And now, here we were.
“Excusez-moi! Excusez-moi!” I stopped short to see a fiftysomething woman with a manicured bob pointing to a letter on the floor. God, French women really did know how to pull it together.
“C’est le tien!” she continued.
I picked up the envelope. Inside was a note:Martin, three days.
Normally I’d be intrigued. Three days in a foreign country sounded like a prospect, but unfortunately, I was still late, and I had no idea who Martin was.
I slid into the metro car just as the doors shut. Because the film was on a tight budget (films are always on tight budgets, even when those budgets are two hundred million dollars) they’d put me up in the sixteenth arrondissement, far away from where the rest of the cast and important crew members were staying. I didn’t mind. I’d never been to Paris before, and I’ve always been a quick study with maps. I’ve had a sense of direction since the second grade—call it my perennial need to get out of the Palisades. My father helped me turn it into an adventure, and as he drove me to a beach past Point Dume, or a new ice cream shop, I would unfurl the map onto my lap and just stare at all of Los Angeles laid out before me.
I got off the metro at the Tuileries/Pyramides stop and raced across the street. Today we were filming by the Ritz Paris, in the Place Vendôme right in front of the storied hotel with the same name. Iconic. Every time I looked around at the smooth gray stone and the chic French people and listened to the beautiful whispered language, I couldn’t believe my luck. Here I was on a movie set in the city that was already the most famous movie set in the world.
The movie was a remake ofParis When It Sizzles, a 1964 film starring Audrey Hepburn. The studio had wanted to use a hologram of Audrey, but Irina had convinced them it would be better with a real-life starlet: “You need someone for the publicity tour. What are you going to do, project smoke in a room and haveVarietyfire away with their questions?” But as it so often goes, the starlet wasn’t living up to Audrey’s ghost. If they’d have asked me (which, of course, no one did), I’d have said, “Le duh.”
I made my way rapidly down Rue de Rivoli, and ducked into the Starbucks six streets over. Everyone on set wanted coffee, and everyone wanted Starbucks. Paris is a city that despises Americans but loves American chains. I think Parisians secretly like all the choices—oat milk with cinnamon and stevia? Perfect.
I made it to the front of the line and handed over my list. One of the assistants typed it out in French, and I brought it with me daily. Before we developed this system it took me half an hour to order.
As the cashier rung me up, I used the time to check my phone. There were two texts from Irina inquiring about my whereabouts, and one from Marguerite, the director’s assistant, asking if I could add a triple espresso to the order. I flagged down the barista and made it happen.
By the time I got to set Irina was annoyed. She tended to sit when she was relaxed and stand when she wanted to throw something at you, I had learned. When I got there, she was pacing.
“Finally,” she said. She made aGimmemotion with her hands, and I handed her the oat milk misto from the stack.Marguerite, a pale French girl who did not look a day over eighteen but was actually thirty-one, took the rest out of my hands and distributed them accordingly.
“What time is it?” Irina asked me.
I flipped over my phone to read the display. “Eight thirty-five.”
“And what time was call?”
I stared at her; it seemed redundant to answer.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll start leaving earlier.”
I could see her appraising me and her demeanor shifting from punishing to empathetic.
“All right,” she said. “Go get yourself a glass of water, or something. I don’t like seeing you flushed; it’s unsightly.”
I deposited my own coffee in the empty chair behind her and made my way to “crafty,” a few long tables where all the snacks and food for the day are stationed. Because we were shooting outside, they had erected a small tent to cover the area, about fifty feet over from village, or command central—where all the bigwigs, including Irina and the director, watched the scenes for the day. Irina had arranged for me to have a chair as well, and whenever they set up hers they set up mine, right behind her.
Craft service in America is mostly traditional snacks—granola bars, fruit platters, popcorn and chip bags. Dependent on the budget, there are extensive lunch and dinner spreads—salads and sandwiches, but basic stuff. In France it’s an entirely different enterprise altogether. On our first day shooting, lunch was poached salmon, a fresh green and herb salad, baguettes, an eight-cheese spread, and crème brûlée for dessert.
All French films have wine at craft services, but American productions don’t allow it.
I found a room-temperature water bottle above a cooler and downed it appreciatively.
When I looked up, I saw the actor who was playing William Holden’s character, the love interest of the Audrey Hepburn role, at the coffee station.
He nodded to me; I nodded back. His name was Jacques, a French actor who had done a Marvel movie eighteen months ago and was now looking for some upmarket clout.
And then there was his stand-in.
Every time a new scene needed to be blocked or lit, this man would become Jacques, while Jacques went to change or to hair and makeup or to argue loudly in his trailer with his Brazilian husband, Lucas.
The stand-in looked like Jacques from the side and the back, but from the front he was rounder, and his features more prominent, less organized. He also had a thick beard. His name, of course, was Martin.
I decided to let the whole thing play out. Usually when I got the paper, I felt engaged, called to action—an immediate co-conspirator. I’d been deployed. I had a role. This time I wanted to see what would happen if I did nothing—if, perhaps, I appeared even mildly antagonistic. I can’t say I was particularly attracted to Martin. He didn’t speak too much, but then again, he was also a stand-in.
