Survival of the Fittest

The following is from the journal of a Hollywood reporter who’s suffering a bout of clarity.

Wednesday, 8:42 p.m. “Random Hearts” press screening. Directed by Sydney Pollock. Starring Harrison Ford and Kristin Scott Thomas. How long, Lord, how long? This movie is a three-hour slow-motion train wreck. Or plane crash, if you want to be technical, since it’s about a man and woman who fall in love after discovering their respective spouses went down in a flaming disaster while flying away for an adulterous tryst. Note to self: Wipe that martyred look off your face. Smile, dammit. Do not forget apparent correlation between exhibiting

symptoms of Tourette’s syndrome while viewing “Lost in Space” and subsequent cancellation of Heather Graham interview. How was I to know a studio publicist was sitting next to me?

Thursday, 10:12 p.m. Preparing for interviews with the movie’s stars. If I were you, what would I want to know about Harrison Ford? But who are you? Help me out here. Because I have to interview Harrison Ford tomorrow and I cannot think of one thing to ask. It’s just that by my estimation, Harrison Ford has answered every question about himself that he has any intention of ever answering. Worse, this movie is going to go down in a bigger ball of fire than that jet.

Movie Junket Rule No. 1: You always just loved the movie, no matter how much you hated it. Failure to just love the movie will result in swift defenestration, although this has never been proven, since no one ever didn’t just love the movie.

Problem No. 1: I am a terrible liar. Imagine Mary Tyler Moore trying to tell a lie to Indiana Jones and you’ve got the picture. Maybe shift interview to personal questions. (Adultery, maybe, just to stir things up? Ha!)

Problem No. 2: At some level, not too deep, I agree with Harrison Ford that Harrison Ford is absolutely none of my business. But it is finally going to happen. It will be beyond my control. It will just spring forth, as if by divine inspiration. “So, Harrison, how are those monkey-gland implants going?” (Of course, there are no such implants. My objective is to undermine global crypto-religious celebrity fixation by means of dialectical assault.)

Friday, 3:34 a.m. How many nights I’ve paced the creaking floor of my windowless garret, waiting for the moment when my work would begin. It all seems so clear to me now. I have a mission: to liberate earth from the hypnotic drone of celebrity interview patter. I thought I was a reporter. I realize now that I am actually a dadaist provocateur, part Oriana Fallaci, part Alfred Jarry. “Harrison, how are those monkey-gland implants going?” First there will be outrage, hostility, denial. Then his eyes will flash in recognition of me as the messenger he has awaited. He will respond in an angelic tongue, decipherable only by an unknown hierophant who, according to myth, will arrive in a spaceship. At H.F.’s first utterance, the world will fall awe-struck to its knees. Soon the white noise of promotional guest appearances will break up like a radio signal in a hurricane. The ink used to print People magazine will mysteriously fade to white before it hits the newsstand. Thus will we be delivered from the prevailing death cult of personality.

Friday, 4:52 a.m. Possible difficulty regarding dadaist provocateur strategy. May not get paycheck.

Friday, 9:30 a.m. Scrap dadaist provocateur strategy. Think of the reader. What does the reader want to know about H.F.? If I were the reader? If I were you? But who are you? Somebody said we are all points of consciousness in the universe and that with practice I can reposition my own point of consciousness. OK, here goes:

Point of consciousness No. 1: I am a construction worker riding Q Train to midtown building site. H.F.? Now there’s a guy you could bend an elbow with, maybe arm-wrestle him for next round o’ brewskis. ‘Less of course he’s too high ‘n’ mighty?

P.O.C. No. 2: Thirty-four-year-old Nail Technician in Queens: Han Solo, baby, you can leave your shoes under my bed any time.

P.O.C. No. 3: Alan Greenspan: Why can’t I stop thinking about Henry Ford? Of course! Too much money going to middle-class wages; must squash wealth redistribution tout de suite. Raise those . . . . Signal disconnect. A.G. not a moviegoer?

Must have smart questions, not stupid questions. Ford reputed to practice cannibalism on journalists: last seen publicly picking shards of Gene Shalit’s femur out of his front teeth. Fall back to standard hack celebrity reporter questions.

Question: How did you relate to your character on a personal level? Variations: What did you learn from playing your character? Or, must you like a character in order to play him? (Celebrity Journalism version of the literary concept of pathetic fallacy: weather conditions reflect human events; choice of role necessarily reflects star’s inner life.) Probable Answer: Seven words of perfunctory blather.

Follow-up Question: That’s fascinating! Tell me more! Probable Answer: Blank, slightly contemptuous stare.

Question: How did making this movie change the way you feel about _______. (Fill in blank. In this case: plane crashes.) Further extension of pathetic fallacy: playing of role certain to have profound psychic impact on subject’s view of _______. (In this case: plane crashes.) So: How did this change your feelings about plane crashes? Probable answer: unprintable.

Final Question: Wanna arm-wrestle?

Friday, 12:15 p.m. Enter Four Seasons Hotel at Beverly Hills. (Command control for movie promotion junkets. Hosts 95% of all L.A. press junkets. Combat-ready with cappuccino for fraying attention spans of movie stars. Best guacamole in Western Hemisphere.) Fourteenth-floor hospitality suite. Junket reporters gorging on buffet, having just finished round-table interviews--which I skipped. Typical junket reporter uniform: “Snake Eyes” T-shirt, “Fight Club” sweatshirt, “Thin Red Line” windbreaker, “Joan of Arc” computer bag, and one from collection of 1,600 movie-logo baseball caps. As many as 40 of these junket creatures, mostly from hinterland publications, are flown to Los Angeles at studio expense, some of them damn near every weekend. La dolce vita! Which among them would dare ask the monkey-gland implant question?

Feeling guilt pangs for passing up today’s round tables. Maybe I missed something.

Round-table Scenario 1: Six to eight reporters swap snide above-it-all remarks in regard to expanding waistline of awaited movie star, then collectively degenerate into quivering Jell-O mold of sycophancy (“How does it feel to be so creative?”) and climax in frenzy of autograph lust (“Just one more for my sister-in-law? And Wynona, thank you for being so open.”).

Scenario 2: Same reporters gather around a conference table with apparent intention of goading star into pyrotechnic display of ill will with terrifyingly banal and/or enigmatic questions. (“How do you protect yourself?” Response: Eye-blinking alarm as starlet ponders whether question refers to use of condoms or evasive tactics to ensure privacy around unhinged journalists.)

Scenario 3: One reporter chomps up eight minutes of a 20-minute group interview wondering aloud if star is aware that their grandmothers grew up three blocks from each other and perhaps toiled together harvesting okra in fields of Iowa.

Friday, 1:15 p.m. My one-on-one interview with Kristin Scott Thomas, H.F.’s co-star. Despite slightly frosty English reserve, she is gracious and, dare I say it, exquisite. “Hope you haven’t been interviewed to death yet,” I say soothingly. Sensing a sympathetic ear, she responds with a sigh: “Some of the questions these people ask. Everyone knows full well my father and my stepfather died in plane crashes, and here they have the audacity to ask, ‘How did that affect your performance?’ How bloody unprofessional!”

So much for my first question. And would you mind if I just crawled under that couch for a few minutes? Invasion of the brain-snatchers. There is a worm in cerebral cortex. Only hope: reactivate dadaist provocateur strategy. I will go forth and ask H.F. the monkey-gland implant question.

Friday, 2 p.m. H.F. pours coffee and takes a seat. Character assessment: supremely dignified, yet surprisingly approachable (to a well-defined point). Sharp intelligence radiating from lion-like eyes. Starkly commanding of respect, but respectful in turn. Mouth teetering between grin and grimace. Definite power to intimidate, but this is held in check. Preternaturally alert. Manner polite yet unvarnished; sincere to the extent that he reveals himself. Admirable reluctance to reveal himself. Takes sip of coffee. “How can I help you?” he asks with bemused irony.

The above was Booe’s last entry. An interview with Ford that subsequently appeared under his byline made no reference to monkey-gland injections. Booe has reportedly relocated to Tierra del Fuego, where he is said to weave strange tapestries out of llama hair.

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Martin Booe is a Los Angeles writer whose last feature for the magazine was a profile of Bishop Charles E. Blake, pastor of the West Angeles Church of God in Christ.