MEMENTO MORI
The backlot is humming with energy today, and I’m not thrilled about it. Rolling up to the east security gate is typically a surefire way to cruise right in and get any tedious studio afternoon over with, but I’ve discovered a line of five or six cars waiting for me.
It’s always something with this place, and today that something is poor traffic management.
I settle in, watching April at the security booth as she flashes her welcoming smile at each producer, actor, writer, and director making their way through the checkpoint.
I can’t quite see who she’s talking to, the rising California sun washing my eyes in its golden glow. Even through these dark sunglasses it’s hard to get a read on the driver of the McLaren with the scissor doors and obnoxious paint job, but a shock of stark white hair hints at Raymond Nelson, head of the animation department and real-deal Hollywood legend. This would make sense, as he rarely keeps the same car for more than a month and I’ve yet to notice this vehicle on the lot.
Ray is old-school. I used to be terrified of the guy, but have since come to appreciate his no-bullshit approach to this business after two decades of weathering it myself. Regardless of your opinion on Raymond Nelson’s studio battles and legendary tantrums, there’s a lot to be said for sticking around as long as he has.
A few years back I worked for him on a pitch, a cartoon concept that never really got off the ground and eventually became a live-action TV pilot, and while his ideas about certain social issues are alarmingly dated, he maintains the spark that once propelled him to the top. The guy isn’t just some suit. Raymond put in the hours, hand-drawing every cell of his first animated short before I was even born. He’s part of the rare handful still with us who built this studio from the ground up.
On the other hand, he’s also a blowhard asshole.
Ray eventually pulls onward in his six-figure sportscar, this lime-green vehicle acting as yet another billboard for his decades-deep midlife crisis. The absurd sight of Ray’s new luxury vehicles usually triggers a smile of bemusement, but as Ray leaves the checkpoint I notice a look of exaggerated distaste on April’s face.
This expression quickly shifts back to her usual warmth as the next car pulls up, and the process begins anew.
I move forward in turn, the whole line shifting one space, then put my car in park again. For the life of me, I can’t remember it ever taking this long.
It’s also possible my nerves are just stretching my perception of time like taffy. I’m rarely tense over a meeting—I just show up, tell them to fuck off, and leave—but this one feels different.
Everything in this town feels different lately.
I lean back in my seat and turn down the car stereo, which has been blasting the snarling howl of British punk band IDLES into my eardrums at an admittedly dangerous volume, and check in on myself. Deep breaths fill my lungs—in and out, in and out—and I facilitate this moment of peace even more by cracking the windows a bit.
To my right lies the Harold Brothers backlot, a sprawling mass of offices and breathtakingly large soundstages. To my left is an empty field of tall yellow grass that leads right up to the backside of Griffith Park. The studio owns these unused swaths of land, and one day they, too, will be covered in monstrous, rectangular soundstages. For now, however, these rare natural spaces peeking through the vast Los Angeles sprawl are treating my ears to a soft, brittle rustle, the gentle wind shifting millions of dry grass blades against their neighbors.
My eyes close as the sun warms my skin.
Honk! Honk!
The sounds are unexpected, but too far away to prompt much of a reaction. This invasion of my auditory space consists of two staccato blurts from a horn, an instrument that could just as easily belong to a circus clown as it could a passing bicycle.
I slowly open my eyes and turn my head toward the open field.
A cardboard cutout stands awkwardly within this vast plain of golden grass, frozen in place as the blades rattle gently against its cartoon knees. It’s a human-sized rendering of Chucky the Woodchuck, his two massive front teeth framed by the maniacal grin that launched an animation empire. Weekday mornings I’d watch this ball of hand-drawn energy face off against Wiley Wolf, the two-dimensional forest their own personal Home Alone house stuffed full of anvils, mallets, and comically oversized dynamite sticks.
It’s always thrilling to see prey outsmart predator, even if that means strapping an anthropomorphic wolf to rocket skates and sending him to the moon.
This cardboard depiction of Chucky the Woodchuck is from his early days, stark black and white with a distinctly vintage design. He doesn’t have his gloves yet, and his divergent eyes are much wilder than the modern version.
Back in the day, there was a large portion of potential viewers who found his zany, buck-toothed expression … well, frightening. Adjustments were made.
Chucky is holding a bicycle horn in one hand.
I stare at this cardboard cutout in silence, first a little surprised I hadn’t noticed it until now, then wondering how it got all the way out there. The field is enormous, and while we’re close enough to the back gate for Chucky the Woodchuck’s arrival to have a dozen or so logical explanations, there’s something about his placement that feels odd. Someone had to trudge deep into that tall grass and prop him up.
Chucky the Woodchuck’s rolling, multidirectional eyes feel as though they’ve somehow met mine, angled to both the left and the right, yet drawing me in. I get the same eerie feeling I did all those years ago, plopped in front of the television set.
The original design really was creepy.
Honk!
The squeak blasts again, only this time it’s much louder. I jolt abruptly, eyes flickering up to the rearview mirror and discovering the driver behind me is serving a gesture of frustration.
The cars ahead have already pulled forward two full spaces, leaving a gaping hole.
“Get off your phone!” the driver shouts.
“I’m not on my phone!” I yell back, awkwardly pointing at the palm of my hand.
He just shakes his head with seething irritation. He flicks his hand toward me, shooing me onward.
“Fuck you, too!” I shout in parting.
By the time I get my car in drive it’s a straight shot to the security booth.
“Crazy day, huh?” I start, pulling up next to April’s little white security hut.
“Misha!” she cries, excited to see me or doing an excellent job of pretending. “It’s been a while.”
I nod. “You know a script’s bad when they can’t just schedule a Zoom about it.”
“I’m sure it’s great. Congratulations, by the way.”
I force a nod of acceptance, feeling awkward about the praise. I never quite learned how to take a compliment, and at this age I don’t think I ever will. “Sure. Yeah.”
April hands over a small blue box. “Thumb,” she instructs.
“You’re asking for prints now?”
April shrugs. “They’re updating everything around here. New security stuff. That’s why it’s taking so long.”
I press my thumb against the tiny device a few times until, eventually, it emits a soft digital beep.
“All done,” April announces with a grin. She takes back the glowing blue cube. “Good luck with the meeting.”
I continue on, glancing in my rearview mirror to discover the cardboard woodchuck has disappeared, probably knocked over by the wind and laid out somewhere in the tall grass.
Giant beige walls rise around me, a gridded labyrinth of passages between every soundstage on the lot. These towering buildings block out the sun, creating a web of shady alleyways where various production teams avoid the heat and go about their daily routines. As with the gate, a strange disarray permeates this scene, the hustle and bustle of an already active backlot taken to unexpected heights.
A single building, the Harold Brothers water tower, looms above the rest, and as this iconic structure bathes me in its shade, I remove my sunglasses.
This particular section of Harold Brothers Studios is arranged around a central hub, a portion of the lot where important office bungalows are situated and a coffee shop routinely attracts tired crew members on lunch breaks. A well-manicured grass field sits at the center, complete with a lush, palm-filled garden and a constantly flowing fountain of crystalline water.
I park in a spot near the promenade, climbing from my vehicle and heading up the winding sandstone path. People are everywhere, some of them wandering past me in the middle of impassioned conversations on their AirPods, others talking loudly over coffee as they perch on various benches. I pick up the pace.
My meeting awaits just beyond this chaotic little oasis.
“Misha, you fuck!” someone calls out, prompting an unexpected halt in my stride.
Fortunately, I’d know this voice anywhere, and a smile has already bloomed across my face before I even turn around.
Tara Ito is rushing across the lawn to greet me, my best friend’s arms wide open as she prepares her warm embrace. She’s wearing a bright orange suit with a glittering, silver-sequined button-up and a bolo tie underneath, three very distinct choices that might like look downright comical on anyone else.
My friend somehow pulls it off, though. She always pulls it off.
Tara is small, but her energy is twice the size of an average human. Her hair is naturally black, but she’s managed to lift it all the way to a stark white that works in playful contrast with her youthful appearance.
The only thing that gives her away as someone currently in the midst of a grueling workday is the leather satchel cast haphazardly over her shoulder, an assortment of black and yellow computer cables bubbling forth.
The fact that Tara spends most of her time alone, poring over server bays and strolling down dark industrial corridors, is hilarious to me. We’re surrounded by executives prepping for a day’s worth of face-to-face meetings, yet none of them have half the confidence and swagger Tara does.
We hug. “How’s my beautiful baby boy?” Tara questions, pulling back to look me in the eyes. I’m three years older than Tara, but her predilection for calling me “baby” remains unfettered.
“I’m ready to get this meeting over with,” I admit.
“Oh, your super difficult meeting where the VP of television gives you two notes and then sucks you off for an hour?” she counters. “I’m implementing the revised IP security protocol across fifty-seven buildings today.”
“Wanna trade?” I quip.
“You know I don’t swing that way,” Tara replies, then winks. “I don’t swing any way, baby.”
“Still on to watch those screeners later?”
“God, yes,” Tara confirms with a sigh. She’s straightening out the collar of my jacket now, picking off some lint and flattening the crease.
Suddenly, Tara riffles through the inside pocket of my blazer and yanks out my cell phone. Before I get the chance to protest she holds it up to my face and unlocks the screen.
“Put your phone on airplane mode whenever you’re on the lot,” she states, scrolling through my settings and taking care of it herself.
Once finished, Tara opens my jacket and returns the phone to its rightful position.
I can’t help laughing. “Why?”
My friend’s expression flickers with a rare moment of solemn gravity. “Data packets.”
“I have no idea what those are,” I admit. “What if I need to take a call?”
“Do what I do,” she replies, pulling two separate phones from her pocket and fanning them out in one hand. “Work and play. Congratulations, by the way.”
For the second time today I find myself immediately dismissing a compliment. I grimace before Tara can even finish her sentence. “It’s an empty category. I don’t even think it’s televised.”
“You fucking asshole,” she scolds, putting her phones away. “It is televised. It’s a big deal. People don’t just accidentally get nominated for an Oscar.”
“Best Live Action Short Film. There’s no dialogue and it stars a mouse.”
“It’s a big deal,” she counters sternly, placing a hand on my shoulder.
“Thank you,” I finally relent, accepting her words of appreciation. I glance around the park. “Is that why it’s so crazy today? Nominee announcements?”
Tara laughs, then nods her head toward the soundstage looming to my right. “You could say that.”
I follow my friend’s gesture, gazing up at a colossal display emblazoned across the building. I was so focused on getting in and out of the backlot that I didn’t even take a moment to look up. Now that I have, I’m overwhelmed by the presence of an enormous mural.
The entire side of this soundstage has been covered by an image of superstar actor Chris Oak. He’s sitting at a glass table and looking exhausted, the lighting orange and dramatic as it shows off his notoriously expressive face. The guy is breathtakingly handsome, his brown hair slicked back but disheveled. He’s wearing a white suit, a ghost of the 1980s woven through its tailoring. A hint of brilliant red is splattered across the stark cuff of Chris’s wrist.
Workers perched on hanging scaffolding are carefully pasting this image into place, rolling it onto the wall piece by piece. Still, there’s more than enough here to deliver the text.
Huge block letters stretch across the top: THE YEAR WAS 1986. THE CITY WAS MIAMI. THE MAN WAS LEGENDARY. CHRIS OAK IS ENZO BASILE IN … BROKEN DON.
Copyright © 2024 by Chuck Tingle
