course, your nose is bigger”
English bragging: “I’m glad I’ll never amount to anything, because I would hate to be too big to cue”.
And other general merrymaking: “I think that having dreams is overrated. You know what else is overrated? Passion.”
I sat next to a female, Jewish documentary filmmaker. I know, fair readers, let your minds be blown.
We ended the night drunk and dancing in a North London dive bar, empty except for a disco ball, a black light and a DJ with a taste for late 70s dance tracks.