My Life, Made Possible By Pop Culture

The first five minutes of Vantage Point start off strong and with a bang (no pun intended), as Sigourney Weaver and a crew of news producers sit inside a control room, ready to go live with reporters on the scene of a high-profile presidential appearance in Spain. As Weaver gets into a petty squabble with one reporter (Zoe Saldana) over the tone she chose to take in a live shot, a gunshot fires, hitting the president, and the crew scrambles to cover it. The pacing picks up significantly, as it begins to match the panic-mode of the people in the square, and then comes the one-two punch of an explosion at the base of the hotel in the center of the events. Travis chooses to introduce these events– the ones that supposedly set up the course for the whole film– to his audience through the limited angles this crew’s cameras are able to capture, and in doing so, he doesn’t allow us access to all of the information just yet. The give a little, hold a lot back approach of Vantage Point shows great potential, but unfortunately it gets old quickly and just ends up frustrating the viewers.

It’s painfully obvious what is really going on from the first few minutes of Vantage Point– in part because the majority of the plot is covered neatly in the promotional trailers but also due to the fact that the script is just not imaginative, and the plot is quite thin overall– meaning, the stereotypical bad guys are the bad guys; there are no twists here.  Barry Levy, a former teacher who sold Vantage Point as his first screenplay, sets up a few points (such as the fact that the president used a double for his appearance and therefore didn’t actually get shot) that– if the film was allowed to play out past the course of the same two violent events over and over and over– would actually offer interesting and unique commentary. It would have been great to see the ramifications after the realization that the public had been duped; it would have been something rooted in reality and just tongue-in-cheek enough to elicit smiles. Instead, Levy’s sophomoric style keeps the audience five steps ahead of the movie at any given moment, eliminating any real reason to keep watching.

The film is full of filler, offering the same sequences from varying angles and POVs– from Secret Service agents (Dennis Quaid and Matthew Fox) to a civilian with a video camera (Forest Whitaker) who just happens to be in the right place at the right time to capture the “truth”  to an up-and-coming terrorist (Said Taghmaoui, who is really too good for that kind of typecasting).  Between the repetition, the slo-mo, the rewind sequences in between POVs, and the ungodly amount of running, there is no real plot– just a whole lot of fast motion. The script must have been only twenty pages long and therefore would have made a really clever, really innovative short… or even a web series.
Vantage Point boasts a huge cast of name talent, none of whom Travis seemed to know what to do with.  Only Quaid and Whitaker have backstories, as simple as they may be, because Travis instead chooses to focus on convoluted action, muddying the importance of his wide net of supporting players and making the majority of them much more expendable than they perhaps should be.  There is really nothing at stake for any of them other than “stay alive,” and the few attempts at character connection or dimension– most of which are given to Whitaker– are too on the nose, as if Levy doesn’t trust his audiences enough to read facial expressions, and Travis doesn’t trust his actors to give the right ones. Levy tells when he should show; when Whitaker is alone, he mutters to himself ridiculously, unrealistically, and expositionally. There are actual, audible “Oh my Gods” spilling from these wide-eyed characters’ mouths, and suddenly six-foot-tall, hulking men are reduced to melodramatic seventh grade girls.  It’s fitting, really, that in a film about deception, corruption, and violence, the filmmakers themselves proved to be similarly paranoid control freaks, unable to allow their actors just to do their own thing.
Far too much is by “chance” in this film, again namely with Forest Whittaker, who is the only civilian featured, and who happens to stumble onto just about everything. Dennis Quaid, too, though, just happens to have luck and timing on his side, finding pieces of the puzzle literally one after the other just dropped at his side, which is really just typical of the arc a once-fallen hero desperate to redeem himself takes in films like Vantage Point.  Everything just comes too “easily.”  Travis is far too distracted by manufacturing suspense to focus on the huge holes and just expects his audience to be willing to suspend their disbelief enough to join him on this “convenient” journey.

What could possibly be left to say about Vantage Point, then, in a two-disc special edition?  Well first off, you are given three versions of the film: the widescreen, full screen, and a digital copy to burn onto your hard drive or tote around with you on a PSP.  Special features include a featurette called “An Inside Perspective,” which is really nothing more than hype interviews from the cast and crew, which is the most interesting thing on the disc, including the feature; “Plotting an Assassination,” which is a semi-in-depth head-scratcher of an interview with Levy; one deleted scene; and an audio commentary with Travis, in which he attempts to give his choices merit.  Like the majority of the film itself, these are superfluous.

Vantage Point’s concept is clever, and its effort is certainly admirable, but it was just too big for these green filmmakers, and unfortunately they got caught up in the flashy style and eliminated all substance.  The result, which is just laughable when it isn’t intended to be a comedy, would have been much more successful if it was half its length– and at only ninety minutes, that’s certainly saying something.

If you’re like me and you prefer an entertainment news wire over an actual one, you have your finger on the pulse (and your bookmarks set to) websites like Perez Hilton, Entertainment Weekly Online, and perhaps most notably No Control. These are sites that post religiously, pulling news and gossip from all facets of entertainment and a myriad of sources onto one central page and reprinting it for your convenience. No Control happens to be the best of the bunch (IMHO) and not just because they link to me They are simply the best for finding gems of articles like the in-depth exposé on New York’s first Reality Television School. Yes, it’s real. It’s a school for wannabe reality show contestants where they learn the ins and outs– what to do and what not to do– in a casting session in order to get selected for the show– any one of the shows and all of the shows.

I intended to write a lengthier “response” piece, but I am literally left speechless after reading the craziness in that article. The whole thing sounds like a prank for yet another reality show! But sadly no, Reality Television School is where our culture has gone these days: it’s acting school but for the less ambitious. And doesn’t that one statement alone speak volumes for us as a society?

OMG, you guys! Okay, so though I may have never officially committed my feelings about Rachael Ray to print in the past, it has never been a secret how little I care for her. Her loud “Italian” mouth, wild hand gestures, and abrasive laugh all scream “I’m drunk” a little more than I enjoy my talk show hosts to. Plus, I just don’t find her cute. I’m sorry; I don’t. She’s not some spunky, petite, little firecracker in the kitchen; she’s just plain annoying. And she’s one of Oprah’s protégés, which, let’s face it, makes me like her even less.

Needless to say, when I saw her pop up on The Next Food Network Star last year, not only was I shocked that she agreed to allow these “wannabes” onto her “precious” program (I attributed her ultimate commitment to the fact that she was, in fact, drunk when her assistant or manager or producer or whoever got her to sign the paperwork), but I was also bummed that this would be an episode out of which I could half-tune. But this season, oh this season! Working in Video On Demand, one of the perks, I guess you could say, is that content is often delivered to us prior to it airing linearly. We process it and prep it for pitch out to the cable companies and affiliates, and while its start date is more often than not after the first linear airing, it often sits in our library for weeks prior. Every now and then I sneak an early peek. Ssh, don’t tell anyone

This week (it airs Sunday night; set your TiVos!) on The Next Food Network Star is once again Rachael Ray week, and immediately I groaned inwardly at the thought. However, the surprise twist was that not only would each contestant have to create a fun “kid friendly” meal to prepare in front of her live studio audience– and in only a four minute segment!– but that they would each be working with a Girl Scout in order to do so. The challenge was one part cooking, one part playing to the audience, one part engaging the kid and Rachael, which is no short order! While some contestants admitted they were overwhelmed by the lights, cameras, and audience members, one said she was intimidated by Rachael herself, and to that I have one piece of advice: hide the knives and the wine! A few contestants really excelled in this challenge, using their honest, open personalities to make everyone feel involved, as well, but of course the best moments came with the contestants (or in this case one in particular, Kelsey) who stepped on Rachael’s toes. And that’s when I sat straight up in my chair and removed my finger from the fast forward button.

Kelsey is one of the youngest chefs in this competition and also one of the smallest. She is tiny and blonde and looks like she belongs more in at a pep rally or sorority house than commanding a kitchen, so one of the criticisms given to her in weeks past has been that she really has to step up her authoritativeness to let everyone know she’s in charge. And that she did with Rachael.

Rachael always smiles a big fake smile like being paid millions to stand in front of the audience for a few hours a week is just torturous work. Then along comes perky, cheery Kelsey, whose smile is always big, bold, and ridiculously genuine, and suddenly, standing next to her, it is just painfully obvious (even to her supporters) that Rachael has something stuck up her nether regions. Something tells me she will now decline any future involvement with this show. Kelsey starts at the top by throwing a task Rachael’s way: one that is probably a bit menial for such an “experienced” chef; she asks her to prepare an egg for a breakfast sandwich. Rachael tries to make a joke about how she’s getting stuck doing Kelsey’s job, but in Kelsey’s innocence and sweet, bubbly nature, it just makes Rachael sound bitter, and the tension begins. Kelsey further adds to it (probably without even realizing it) by calling her “Rach,” to which I thought her eyes would pop out of their sockets, and she’d overturn the hot pan of eggs on the younger chef’s head. Thankfully, there was the kid there to act as a buffer, though she was smart enough to stay on the other side of Kelsey, safely out of Rachael’s path and wrath.

The rest of the show, “judge’s table” included, was far less eventful, but I kid you not, the four minutes between Kelsey and Rachael were well worth the price of admission. I hereby submit them into the blogosphere as Best Reality Duo– like the cooking Odd Couple! I won’t spoil the outcome and tell you how the judges thought Kelsey (or any of the others) fared. I will just tell you that if you’ve never tuned into this show, now is the perfect time to start! I can’t wait to see what craziness gets cooked (get it?) up next week!!!

“Back in the day” when a gun battle or a car chase came on screen in the theater, the goosebumps the audiences members got were because the things they were seeing unfold in two-dimensional form in front of them made them want to get up and experience life.  Stunts have a way of fueling even the most passive movie goer’s adrenaline, testing their theories about what we are capable above and making them want to take some risks all of their own.  Though special effects, in one archaic form or another, have been around as long as cameras themselves– in 1895, the first documented case of stop-motion photography (then simply known as “trick” photography) was created by Alfred Clark when he had his actors freeze in place, stopped the camera, and switched out his actress with a dummy while reenacting the beheading of Mary, Queen of Scots– they were not used with such liberalism until recently.  In fact, CGI, the technology that makes effects quicker and easier than ever before, was not introduced until 1976, and even then it’s technology was quite unsophisticated.  Still, filmmakers were excited by the prospects, and slowly but surely, they began incorporating its elements into action films, horror films, period pieces, and lately even straight dramas or comedies: the next time you’re watching something that takes place in an arena or sports stadium, think about how many of those bodies you see in seats are real and how many are bots.  At first it seemed like it would blow over: everyone was just excited by the technology and what it could do, and they used it with a heavy hand, but certainly the honeymoon phase would fade away… right?  Sadly no, that doesn’t seem to be the case.  In an ever-escalating effort to keep raising the shock factor bar, more and more action films rely on CGI enhancement to create larger-than-life moments but unfortunately just end up falling into the traps of the technology and gives us something akin to an overblown videogame: just a bit too loose at the hinges to be mistaken for anything that could pass as reality.

In-camera special effects, such as stop motion technology or stunts allow filmmakers to get creative with their storytelling but to do so in a way that still lives in reality.  There is an element that keeps the scenes grounded in reality: everything we watch unfold before us is something that a real person actually did.  Not only does that give us a surge of power about what our limitations are, but it adds credibility to the work of fiction.  CGI most certainly allows filmmakers to get creative in other ways; their horizons are expanded and roadblocks to ideas are virtually torn down, but there’s a thin line with what’s complementary and what’s just too much.

Let’s take today’s release, Wanted, as an example. The Fight Club meets Smokin’ Aces on meth high-octane shooter flick boasts a protagonist whose sped-up heart rate actually allows him to slow down and focus on details of chaos in front of him, grabbing a metal ball from inside a piece of clenching machinery, racing atop a moving train, and curving a bullet.  But let’s back up a minute: one of the first scenes in the film is an assassination on a Fraternity member who supposedly went rogue: standing in a high-rise office, a laser beam cuts through the windowpane, hitting his female companion in the middle of her forehead and sending her blood, as red as the laser light itself, splattering onto the wall behind her.  From there the man takes off, running for the elevator, assumedly fleeing to safety.  Instead, he breathes deeply, crouches down, and everything in his vision begins to pulse.  He presses his foot against the back of the elevator, and the wall crumples like he’s turning into the Incredible Hulk.  He runs at down the hall, sending papers flying in his path, and plunges through the window, shooting at men on a rooftop across the way.  Then, in a move over which Jerry Bruckheimer will probably sue, we see a bullet push through a man’s forehead, as he gets shot from behind, and then everything reverses, and we follows the bullets path, sucking out of his skull and spinning back through the air into the barrel of a gun.  Cool?  Sure.  Additional quality?  Not at all.  If anything, it was a cheap tactic to show off what they figured out their Macs could do.

The first time the young protagonist in Wanted is introduced to his destiny it is during a similar shootout, which once again focuses on the trajectory of the bullets rather than the dance the shooters have to do to in their chase. He, too, flees the scene and ends up in the center of a parking lot, with a delivery truck barreling down on him. His savior comes in the form of Angelina Jolie who whips a cherry red Viper around and manages to scoop him inside without even stopping. She can curve cars and bullets; she must be the master. While that shot had the audible “how’d they do that?” gasp going for it, what follows is a computer generated inspired mess of a chase that is incomparable in its frenetic nature, as well in the number of cars she purposefully drives into or against. Stunts like these used to be about artistry: about perfecting the use of an instrument (be it a prop gun, a car, or even just their own bodies) to the point where they would bring it to the edge (get inches from another car, for example), but at the last second they would always regain control with a simple smirk and flick of the wrist. Stunts are about grace and creativity and testing boundaries, but computers are just about formulas and equations and the easiest way possible to make something louder, faster, and more over the top.  Stunts get you on the edge of your seat; though you know the players involved will survive, you still want to see how far they push themselves.  CGI removes that risk and therefore a lot of the suspense, and to compensate, the result is often much glossier and flashier than it need be, provoking eyerolls and chuckles of disbelief. A dangling Amtrak train off a bridge that ultimately splits apart and plummets down a cliff to water below; a young hero blowing away his enemies one by one with muzzle flashes and mini-bombs? CGI can (and did) do that, but there’s no choreography there; there’s no interaction between a director, his actors, his stunt doubles– his trained professionals. There’s only a guy sitting behind a computer screen, creating a cartoonish, isolating world, and while CGI hasn’t completely eliminated the need for actual people in films just yet, I’m sure (especially with all these talks of strikes) producers would love to work out a way for that to happen.  And suddenly, Toto, we’re not in filmmaking anymore; suddenly we’re just computer programmers projecting our projects onto a big screen.

In the early part of his career, Jason Bateman was known as the cute sandy hair boy from the wholesome TV family. Beginning with Little House on the Prairie and taking it through Silver Spoons (where as the best friend character, he became part of the extended family) and Valerie, he wore that role like it was his own skin. Only as he aged (like with 2001’s Some of my Best Friends) did he start to include sarcasm into his portrayals, opening up a world of possibilities for him to steal scenes in a number of feature films.

In 2002’s The Sweetest Thing, Bateman’s crass, horndog brother was the perfect snort-worthy anecdote to Thomas Jane’s dry goofball. In a movie filled with overly dramatic and dislikeable characters, Bateman brought a level of sincerity to the silliness, making it impossible not to laugh out loud when he got escorted out of the club, told his brother not to “be gay in God’s house,” or sang a remarkably sober wedding band version of “Eternal Flame.” Where it would have been easy for a lesser actor to get lost in the female buddy comedy, Bateman’s knack for comic timing and delivery was actually a positive for the film as a whole, taking the tone down a notch and making at least one relationship (that between him and Jane) feel believable. While the film itself certainly didn’t break any records, it set Bateman on track for a long and lucrative big screen career.

As Pepper Brooks in 2004’s Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story, Bateman was back playing the cocky, pompous, self-assured d-bag one can only love in the movies. His sideline commentary was completely nonsensical, as he chomped on gum and grinned like he just didn’t care that Gary Cole was shooting him annoyed looks from the adjacent seat. His carefree attitude and wide smile made you love him, and every time you shook your head in response to some inane comment he made, you laughed, too.

Playing a character (Rip Reed) pent up in a hotel room in 2006’s Smokin’ Aces, Bateman could have been a metaphor for the frenetically charged, high octane, tweaker of a film itself. He spoke in drawn out, seemingly Tourette’s induced monologues; sweaty and squinty-eyed, he was manic and A.D.D., and despite all of the chaos, he still managed to command attention during the mere minutes he was on screen. With so many characters flitting in and out—and so many bullets flying around– they were all expendable, but Bateman grabbed onto something in the audience and implanted himself in their subconscious. Even if his character was not so lucky, his scenes would stick around in their memories.

2006’s The Ex, a blink-and-you-missed-its-release romantic? comedy about a guy (Zach Braff) who becomes increasingly, insanely jealous of his wife’s ex-boyfriend when they are forced to move back to her hometown, and he is forced to work alongside the ex (who is, of course, Bateman). In this case, Bateman is just one in a sea of fine supporting actors (Charles Grodin, Amy Poehler, Paul Rudd), but he manages to stand out for the earnest way he once again plays a sleazebag. Even though you should be rooting for Braff to keep his marriage afloat, when the “other guy” is Bateman, that’s damn near impossible. Maybe it’s incredible method acting or maybe it’s his natural boyish charm, but everything he touches turns to gold.

2007’s The Kingdom was a slightly different side to Bateman, who was still comic relief but this time in a very serious setting. Playing a member of a government team sent into Riyadh to investigate the bombing of an American base, for the first time, his sometimes snide humor was gentler, subtler, and quieter. He offered a chance to smile warmly as a break from the suspense. And with his proven track record at spicing up everything from gross-out comedies to heavy, based on real life dramas, there is no doubt Bateman’s yet another supporting role in Hancock (taking theaters by storm July 2) will be a hit with critics and fans alike. Though it can be said that really all he’s doing is just playing the same character over and over again, how can one argue with such a winning formula?

As a smart and creative kid from a troubled family, Anton Yelchin’s role as the title character in Charlie Bartlett can’t help but recall his in last year’s quirky comedy Running With Scissors.  Yelchin wears the same earnest grin and puppy dog wide eyes to play the harmless, innocent little boy who holds the true value of his intelligence and therefore his threatening nature as a deep secret.  The depth of his performance offers a duality to Charlie: is he just a precocious kid or a devious schemer with much greater plans, managing to dupe us all?  Charlie Bartlett plays with the idea of perception versus reality in an increasingly paranoid society, and unfortunately the result is just as muddied and messy as a “brain on drugs,” for lack of better terminology.

In a quest for friendship and acceptance at his new high school, Charlie uses his cunning to convince doctors to right prescriptions for psychiatric drugs that he then sells to his classmates.  An innate entrepreneur, Charlie is able to hone his skills due to his dippy and indulgent mother (Hope Davis)’s quest to just be the boy’s friend.  She shelters him with limos and private schools and “the estate” but keeps her emotional distance, undoubtedly hurt by his father’s past actions and afraid to get too close to another of the gender, even if he is her own son.  The only other parental figure in the film is the school’s principal (Robert Downey Jr.) and father of Charlie’s crush (Kat Demmings).  As an alcoholic-workaholic, he is the stereotypical overprotective father, checking up on the boy he sees as a threat to his daughter’s purity without considering her role in the relationship.  It’s a sobering look at Downey Jr., who is hardened and jaded in the way he always is, but in playing a father and a role model, it just takes him to another level.

Director Jon Poll picked an incomparable cast, but without them, Charlie Bartlett would never have gotten a wide release.  Its look at the effects and use of prescription medication is hardly revolutionary; there is no strong message for or against the way they are handed out like candy in society or even in this film.  Events take place one after the other in a surreally heightened timeline, stripping the story of its believability and truth.  The same is said for the conclusions characters draw and the consequences (or lack thereof) they suffer for their actions; there are ups and downs within every ten minutes, making it feel like the film itself should be on some sort of mood stabilizer.  Perhaps these were conscious choices on Poll’s part, but with the manic feel of Charlie Bartlett in tone, material, and editing, it’s doubtful.  Poll just tries to do too much, and unfortunately his actors get swallowed up in it all.

Charlie Bartlett on DVD offers three blasé commentary tracks from Poll, which is just as narcissistic as Charlie himself, opening the film by standing on a stage, listening to hundreds of his peers chant his name.  Considering Poll just seems to have gotten lucky with some of his choices and on the whole seemed to be flying by the seat of his pants with “this whole directing thing,” one commentary can be considered stretching his knowledge and insight, but three is just downright ridiculous.  They could have easily been condensed into one, and the result still would have been underwhelming.  If anything, it would have been nice to hear from the film’s saving graces instead of behind-the-scenes players whose approaches were questionable.

“The Restroom Confessional” is a clip that, at two minutes, can’t really be called a featurette, featuring the cast and crew of Charlie Bartlett sitting in Charlie’s infamous “office,” venting their frustrations.  It’s cute but forgettable and would only add something to the disc if it were funnier.

Everyone in Charlie’s world is fit for psychiatric evaluation, and the writing delivers them in a flat, obvious, expositional way, that distracts from the rich and detailed individual performances.  Charlie Bartlett preaches a message from an adolescent boy’s mouth, and unfortunately it just makes Poll and his film seem that much more sophomoric.  As a child who just wants to be liked and who is trying to hard to be a man, he is an odd choice to be “the professional,” but he, and the film in general, is desperate to prove that sometimes all one needs to initiate change is a genuinely sympathetic ear.

    Not even a decade into the new millennium, VH1 has capitalized on the popularity of their previous I Love The… series by debuting I Love The New Millenium last night.  Typically, the series runs two episodes/years per night, over the five night workweek.  However, since this is just 2008 (and the year is still young), it kind of begs the question as what they will do with Friday evening: speculate on the future or just end a bit prematurely?

As I Love The New Millenium kicked off with the infamous Budweiser Whazzup? Guys (were the frogs pre-2000?  I honestly can’t remember) and only a brief verbal mention of Y2K, I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of angle small-time comedians like Godfrey, Bill Dwyer, and Hal Sparks (who is best known now for his reality show stunts… I mean, stints) and even smaller-time actors like Beth Littleford and Joe Manganiello would put on things that haven’t seeped out of our consciousnesses yet.  What is normally so great about the I Love The… series is the sense of nostalgia it provokes: we can laugh at the silliness of the B-movie plot or toy they are describing all while remembering its place in our own childhoods.  I Love The New Millenium, therefore, just seems premature.

The first two installments brought us the Baha Men, Shaggy, TiVo, Moulin Rouge, the best summaries of Gladiator and Castaway ever (seriously, you don’t even need to see those movies now!), CSI, the singing bass fish plaque, Razor scooters and Segways, daytime darling Kelly Ripa, XFL, and Melissa Etheridge’s baby daddy, David Crosby (which only really reminds me how old her kids are now and that musicians are weird).  The recurring segments this time around feature Johnny Fairplay, Perez Hilton, Taylor Dane?, Moby (who actually plugged his own song on his 2001 playlist: LAME!), and Sisqo, who lists people from the year he’d like to see in thongs.  When they were all women, I was actually shocked; I think it would have been much more memorable if he had used the segment to admit he’s gay once and for all.  Maybe if this had been distributed on Bravo…

In one very poignant episode of South Park, the characters muse that something tragic doesn’t become funny until 22.3 years later.  And if that’s the case, then I can’t help but wonder what the good people at VH1 could have done with I Love The New Millenium: 2001.  The end of the episode turned very quickly from moderately chuckle-worthy into a flag-waving, “Proud To Be An American” singing, half-circle swaying numb robots.  And yes, I shed a tear.  But then they wrapped it up with the Mets and Piazza’s homerun.  Damn you, VH1; you have to ruin everything!

My birthday is tomorrow, June 23, and to celebrate I will be giving myself a day off from celebrity blogging and celebrity news in general. Jamie Lynn had her baby last week, and by all calculations, Angelina isn’t due until August, so it seems like I’ll be okay to turn off the laptop for one hot Monday and give my bleeding brain a break. Though I have a feeling the withdrawal symptoms may prove too great to keep me away for too long.

As I dig into my Carvel ice cream cake (the five year old in me still loves the crunchies!), feel free to peruse a list of celebrities who share my birthday. One of them even shares the year, but I’ll leave it up to you to figure out which one.

Duffy (1984)

Memphis Bleek (1978)

Jason Mraz (1977)

Emmanuelle Vaugier (1976)

Selma Blair (1972)

Joss Whedon (1964)

Frances McDormand (1957)

Randy Jackson (1956)

June Carter Cash (1929)

Bob Fosse (1927)

Alfred Kinsey (1894)

You can see a complete list here , and yes, my name is included on it, too!

We all coo over just how precious and cute the animals are that we see in our favorite movies or television shows.  How many of us grew up begging our parents for dogs just like Lassie or Comet from Full House?  But how often do we stop to think about those working dogs behind the on-screen persona and what they go through to bring us an hour or two of enjoyment?

Le Paws Agency, one of the leading in animal talent and as featured on such shows as MTV’s Rob & Big, prides themselves on the discipline of their talent, but in reality, the dogs and cats are simply kept in crates—small, cramped, metal boxes—until the moment action is called.  The dogs and cats spend their days in the solitude of their trainer’s van or in a distant corner of the set, aware of all of the people inside but not allowed to play or even get petted.  At times, like on the set of I Am Legend, it is so the animal doesn’t bond with anyone but its scene partner, but more often than not, it is just to keep them from being underfoot and distracting crewmembers.

The animals are brought onto set to perform their tricks promptly and adequately, and then they are ushered just as quickly back into their crates.  Sure, they’ll get a piece of a treat or cookie when they nail their mark, but the stern “good job” is far from the love and affection an owner would show them at home.  They are treated more like walking, barking props than animals with feelings.

Sure, animals are sometimes needed in films just to represent life.  How weird would it be to show a park and not show someone walking a dog, or set a scene on a farm and not see pigs or chickens wandering about?  And yes, even though CGI has come along way in creating realistic animals, they are still just a bit robotic and creepy—not unlike those Webkinz that are fast replacing real first pets in many child-filled households.  However, working animals tend to have a shorter lifespan than the average dog or cat or horse or monkey.  Part of this must be due to the stress of having to perform and not really understanding why it’s so important they have to walk to a specific place or jump at a specific time.  And the harder the trick, the more stress it must cause.  Animals are just like people: sometimes they don’t feel like doing something, but when you have an animal on-set, getting paid to do something specific, stubbornness or refusal is not taken for an answer. And once the animal realizes no one is fooling around, they very quickly lose their happy-go-lucky “I just want to play” attitude; they even often stop wagging their tails.  Their new serious demeanor ages them by taking much of the fun out of their lives.

Part of a working animal’s shortened lifespan probably also comes from their environment, which can in no way be called “normal.”  Just like how child actors grow up fast, so do working animals age quicker.  And for a dog, for example, where one year really equals seven, one year maintaining the rigorous and erratic schedule of film production must feel like fifteen.  The trainers and handlers on-set are supposed to be there to protect the working animals’ best interest, but how do we know they wont ignore signs of fatigue when the idea of overtime causes their eyes to turn into dollar signs?

While some of the tricks we see animals perform definitely inspire the “how’d they get them to do that?” audible gasp, more times than not, an animal is in a scene merely to tug at the audience’s heartstrings.  Anytime an animal is in a horror movie, for example, like the tiny Maltese in Urban Legend, it is clear it is not going to end well for the animal (fake as it may be), and it is merely a cheap ploy to get the audience more emotionally invested.  Let’s force the filmmakers to use their creative muscles a little bit more and stop taking the animals so for granted.

“Damn flipping shit!”

The outburst is not uncommon– not unexpected– and Courtney does not even glance up from her script, just flips another page pointedly, as Leah throws the latest tabloid on top of her appetizer plate.

“Not in this one either.”

“You’re nuts, you know that?”

Leah sighs dramatically: “Court, you really have to start doing more carpets.  I mean, this is pathetic.  Eva and Hilary make the best dressed every issue, and word on the street–“

“And by street?” Courtney humors her.

“In Touch.  She’s been seen at Crossroads.”  Leah glances around almost suspiciously before hissing: “In the valley.”

Courtney giggles and shakes her head: “Then it must be true.”

Leah just shrugs and pulls out her iPhone to scroll through her calendar while picking at a fried wonton.  Courtney watches her, smirking, as she eats her own salad.  The air around them stirs gently, blowing a few strands of her too-natural auburn hair out of her eyes.  She leans back and closes her eyes momentarily after popping a tomato slice into her mouth.  She smiles as the warm California sun tans her surprisingly pale face.  She must be the only actress– no, make that the only person– in Los Angeles who doesn’t fake and bake.

“Ooh, here it is: this is perfect!”

Courtney almost groans at the interruption but just lets Leah go on.  Once she gets started, there is no stopping her motor mouth.  Courtney learned that the hard way when she attempted to rebut a point in Anthropology 262: things got so heated that Leah flung a compact at her head as the professor winced by the door.  After class, Courtney took Leah to the local coffee house to apologize, and it was there they learned they had mutual aspirations: Courtney wanted to move to Los Angeles to be an actress, and Leah wanted to move to Los Angeles to be photographed partying with the rich and famous.  They’ve been friends ever since.

Leah’s insistent voice snapped Courtney out of her trance: “The Nocturnal Mutiny premiere is tonight!  Vince, Brad, and Matt are supposed to be there.  Get photographed with one of them, and you’re set for a good three weeks.”  As she taps the magazine to emphasize her point, Courtney shakes her head again.

“Yeah, I know.  Marty couldn’t get me tickets to that one.”

“Flipping agents; what good are they?”

Courtney shrugs and takes a sip of water: “It’s no big deal; I have an early call tomorrow.”

“I bet the after party will be just as star-studded.  What do you say?”

Courtney picks up one of the magazines and stares wistfully at the cover, tracing her finger down the side.

“That lust in your eyes I’ll take as a yes.” Leah picks up her iPhone again and quickly dials a number.

Courtney protests and tears at a piece of lettuce: “Leah, what are you doing?  Would you put the phone down?”

Leah holds up a hand to shush her as Courtney watches while pretending to read her script.
“Hello, Kenn Henman please.  No I can’t hold.  Tell him Courtney Primm’s assistant is on the line, and it’s urgent.”

Courtney laughs: “Everything’s urgent with you.  Paging Dr. Shepherd.”

She flips through the script, stopping only on the highlighted parts, mouthing them quietly to herself.
Leah shushes her and then turns away to speak directly into the phone.  She is loud, and the couple at the next table glances over at her.  Courtney smiles apologetically at them, and they glance away again, obviously annoyed but also obviously used to this sort of thing.

“Kenn, hi.  Leah Conroy.  Courtney Primm’s assistant.  Listen, Kenn, I need two tickets to the Nocturnal Mutiny after-party for Ms. Primm and myself.  Uh huh.  Uh huh.  No, that is unacceptable, Kenn.  UN-ACCEPT-ABLE.  She will not settle for some family friendly Disney piece of shit!”

“Seriously, Dr. Walsh, calm down.  If it’s full, it’s full.  It’s not a big deal.  There are tons of these things.”

Leah covers the phone momentarily: “Not like this one; this is a press wet dream.”

Courtney mutters to herself, something about Leah knowing that because of the many teenage boys that share her bed, which Leah ignores as she continues to berate the poor publicist on the other end.  Silently, Courtney wonders why he even picked up his extension.

“Seriously, Kenn, Disney?  Who would she meet there?  The Sprouse twins?  Hannah Montana?  Nocturnal Mutiny.  That’s what we need.  Uh huh.  Great.  Thank you, Kenn.”  Leah hangs up and grins at Courtney, then snatches the script away from her.

“I’m on a soap, Leah; I’m not Angelina,” Courtney reaches for it, but Leah wags a finger at her.

“It’s a primetime soap.  And it’s not forever.  Your contract’s up in, like, a month.  You’re leaving, right?”

Courtney scoffs: “Not the way things are going.”

“So I take it the audition went well.”

Courtney wrinkles her nose.

Leah rolls her eyes, scoffing back just as hard to match Courtney’s pessimism: she has heard this before.
“Come on, it couldn’t have been that bad.”

Courtney sips more of her water and shakes her head: “No, I majorly blew—“  Knowing with what Leah is about to respond, she holds her hand up to stop her: “Not like that!  I mean, I bit.  I mean, it was like the audition was one big fat brownie: I was Star Jones and backsliding fast.”

Leah reaches over and snatches a piece of chicken from Courtney’s plate.  Courtney pushes it closer to her, and Leah just wrinkles her nose and pushes it back.  “But they’re not all going to have directors chasing you out to your car.”

“Oh I don’t think you understand.  I mean, I bit.”

“Yeah, I get it.  Dessert all around.”  Leah sits back in her chair and crosses her arms over her chest.

Out of nowhere, a bored looking waitress, who is popping her gum the way Courtney remembers the New York private school girls at her drama camp doing way back when, manages to find her way over to their table.  Leah just shakes her head at her: “Not for us, I’m doing macrobiotic this week.  Just the check.”

Courtney tries to hide a smile at the remnants of the fried wontons still evident on Leah’s plate.  Leah is still glaring at her, though, and Courtney doesn’t see the big deal: “So I stick with Chateau Pacific a while longer; it’s been good to me.”

“Yeah but your demo is not ideal at all.”

“I get recognized.”

The waitress places the check down in front of Leah and doesn’t even glance up at Courtney.  Courtney assumes she must be trying to break into acting, too.  Who isn’t?  One time, at P.F. Chang’s in the Sherman Oaks Galleria, her waiter actually slipped her his headshot, as if she could get him a meeting.  How could she when she couldn’t get herself meetings?  Leah took it anyway; he had been cute.

Leah ignores the check, so Courtney takes care of it.  This is not uncommon or unexpected, either.
Leah just tears into her fortune cookie, ripping the thin strip of paper out and looking at it as she responds: “By the Mid-West pancake bunch.  Look, I’m just saying, where you’re at is fine, but this is the time to try for more. You don’t want to be known as Trina Madsen for the rest of your life, right?”

Courtney thinks for a moment before replying: “Yeah… ultimately. You know, acting is just… it’s unpredictable where it takes you, and that was the whole reason I started. I guess I’ve gotten a little comfortable.”

Leah has her brow wrinkled, clearly lost in her own world, and probably not even listening to her friend: “This isn’t even a fortune!  Seriously: “You are energetic and full of life.”  It’s an observation!  And where are the lottery numbers?”  She throws the cookie down on her plate in disgust.  It breaks into smaller pieces, and she eats them one at a time as Courtney opens her own cookie.

Finally Leah snaps out of it and realizes what Courtney just said: “Sorry.  But you’re better than a supporting role on the Serenity Channel.  Think about it.  And think about this party tonight.”

Courtney ponders this for a minute and then smiles.  She holds her fortune out to Leah, who smiles and reads it aloud:  “You will soon find yourself in the company of greats… in bed.”  Courtney laughs and tosses the fortune on top of the credit card she already left on top of the check.  Leah grins and eats Courtney’s cookie, too: “That’s fate… it’s fate!”

Courtney closes her eyes again.  She thinks she’s going to regret this later, but she whispers: “Let’s do it,” barely audibly.  Leah manages to hear, though, and squeals with excitement, clapping her hands giddily.  Courtney giggles, and Leah pulls out her cell phone again.

“Let’s hope that Faretti is ready at the cleaners.  I’m going to wear a dress so low-cut you’ll be able to tell if I’m wearing a thong.”

Courtney just shakes her head as she stands to go.  Again, nothing uncommon or unexpected.

Check out the rest of the story here .