LOS ANGELES-Ever wonder where those movie quotes come from? You know the ones: praise rains down on yet another film that you can tell is crap from a mile away and yet some reviewer from Boise, Idaho says it’s the greatest flick since Gone with the Wind? Well, when studios aren’t inventing critics (as in the 2001 episode where Sony Pictures invented a critic named David Manning to praise their sub-par releases A Knight’s Tale and The Animal), they’re treating writers from smaller markets to all-expenses-paid trips to New York and L.A. and hoping that having been wowed by the generosity of the hospitality and unique access to star figures, that the experience will subsequently garner a favorable review-or at the very least, a zingy quote that the studio can then paste onto a print ad to enhance the credibility of their new release.
Roger Ebert calls these people “quote whores” for good reason, as they often trade their reputations for access to the stars and repeated trips to paid-for splendour at the many film junkets.
This was exactly what I experienced recently at the press junket for the newest Ashton Kutcher vehicle A Lot Like Love. In addition to reviewing the film, I was invited to fly to L.A. and stay at the Beverly Hills Four Seasons Hotel in order to participate in a press conference with the film’s creators and stars. The trip would be fully paid for; I would only have to pay for transportation to and from the Toronto airport. A sweet deal, I thought, and signed up immediately, having never visited L.A. or been treated like royalty by a studio before.
The first problem I encountered was the fact that I hated the movie. A Lot Like Love is one of the most derivative and boring romantic comedies I’ve seen in recent years-one that steals liberally from the likes of generic mainstays like When Harry Met Sally, Jerry Maguire, and even rips off the ghetto blaster scene from Cameron Crowe’s Say Anything (replacing the radio with a guitar and a terrible rendition of a Bon Jovi song).
The film sets its story in the racier early 90s, where Oliver (Kutcher) and Emily (Peet) hit it off immediately by joining the ‘mile-high club’ on the plane, and then spending the next seven years resisting the chemistry of their initial encounter. Whenever the two experience the relationship blahs, they simply call each other up and remember what was good about their lack of a relationship-which remains suspended throughout the course of the film. That the film ‘borrows’ liberally from successful romantic comedies along the way is testament to the depressing state of popular films today, and typical of the practice of simply casting younger, fresher faces in what used to be better movies.
This set the tone for the whole trip for me, and also inserted a feeling of dread that I was to experience for the duration of my excursion. At every step I was certain that at any moment anyone-from the airport customs officer who scrutinized me excessively, to the plane full of fundamentalist Christians returning from the Holy Land, to the entirety of the hotel staff, and finally the publicists (who I dreaded most of all)-could at any time revoke my plane ticket, throw me out of the hotel, or the country for that matter, based strictly on the fact that I really despised the film that was the basis for this whole journey.
The dread persisted as I sipped a $14 beverage under a lemon tree by the pool of the hotel, as three separate waiters saw to my every need. The dread followed me to my hotel room (which had been upgraded to a ridiculously expansive suite complete with balcony view of the Hollywood Hills and a king-sized bed). The dread continued to rise in me when I found out that the room came with $125 in allowance to spend as I saw fit, and did not subside until checkout time the next day.
After a morning spent eating $50 worth of room service in my fluffy hotel robe, I make my way to the press conference. The brunch spread is magnificent, and reporters scramble to stuff themselves with miniature quiches, exquisite bacon, and the fresh berry platter. I scrutinize my fellow members of the press, scanning for signs of the malaise I’m experiencing-the idea that I don’t belong-but no one seems to be mentioning the fact that no one enjoyed the movie.
At the press conference, the other reporters’ logic apparently follows my own. They gently lob softballs and offer up platitudes in lieu of questions. When we talk to the writer Colin Patrick Lynch, people seem more concerned with his biographical details (a sub-par actor who appeared in bit parts in Hot Shots and T2) than with his questionable writing ability.
However, exposure to the personalities softens my perception of the movie a little bit-it’s hard to feel as angry at someone who is obviously a decent person trying to make a buck instead of creating art. And you have to feel sorry for a guy who has obviously been left to his own devices while the higher-profile talent (in the form of Amanda Peet and Ashton Kutcher) are ushered in by paparazzi, security, and a small army of publicists.
Director Nigel Cole turns out to be a joy to listen to. The director of Brit comedies Saving Grace and Calendar Girls is an amazingly entertaining speaker, who laments the fact that there just don’t seem to be enough talented people in Hollywood anymore. He tells us that he read about 50 or 60 scripts before he came upon this one, and indicates that the talent pool for actors is equally shallow (with the exception of Mr. Kutcher and Ms. Peet, that is).
But as clever as Cole is, he’s not the star, or, in Tinseltown parlance, the “talent.” Ashton Kutcher and Amanda Peet are ushered into the conference room. Megastar Kutcher puts his audience of reporters at ease immediately with his typical Punk’d-style shtick, banging on the microphone and yelling, “Test! Test! Is this thing on?” In the presence of such beautiful people, the reporters laugh graciously, having been momentarily entertained.
While I’m tempted to ask Kutcher and Peet why I got in a fight with my girlfriend after watching the movie (which is supposed to be ‘romantic,’ right?), I don’t stand a chance to even ask amongst all the seasoned professionals whose technique of yelling their questions as loudly as possible over the other reporters has obviously been honed over the years of attending such junkets.
Kutcher looks a bit shell-shocked, and wonders if perhaps a better way might be for each of the inquirers to raise their hands. Chaos, however, reigns supreme.
“Ashton! Ashton! Have you ever been a member of the ‘mile high club?'”
(He tried it once, but it was really hard to coordinate because of the line-ups for the bathroom.)
“Amanda! Amanda! Do you believe in love at first sight?”
(She doesn’t. She believes “in a lot of chemistry and lust at first sight. Maybe I’m getting too old, but I think love takes work, and I think timing is everything. Both people have to be ready to be open, and I think that’s what the movie is about.”)
There’s a whole lot more of that before a publicist arrives and threatens to take our stars away (geez, and just as we were getting to the important issues). Now is the last chance for that all-important final question…
“Ashton! Ashton! When establishing a relationship, do you make the first move?”
(He’s not really “a move guy.” He doesn’t really know if he even “has moves.” He’s “kind of shy.”)
“Ashton! Amanda! Ashton! Amanda! Ashton! Ashton!”
It is too late. They are whisked away from our all-too-brief encounter. We’re left now to only see them repeatedly on our movie and TV screens, magazine covers (both fashion glossies and the tabloids, of course), sitting courtside at Laker games, and on the Broadway stage. Sigh.
The phalanx of reporters walks to the podium to retrieve their recorders. They, like me, have been changed by this experience-not only by their encounter with two photogenic rising stars, but by their encounter with The Great Hype Machine that attempts to elevate mediocrity by throwing lots of money at publicity, instead of spending it to make a better film in the first place.
After the conference I decide to walk. Thankfully, I escape my hotel bill scot-free. Nobody walks in L.A. because it’s impossible to get anywhere without a car, and everything’s so spread out. But I have about six hours to kill before my flight home, and I hate not getting a pedestrian sense of a place (even if it’s, well, not the most pedestrian-friendly place). I walk along Melrose Avenue, but not the good part, where there are beautiful restaurants alongside run-down garages. I walk by outdoor malls and gated communities. I walk by CBS Studios, where the parking lot is also guarded and locked up. I wonder what people fear behind those walls.
I also wonder about the flow of capital, as it spreads outward toward the terrible neighborhoods of segregated space. South Central, Watts, Torrance, Compton. Names I know from my exposure to American culture. Images I remember from highway chases and riots. Los Angeles’ inequity is inherent in its geography, and yet the lure of this place is precisely that. On top of all the racial divides lie the American royalty who live the outlandish lives that working for the big studios provides them with-the very same studios who have the resources to shell out big bucks to wine and dine the likes of me without a second thought in order to procure a quote that most likely won’t appear in any ad anyway.
To visit Hollywood is to understand the amount of money at the studios’ disposal-the money to buy opinions, to rent out several floors of a $350-a-night hotel for the purposes of a glorified press conference, the ability to employ an army of people to promote a film that might be better served by a better script.
My review of the film unfortunately remains the same, but my review of the junket was that of a once-in-a-lifetime experience. It felt like a trip won on a game show. It possessed an otherworldly aura of something that I’ll likely never experience again. So the junket rates four stars, while the movie… maybe one and a half (in all honesty, the half was earned by the money that the studio spent on me).
And as for my own quote about the movie, I offered up “Amanda Peet and Ashton Kutcher are the new Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks,” which I figured was ambivalent enough for people to decide for themselves whether that was a good or bad thing. In the end, practically all the assembled quotes ended up being something to this effect, but my status as a campus newspaper critic was easily trumped by the likes of Good Morning America and reviewers from the major U.S. dailies. Ah, well, so I wasn’t a quote whore-at least I could go home with memories of L.A., and my dignity intact.
