The Mailroom: Hollywood History from the Bottom Up (69 page)

DICKERSON:
After a frustrating year and a half in the mailroom, I got passed up by Mark and Dean and a couple of other people. Even though I was at the top of the heap running things, I was desperate to get out. One idea kept me sane: A CAA agent, you’re told over and over again, is a team player. What you do is for the good of everyone. You have to keep it in the back of your mind that all that sacrifice is meaningful and that the people after you will also sacrifice for the good of the company. That common bond of sacrifice kept me going. If others worked twenty-hour days, delivering mail for a year or two years, for a chance to become an agent, then there must be a payoff.

There was. I spent two years on Michael Wimer’s desk. During that time the whole Internet heated up. A couple of Michael’s college roommates had helped venture capital eBay. His connections were pretty deep. People came to him from Silicon Valley and Menlo Park, asking how they could incorporate Hollywood in the new, new thing. I was privy to a lot of those conversations and negotiations. Eventually, with Michael’s endorsement, I pitched myself to the head of the New Media Department. It wasn’t what I’d expected, but it worked out fine for a while.

FISCHER:
One day Bryan Lourd’s assistant and I were driving Bryan and Kevin Huvane to the airport. In our eyes, it was the current moguls in the backseat and the wanna-bes of tomorrow in the front. Kevin said, “You guys want to be back
here
one day, don’t you?” and we all joked about it. But it was true. I thought back to the old days of Abe Lastfogel, Norman Brokaw, and Stan Kamen; then about Diller, Geffen, Meyer, and Ovitz; and then the new group, Lovett, O’Connor, Huvane, and Lourd. We all want that position of power one day. Bryan seemed to read my mind. “Careers come and go,” he said. “Power changes hands. But everybody will get their turn in this seat—if they’re persistent enough.”

ALLEN FISCHER
is a literary manager at Santos-Fischer Management.

COURTNEY KIVOWITZ quit CAA to run the talent division at Benderspink Management and Production.

JIM TOTH
is a motion picture talent agent at CAA.

MARK O’CONNOR was a motion picture lit agent at CAA. He recently left to pursue his muse and write screenplays—though he’s not ruling out a return to the executive suite.

BLAIR DICKERSON was an agent at CAA for eighteen months. He is now a music manager at Spivak Entertainment in Los Angeles.

DEAN STYNE became a talent manager at Nine Yards Entertainment and is “really happy.”

THE SECOND HUNDRED YEARS

KIDS AT WORK

William Morris Agency, Los Angeles, 1997–1999

ALEX CHAICE, 1997 • KELLY ANNEMAN, 1998 • ESTHER CHANG, 1999

ALEX CHAICE:
My father is a lawyer, and Bill Cosby’s attorney for twenty years. Bill has a relationship with Norman Brokaw at William Morris.

I went to school in Boulder and got a master’s degree in philosophy—I loved logic—but I also took film classes. In 1996 I went to work for a small Internet firm, and we were bought by Hewlett-Packard. All of a sudden I had a choice to make. I lived in Fort Collins, had dyed my hair blond. People in pickups catcalled at me. I could have been financially set, but I realized I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life there. On February 4, 1997, my twenty-eighth birthday, I woke up and decided to be an agent at William Morris.

My father called Norman Brokaw.

I went to Men’s Wearhouse and bought three crappy suits. Also, three shirts—but I didn’t have money to wash them regularly. Because it was summer and kind of hot, I’d drive to work without my shirt on, put it on once I got there, take it off after work, and hang it up to wear again three days later. I probably wore the shirt three to five times before I actually laundered it. I know, a stunning admission.

The first time I walked in the mailroom it seemed like a handicapped stall in the bathroom. I had visions of standing in there for a year with seven other trainees and no personal space. I began to sweat, then realized I couldn’t because I’d need a clean shirt.

Nothing can prepare you for being on your feet that long. I had never done a service job before. I didn’t know to buy a couple of pairs of shoes to make them last longer. The sweat would be trapped inside and there was no time to dry them out overnight, so I got the worst athlete’s foot.

I didn’t ask my parents for money, either. I’d made some in Colorado, but not enough. The William Morris salary was $300 a week and I lived off that. Spent three months on a friend’s futon, then moved into a shitty apartment in Hollywood. My mattress was on the floor, and every night the fleas would bite my legs where they’d stick out from under the blanket.

Every time somebody big came into the building a buzz went around. When Ashley Judd showed up, the first thing I did was pick up the nearest mail bin and start walking around to see if I could find her. I finally caught a glimpse in the stairwell. She was walking up, and I followed. She wore very tight, practically see-through pants, and a tight cutoff sweater. She looked incredible. Suddenly she looked down—and I tripped and fell flat on my face. The mail went everywhere. She stopped, smiled, and without missing a beat said, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

After I got out of the mailroom, I worked for Sam Haskell for a year and a half. He would tell me what it took for him to get to the top, the battles he had to fight, how quickly he made it, and how proud he was. It’s a great accomplishment. But maybe twenty years ago you could learn the business in only nineteen months. There’s a lot more to learn today. Or maybe I’m being defensive because it took me longer.

Very few in the training programs today have a sense of the history of Hollywood or realize that many, many people have been there before them. We’re not doing anything new, but some people lose sight and think they’re inventing the wheel. On the other hand, you have to make and learn from your own mistakes. William Morris, which started in 1897 and is already into its second hundred years, has a huge tradition and wealth of knowledge. I have used it and still do.

I don’t know what my end goal is, but I’m in it for the process, not the money or the power—though those are nice, too. But if you don’t enjoy the process, what’s the point? Suppose I get lucky and I’m the next Mike Ovitz or Sam Haskell—and let’s face it, a lot of it is about luck and timing—and twenty years down the line I go, What am I doing here? This isn’t what I want. Could happen. If it does, at least I’ll have enjoyed the process.

But I can’t imagine enjoying the process and not the reward.

KELLY ANNEMAN:
It’s ironic to me that I’m talking about this right now because I am very uncertain of my future. I’m not sure if I will stay in the agency business or even show business. I’ve been here four years; I’m assistant to the head of the Talent Department, and I want to be a talent agent representing writers and directors. But our group is so solid that there may not be room to promote me. I guess it’s all about timing and luck.

My father is in the business; he runs his own firm. I always had an idea of what was going on. I was never completely blindsided by “It’s all about show, not business.” This town is a business, and the longer I work in it the more I realize it.

From as early as I can remember, I’ve loved movies. I took critical film classes in high school. I studied film in college. But the most important thing I learned about show business at school was that there’s very little to learn when you’re not actually
in the business
.

After school, my father watched me sit on my butt for a month. One day he announced that I had an interview with Norman Brokaw at William Morris. “You have to be there in forty-five minutes,” he said.

My meeting lasted an hour and mostly consisted of me listening to Mr. Brokaw tell me his story. But whatever I said was apparently enough for him to call Human Resources. They asked me to come in for an interview. That led to
eight
interviews with different agents. Each one was a test. Why does she want it? How bad? What does she want? Who is she? What’s she about?

My first interview was with a woman agent who had just started at the company. The first twenty minutes I watched her make and return calls. Her speed, the aggressiveness, and the selling fascinated me. I told her I wanted to do what she did.

Actually I had no idea what I wanted to do. I just gave good interview. By the second, third, fourth, fifth interviews, I had it down pat. I’d thought of every question anyone could possibly ask. I sold myself like you can’t imagine. I did it because I
was
tired of sitting on my butt and I wanted to get in the door, get on the path, and matriculate. I figured out quickly that it was all about being accepted.

Six weeks later they offered me a spot in the mailroom.

The agency sold the whole trainee thing to me as three years,
boom,
you’re an agent. They really pushed that. I never knew, until I started working, that not everybody who’s in the program becomes an agent just because they want to be one. It’s unbelievable to me that I didn’t know it, or even guess. I just know I never heard those words.

I decided not to let it matter. I was confident that if I decided to go for it, I’d make it all the way because I am who I am. I have drive and motivation, and I am totally capable. I thought, What better position could I be in than to be guided and mentored and part of a program that has so much history and success?

When I started, the pay was $375 a week. After four weeks in the actual mailroom, which was the most fun because you got to wander the halls and meet people, you move to other parts of the company, like Dispatch. But there were no more cars. Too expensive. They’d hired a professional delivery service. We just walked through Beverly Hills.

I did two weeks in Dispatch and two weeks pulling pictures in the Commercial Department, which is a colossal waste of time. You work in a room with no windows, just shelves and shelves of pictures of the commercial actors we represent. All I did was put pictures and résumés in a packet and send them out. I had no contact with anybody
living
. The whole process just threw into sharper relief what is in part the point of the training program: providing the company with underpaid labor in whatever department they need it.

After the mailroom I was a floating assistant for seven and a half months, meeting different agents, hoping to get promoted. It takes time because you can’t just go on
any
desk. It has to be a trainee-approved desk, meaning that the agent is supposed to have
some
interest in your future, in helping you learn, and in guiding your career.

I went to my first trainee seminar when I’d only been with the company three weeks. Two agents spoke about their history and about how they became agents. The new trainees, this other girl and I, had to introduce ourselves. One of the agents asked me, “What do you think of your first three weeks here?”

I was still smarting from no one saying thank you when I ran around the building delivering packages. I said, “Honestly? I think everybody is so rude.” The trainees chuckled under their breath. I could tell they were all thinking, Boy, she’s gonna get it. I figured, Oh, that’s it, I’m out; they’re gonna fire me. But the agent, who was not known as a nice guy, loved it.

Of the people in my mailroom “class” I’m the only one who got an assistant’s desk. One guy was fired—something about a pushing incident—and two left voluntarily.

I don’t know how it is at other agencies, but I know the future won’t just be given to me. I get that it takes a certain amount of passion about anything in life to become a success at it. Even after four years I still believe I have that passion.

ESTHER CHANG:
My parents are from Korea. My dad owns shoe stores and my mom’s a nurse. They emigrated here and built their whole lives around the kids and our education. It was hard for them, but they struggled and did it. I grew up in Palos Verdes, California, and wasn’t at all interested in entertainment. I was very involved in high school: cheerleading squad, president of my class, most likely to succeed. I was always more focused on the more stable things in life, like going to law school, being a doctor.

At Columbia University in New York my eyes opened to other aspects of life. I got involved in politics, working for Governor Pataki, then came home for the summer and worked for the Democratic National Committee. I also interned for Fox Searchlight Pictures and worked at
Variety
in New York for two summers. I hung out with reporters and learned how people live and breathe over whether a spec script is bought, or who is cast in a picture, or who is making how much per film. It was shocking—shocking that it all seemed so important to these people when, to me, there was another entire world out there that didn’t care about that stuff at all.

And yet it appealed to me because ultimately entertainment is for everybody, the great equalizer that people like to talk about when there is nothing else to say. I was exposed to how people could work so hard and get their emotions and lives all wrapped up in something that, in the end, just meant people can go out, buy some popcorn, and watch a movie.

My parents wanted me to go to law school, but I didn’t want to. Instead, I looked into entertainment. My boyfriend at the time had a good friend at William Morris and suggested I try an agency—do it for a year to learn, then see where I wanted to go. It turned out to be the start of a domino effect. I got hired, worked as a floater in the mailroom for a month, then got hired as an assistant.