Before I jump into my
first entry, let me give you all some background information on the grave condition
I suffer from. My lameofilmocitis has worsened as an occupational hazard of living in LA and having a typically LA job in
the film industry. To clarify, I see the unmagical work that goes into
creating all the pretty commercials, music videos and movies you see before they
are transmitted to your living room. Because I am familiar with the unfinished product (dailies,
cameras, bad attitudes) I have lost the “suspension of disbelief” that allows
people like Ashley and Kellie to enjoy Twilight. I, for example, would watch a
scene and be imagining the script notes, “We see Bella struggle to articulate,
biting her lip with pained hesitation as she runs her hands through her unwashed
hair.”
Basically, I am
borderline paranoid that life really is The Truman Show. And so I was clearly a
perfect candidate for a sitcom focus group.
On Saturday, a friend of my fiancé invited us to a screening of a sitcom he had worked
on developing. We drove to Warner Brothers Studios, which is a sprawling compound of
building and sets, star wagons and golf carts. Somewhere past Conan (swoon) and Ellen, we missed the turn
denoted on the highlighted printout map given to us at the security kiosk. We accidentally
drove on to find ourselves in an idyllic suburb of stately two-story homes. For a moment, we wondered if we had gone too far
and were now in a Burbank neighborhood with a great school district. Then we
saw an illuminated EXIT sign through one of the home’s windows followed by the
more glaring clue of a “Hart of Dixie” banner above the front door. Truman
show, take one.
Upon arrival we were
handed clipboards and were told to sign required non-disclosure agreement that
forbade us from releasing any information about the show to a third-party. This
is where my entry goes from being an “inside scoop” on how a TV shows come to
fruition and becomes an entry where I blog about the worst possible conditions
for a blogger to blog.
I signed away my first
amendment rights with a sad-looking signature thinking, “I bet this never
happens to Diane Sawyer.” We were
then herded into a bungalow crammed with rows of chairs. The lights dimmed and
the show began. A show of secrets that I will never speak of.
After the half-hour, questionnaire packets were passed around and of course, the phenomenon of my entire academic career transpired: I, out of the twenty people seated, was the one stuck with the stack of extras.
I shielded my clipboard
so cheaters wouldn’t know the answers to my favorite scenes nor my age,
ethnicity and favorite tv shows. After
gathering the surveys, a producer (a former child actor of a classic American holiday
movie) asked us our reaction to the plot and characters. I figured everyone would be placid and
polite and was surprised at how vocal the group was about their likes and
dislikes, and the discussions that spawned from there. This segued into a
bigger debate about the show’s racial overtones that could be considered an edgy
brand of comedy for a network sitcom.
Some in the audience were very blunt about their agreement with the show’s
portrayals of stereotypes and were interrupted at the exact moments where their
comment teetered on the border of ethnocentrism.
It was a Larry David
moment without the humor and I could not deal with the tension. Instead I
became fixated on my suddenly interesting cuticles wondering how long I would
last if a hypothetical race riot broke out.
We were thanked and shown
out of the bungalow, where I was compensated with a free water
bottle (the importance we place on water bottles makes me wonder if outsiders
are imagining LA as a desert wasteland without irrigation. Please don’t assume
that I spent the rainy weekend making a filtration system out of palm tree
leaves.)
Closing Notes: I may now join Reporters Without Borders. Down with censorship!
Your faithful correspondent,
Your faithful correspondent,
Marissa
No comments:
Post a Comment