After I graduated from film school, there was NOTHING. When I say nothing, I mean nothing. A lot of movies had picked up stakes and went up to Vancouver where you get HUGE tax breaks. I pimped myself out to whatever piddily production job I could possibly imagine that were left in town. I even walked into a porn company hoping to get an editorial job. When I walked into Vivid Entertainment one day...resume in hand, the receptionist looked me up and down, audibly sighed and just shook her head in disappointment. She thought I was there to audition as an actor rather than editorial. Didn't get the job. That was an all-time low.
I was broke and living in the very same expensive apartment I live in now. How ridiculous...too poor to live there but too poor to move. My days in Los Angeles were numbered. In fact, I packed my bags. Each piece of clothing going into my beat up old suitcase was like a nail in the coffin. This town wasn't going to have me to kick around anymore. Yeah, right.
The plan was to leave in the middle of the night. No letter. No notice. No nothing. They could keep my cheap Ikea furniture along with my pathetic collection of Garbage Pail Kids. Those bags were packed. I was preparing to be that a-hole who got drunk at the bar in small town Ohio telling tales from my "adventures" in Hollywood. The night before my exit...I got the most interesting call.
This was waaaaay before cell phones. At least for me. I'm sure they had already existed but it was off my budget radar. My house phone rang. I answered it. It was my friend Mark. Mark and I have had a very long relationship going back to film school days. He had already been established as one of the premiere stuntmen in the industry. He knows many working industry people. His circle of friends is what a lot of us up-and-going-nowhere-types aspire to. And he's such a nice dude to boot.
Very casually he asked me what my plans were for the next day. Couldn't tell him I was leaving town forever. Couldn't disappoint everyone at once. I told him that I had no plans. He told me that I was to go out and meet up at Steven Seagal's home. He wants to talk to me. He gave me the address then hung up.
Yes, that Steven Seagal. Mr. "Above The Law". I was just hired to shoot a movie.
It's just that ridiculous.
The next afternoon, I weaved my way thru Brentwood. Rich and overprotective. Brentwood is the same place OJ lived. So you know it has to be good. I pulled into a gravel driveway that was blocked by large garage door. I announced myself to the callbox and the doors opened. I entered what was a compound. For legal purposes, I won't tell you the full design, but I can tell you...this Seagal guy is stuck in southeast Asia.
A very young Eurasian man opened my car door for me. I was half-expecting a sumo wrestling sized man with a bowler to pat me down, but Oddjob may have been on vacation.
I entered what appeared to be a monastery. Incensed burned somewhere. And the late afternoon was casting long rays into the room. I had entered a Seagal movie.
The thing about most celebs is that they have many interests. Music always been somewhere in their cache. Seagal was no different. All over the floor, there were guitars strewn. EVERYWHERE. Different makes. Different models. Different vintages. It was amazing. Not sure what that was all about, unless he was shuffling it like dominos or they needed cleaning. I stepped around them like landmines. I made it to a bench chair.
Everything in his place is oversized. I'm short to begin with, so it just felt like "Honey, I Shrunk The Kids." I sat in an oversized bench. The arms were so high I couldn't even use them as armrest. So I just sat there, notepad in hand, legs dangling. The houseboy disappeared. Then a really large man returned. Enter Steven Seagal.
He's exactly how you picture him. Tan. Tall. And squinty. I jumped off the bench like some kid and introduced myself. He looked me up and down (not so different than the receptionist at the porno place) and disappointment washed over him. I was 26 years at the time. The average age of most cinematographers were somewhere around 50-60 years old. Couldn't tell if he wanted to laugh or cry. 'Cause he's really squinty. So I sat back down, clicked open a pen and put on my best business face. I was summoned over after all.
You can usually tell if people really listen to you by the time it takes for them to digest information. Seagal doesn't seem to want to listen to any end of any sentence. For instance, he asked me if I were Chinese and I said Taiwanese. I said I understand elementary Mandarin but mostly speak-- that's as far as I got before he started speaking to me in Mandarin. His Mandarin isn't bad. It's just typical of how most Americans who want to seem educated in that language delivers it...FAST. All his words pretty much blended together. I picked up the gist here and there, so we were able to move forth. It was very polite of him to make me feel like he was at my level. But we were going into a project, so we had to get past certain pleasantries.
Basically he had a few things dealing with camera work that was a must:
1) no lens under 40mm. This is because wide angle lenses are not flattering
2) No angle below eye level. As he is tall, he doesn't want to look like an ogre. I think his exact words were "I don't want to look like Frankenstein"
3) We gel all lights with a warming gel. It makes him look more...well..."warm"
4) No toplight. Toplight gives shadows under the eyes and also draws attention to thin hair
I scribbled all these notes down. And at some point I was even contemplating balling up the pages and eating it. Like some spy movie. He sat there looking at me for a bit. I think wondering if I had any questions. I had two in mind that I didn't think was appropriate at the time. One: Did he even read the script, because I sure didn't. Didn't even get a copy. Two: how much was he getting paid to do this project. That would've been rude.
As quickly as he appeared. He disappeared, saying goodby to me...in Mandarin.
Next up...On the set with Sir "Under Siege."
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