Movie Makers, Counties Seek End to Gouging at Film Sites

A few years ago during shooting for an episode of the Angela Lansbury television series “Murder, She Wrote” a large truck stopped nearby and noisily dumped a load of manure.

Concerned about disruption to their expensive on-location shooting, the film crew asked if the work could be delayed, recalled Don Gallagher, a permit inspector with Ventura County’s Transportation Department.

No problem, said the foreman.

“He wanted $1,000 for every truck,” Gallagher said, “and he had 40 trucks.”

The film crew balked at the hefty price tag, but agreed on a $3,000 fee to suspend the work.

When Ventura County officials caught wind of the foul-smelling deal, the manure really hit the fan.

Concerned about such incidents besmirching the region’s reputation in Hollywood as a film-friendly locale, the county ensured that most of the payoff was reimbursed, Gallagher said.

The incident entered local lore in Piru but is by no means unique in this tiny community 60 miles north of Los Angeles that is acquiring a reputation for such tactics in the film industry.

Similar tales have surfaced throughout Southern California, from upscale Pacific Palisades to down-to-earth Santa Paula.

But locals seeking cash for their cooperation are a concern to officials like Carol Nordahl, president of the nascent Ventura County Film Commission, which was formed to lure more movie dollars here.

Bad experiences can be magnified in the word-of-mouth film community, ruining efforts to attract a larger share of the lucrative, transitory and environmentally friendly industry.

County Supervisor Kathy Long worries that overzealous county residents may kill the celluloid goose that is laying greenbacks.

“We don’t want to extort from them, we want work from them, we want to attract them. There’s still work to be done, obviously,” she said.

But filmmakers find Piru’s living backlot irresistible.

An abandoned gas station in the town’s center remains standing solely because film crews use it extensively. Because Piru’s plain yet charming brick downtown buildings--reconstructed through federal grants for $580,000 after the Northridge earthquake--are largely vacant, production companies to dress them up.

The clincher is that although Piru is technically just outside what’s called “the zone”--the 30-mile radius of Hollywood that lets film companies forgo paying union labor per diems and other expensive benefits--it is treated as if it is inside, making Piru attractive, relatively inexpensive, and convenient.

The experience of Anthony Saenz--location manager for “Spy Game,” a midseason replacement television series that spent two days filming here, illustrates the frustrations of both the film industry and the communities that serve as their backdrops.

One Piru businessman was paid to cover a sign on his building. Then he began wielding a chain saw to cut up a fallen tree--in a rainstorm--to disrupt shooting.

So Saenz offered more money and signed a contract to ensure compliance. But once shooting resumed, the business owner renewed noisy construction work, even sawing concrete.

“It’s not free and I don’t expect free,” Saenz said. “It’s a very little town. . . . You would think they would encourage [filming] because they need the income.”

The focus of Saenz’s ire, Laundromat owner Bob McClain, tells a different story.

McClain said he had construction permits and simply wanted to get his job finished. A crane was en route, he said, to remove the tree. The film crew said the chainsaw was too loud, but approved his use of a saw on the concrete. And Saenz’s film crew was the third in a week to come to town, causing a string of interruptions that hampered his work schedule.

“I’m not out to try and cheat nobody,” he said. “I don’t really see any big scam thing going on in Piru. It’s just people living their lives normal and if these companies want to interfere in what they’re doing then they should cough it up. . . . We’re not talking a big amount of money--$100 to shut up, big deal, right?”

As of 10 days ago, most of the tree still lay beside McClain’s Laundromat.

Exacerbating the temptation to squeeze is the disdain many Southern Californians feel for the supposedly glamorous industry.

Ojai residents actually marched in the streets when film crews took over Libbey Park a few years ago and kept people out, City Manager Andy Belknap said. As a result the city rarely issues film permits.

In perhaps the most severe expression of hostility, the Santa Paula City Council recently placed a moratorium on downtown filming until completion of a revitalization project that will tear up streets and inconvenience shoppers. Some merchants have complained bitterly about traffic, the restricted customer access and other problems related to filming.

The problem has become so bad that merchants who previously voiced support for the film industry have turned against it. The Chamber of Commerce’s film liaison quit in disgust over the antics of some store owners.

The relationship between the business community and filmmakers has degenerated since shooting for the feature film “Leave It to Beaver” in 1996 and the children’s TV series “Beetleborgs” that has spent the past year virtually making Santa Paula a series co-star.

“Both sides end up accusing the other of not telling the truth and making promises that can’t be kept,” said Elaine Musselman, chamber president.

Saenz concedes that people in the film industry can sometimes be insensitive to the needs of the communities and can act like they’re “curing cancer.”

Movie crews don’t object to paying business people who lose money or must make allowances for film shoots, said Patti Stolkin Archuletta, director of the California Film Commission.

But there is a fine line between compensation for the genuine inconvenience of cameras rolling in a neighborhood and residents wringing every last dime from a movie maker’s budget, Archuletta said. Just this month, a Pacific Palisades woman declared war on a movie production she considered annoying, turning on her home burglar alarm during a shooting sequence. The company paid her $200 a day in consolation fees.

In 1995, a state senator sponsored legislation to enable nuisance-mongers to be ticketed. But the film industry itself withdrew support for the bill, Archuletta said. The enormous publicity the proposed law generated prompted fears of an epidemic of copycat blackmailers. Moreover, the industry was concerned about a possible public relations backlash.

“It made more sense to bring education to bear on the economic advantages of filming and it made more sense to do this with a scalpel than a sledgehammer,” Archuletta said.

The problem prompted Archuletta to pen a “good neighbor” code of conduct as a companion to the existing filmmakers’ code of professional responsibility.

The code suggests people who receive direct financial benefit from a shoot recognize the toll filming exacts on neighbors who receive no reimbursement.

But that may not be enough for some locals.

Elva Hernandez, owner of a Piru convenience stores, said, “Why do they come to a small town? Because people don’t ask for as much money. . . . If they’re upset with us and they’re pretty angry, it’s very simple: Don’t film here.”