Reality boulevard, p.38
Reality Boulevard, page 38
Noticing Amber’s scowl, Hunter shook her head. “I don’t think I’d add much.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. You know where I need you on Young Cons? I need you to deal with the victims. After the whole caper’s been pulled and we tell them it’s just a television show, there’s going to be some heavy shit going down. This isn’t Candid Camera or Punked. The cons these kids pull – they’re deep, they’re like serious mind games. You’ll have disbelief, crying, depression, rage. You, Hunter, are the only director I know who can get great interviews out of people in that state.”
The limo reached the front of the line, right behind a black stretch that unleashed the three Kardashian sisters, their beaux and husbands unto the world. The crowd squealed, shouted, and pushed to the front of the stanchions.
“Okay kids, smile for the cameras,” Ian said. The dazzling light of the afternoon sun hit their eyes as the driver opened their door.
Once inside the lobby of the Nokia, Hunter noticed the crowds pressing toward the front of the bar and concession lines, which served – along with cheap beer and wine - such classy delicacies as hot dogs, hot pretzels, and popcorn. Apparently, the Veritas Awards didn’t offer an open bar pre-show. That wasn’t keeping the stars from their celebratory beverages. Ian had managed to smuggle in three splits of champagne, one for each couple. “It’s going to be a long night,” he said.
Hunter followed Amber and Dexter’s wife into the ladies room, where she spotted Freaky Felicity from Dysfunction House – just released on parole - snorting lines of coke from atop a paper towel dispenser. Two half-dressed girls from Celebutard City and some orange-skinned 20-somethings who looked like the Jersey Shore set were there, too, huddled together around the diaper changing station, pouring shots of clear liquid from a large green plastic soda bottle and laughing maniacally.
After leaving the crowded ladies room, the women joined their dates as Ian led the way to their seats. His status in the industry put him in a prime position - on the center aisle in row five. He looked backward, scanning the rest of the auditorium and the reality glitterati now taking their seats. He was counting to himself. “One, two, three, four, five! Fucking five rows in front of Mark Burnett’s crew this year!” he muttered, pumping his fist in victory.
“I wish we had something in the soft-scripted category,” Dexter lamented. “We just missed the deadline with The Candidate’s premiere.”
“That’s a battle we’re going to have to keep fighting,” Ian said. The group continued to debate whether to enter The Candidate in the docu-soap, soft-scripted, or reality competition categories next year. “There should be a new category for hybrid concept reality shows,” Ian concluded. “I’m going to complain to the board.”
They filed into their row. Ian remained standing, scanning the room with invisible binoculars. Hunter watched him, trying to decipher his micro expressions. His eyes landed on someone who made him literally shiver with glee. He looked down at Hunter and winked.
“Make a note of this date. You heard it here first. By this time next year, I won’t just be nominated for a few Veritas and Emmy awards. I’m going all the way. To the big show. The Oscars.”
With that, he took off into the mix of the crowd, still pouring into the auditorium.
Amber and Dexter were engrossed in shoptalk about The Candidate, so Hunter picked up her inch-thick program. On its cover, under the title: The Third Annual Reality Television Veritas Awards, was a photograph of the gold-plated Veritas Trophy itself – a naked woman inside a ‘V’ with her arms up high, holding a banner of stars overhead between her two hands. She opened the booklet: bright, glossy pages that smelled inky and new. The first third was all advertisements. There were full-page ads for Cartier watches, for Chanel, for Geary’s Jewelers of Beverly Hills. There were ads bought by agencies, production companies and studios: “GIRLZ! and MommyHood proudly congratulate Tupper Barrington on her nomination for Best Reality Host”; “ ICM Congratulates the Cast of Dysfunction House on their nomination for Best Reality Ensemble Cast.” There were full page ads for stars for whom the sponsor wasn’t clear, meaning the star’s or stars’ reps probably paid for the promotion themselves: “Jagger Farr of FantasyLand for ‘Best Bad Boy, Reality Competition’”, “Jennifer Lopez of American Idol for ‘Best Judge, Reality Competition’”, “Freaky Felicity of Dysfunction House for Hottest Female Reality Star.” She finally came to the list of awards and nominations, which, a cursory scan revealed, went on for nearly 20 pages. The categories were endless. “Best Cinematography for a Reality Show, Contest or Competition.” “Best Cinematography for a Reality Show, Docu-soap,” “Best Cinematography for a Reality Show, Soft-Scripted.” “Best Cinematography for a Reality Show, Documentary Style.” Best lighting in every one of those permutations. Best editing. Best Sound. Best directing. Best segment producing. Every category went on and on like that, in an oddly prosaic parody of the Oscars and the Emmys, except there were no categories for writing, anywhere.
Then there were the lists and lists of specialty honors that only the Veritas Awards could offer: “Best Competition Judge.” “Nastiest Competition Judge.” “Best Bad Girl” and “Best Bad Boy” for Contest or Competition, Docu-soap, and Soft-Scripted, respectively. “Nastiest Bitch.” “Best Cat Fight.” “Best Double-Cross.”
She flipped through page after page, realizing Ian had been right. It was going to be a very long evening. She thought about getting up and braving the concessions line to grab a couple of plastic cups of box wine to hold her until Ian opened their split. Then she turned one more page to see a full-page photo of Marty Maltzman, sitting behind his desk that was lined with his Oscar, Emmys, several People’s Choices, and other various trophies, trinkets and statuettes.
“Unlimited Talent congratulates our longtime client, Marty Maltzman, for his Veritas Lifetime Achievement Award for Excellence in Documentary and Reality Programming.”
In this industry, Hunter mused, a Life Achievement Award usually means a ceremonial introduction to your ice floe before they launch you off into the Arctic sea of obsolescence. She wondered how Marty would feel about this. At least I’ll have someone I can talk to, if we ever get around to the after party, she thought. Would Marty judge her, when he learned she was not only working for the infamous Ian Rand but also dating him? No. For as long as she’d known him, Marty Maltzman had never judged anyone. She was overwhelmed with a protégée’s fondness for him so powerful, it made her eyes well up a little. That day back in 1994, when she’d been so disrespectful to him. How ironic that the man she’d once so rudely dismissed would now be the moral beacon of her entire career.
The seats were filling and the lights blinked twice. Ian squeezed back into the row and patted Hunter on the hand. She noticed the dozens of seat-fillers lining the walls – young celeb watchers and wannabe stars in Target and K-Mart versions of formalwear – paid a pittance by the Veritas producers to slip into the chairs emptied by presenters, nominees or simply bored glitterati needing a cocaine break. Thanks to the seat fillers, the cameras never caught a shot of a half-empty auditorium. From the perspective of those watching at home, a K-Mart sequin didn’t look any different from a Dior sequin in a three-second-audience reaction shot.
One more light blink and the Nokia Center spectators settled amidst a rising cloud of designer perfume, cologne and hairspray. A godlike voice boomed over the PA: “This is Matt Greeley, your producer for tonight’s awards. We’ve got a lot of categories to get through, so please keep your acceptance speeches to three minutes so we can keep it moving. But first, for the cameras, indulge our director here and give us a nice, hearty round of applause that we can use in editing.”
The audience, still in high spirits and wildly energized, applauded with gusto, whistling and cheering. The fourteen cameras in the room covered the audience from above, front, back and rear, on sweeping overhead jibs and on the shoulders of roving videographers, crouching like Marines as they scurried to and fro through the aisles. After about a minute, Matt Greeley’s disembodied voice came on the PA again.
“That’s what we like to hear. Now, this time, how about giving us a standing ovation?”
Another wave of applause tore through the room and attendees jumped to their feet.
“Excellent, outstanding! And that’s the last chance you’ll get to stretch your legs for the next three and a half hours,” the Godlike voice announced, to a low ripple of laughter. “It’s going to be a great night! And now, your host for the third annual Veritas Awards for Excellence in Reality Programming. He’s America’s favorite comedian, this generation’s Don Rickles and last year’s Veritas Award winner for Best Reality Competition host. Please welcome the star of the hit RandWorld show Fat Farm... Jason Standlin!”
Ian leaned over to Hunter. “That was my influence,” he whispered. “I submitted Jason for host. And I made them say ‘hit RandWorld Show’ in the intro.”
Standlin came bounding out from the wings to more ecstatic applause. Wiry and short with close-shaved blond hair and huge kidney-shaped ears, he reminded Hunter of an elf doll stuffed into a tux.
“I’m Jason Standlin, and welcome to the Third Annual Veritas Awards. Reality TV brothers and sisters… this is our night!”
Some audience members whooped and applauded. Hunter noticed a camera crew creeping down the aisle, stopping just ahead of their row. The cameraman stood up to his full height and focused his lens in their direction. She felt self-conscious and patted her Brillo pad hair.
“Word on the street is, reality TV has put a lot of writers out of work,” Jason continued. “But don’t despair, all you angry, unemployed writers filled with fear, self-loathing and depression. Ian Rand is in negotiations for a new show. Dying to Write. The winner pens the most convincing suicide note.”
Sitting next to Hunter, Ian Rand erupted into exaggerated guffaws. For the camera, no doubt. Following his example, Dexter and Amber laughed, too. The auditorium as a whole was filled with nervous tittering. But around them, Hunter could see that not everyone was as amused. Some audience members looked at one another with raised eyebrows.
“Seriously, though, I love the Veritas Awards. These are the best awards in Hollywood. You all know what Veritas means, right? It’s Latin – or Greek, or Sanskrit or some other useless language – for ‘Truth’. And that’s what reality TV is all about. Banish those grandstanding actors and actresses, out with those convoluted plotlines! I mean, what was up with that final season of Lost, man? Yo, JJ Abrams, what was that all about? A gang of chimps get loose in your writer’s room?”
The reality audience liked that one. Laughter rose and fell like a wave.
“Take away all of that garbage and you’ve got reality TV - real people making real assholes of themselves, and all for America’s amusement.”
A burst of giggles from the audience.
“And forget the Emmy Awards. Did you know that Reality TV has only been included in the Emmys for the past eight years?”
Hisses and boos from the audience.
“Who do they think they are, those Emmy people? A bunch of thespians elitists!” He rolled the words on his tongue, delivering them with a mocking lisp. “Patting each other on the back for the same doctor, cop and lawyer shows, the same recycled stars, year after year. When what people really want to watch is our stuff! What we do!”
Enthusiastic applause.
“Back in 2003, there were less than a dozen reality shows on the air. Today, there’s hundreds of ’em! We dominated those awards last year, and we’re going to do it again and again. We’re the only thing anybody’s watching. We’re taking over the world, people! Pretty soon, the Emmys will be begging us to include dramas!”
The theater echoed with a thundering of applause. Dexter and his wife, Amber and her date, and Ian jumped to their feet. Ian pulled Hunter up too. At center stage, Jason Standlin raised a fist, elated.
“That’s more like it! A real standing ovation! See, Matt? You didn’t need that pre-show shtick! That’s because this is reality, man! This crowd is for real!”
More applause, whoops, shouts, whistles.
“The Veritas Awards are our awards, by reality people, for reality people!”
An hour and a half later, when yet another housewife from the latest Real Housewives franchise accepted her award for ‘Best Bad Girl’, Marty stretched his legs as far as the seat in front of him would allow and looked over to see Crimson thumbing through her program.
“We’re not even a third of the way through,” she moaned.
“I know,” Marty said. “These are the longest awards in history.”
“I need to freshen up.”
He loved the way she used those ladylike euphemisms, ‘freshen up’, like she was in a movie from the ’40s. “My award isn’t up for at least another forty-five minutes,” he assured her. “Take your time.”
They were sitting right on the aisle, third row center. Heads turned as Crimson rose and practically glided to the rear of the auditorium and out the door. Marty watched her go with a heavy heart, until a 20-something seat-filler in a cleavage-revealing dress plopped down next to him. He sensed a malodorous mixture of underarm deodorant and mothballs.
Over an hour later, after Jason Standlin once again accepted the Best Reality Competition Host Award, Crimson still hadn’t returned. The stench from the seat-filler next to him was becoming untenable. Marty twitched in his seat, craning his neck to see to the back of the hall. He looked at his watch. His stomach gurgled and twinged and he clutched it, doubling over a little.
“Are you, like, okay?” asked the seat-filler. Her breath smelled like hot dog.
“Oh, no. I’m fine. Just concerned about my date. Thanks,” Marty responded politely, turning his head away.
Brett Windsor had the honor of presenting the next award, a big one. “And the winner of Best Celebrity-Themed Reality Show is…Celebrity Fat Farm! RandWorld Productions - Dexter Novak, producer; Ian Rand, executive producer.”
Marty craned his neck to see Ian Rand and Dexter Novak rising from their seats just a few rows behind him, high-fiving one another and bounding down the aisle and up the stairs to the stage. The sound system played the theme from Fat Farm, a rap version of Baby Elephant Walk.
“All right, all right, all right!” Rand shouted, grabbing the microphone before Dexter had made it up the stairs. “This is what I’m talking about!” He raised his award into the air triumphantly. “First, I’ve got to say ‘Tough luck’ to Donald Trump and Mark Burnett. Better luck next year, boys! And I want to thank my producer here, Dexter Novak, who’s my number one man out on the line for just about every show I produce.” He thumped his hand to his chest. “He’s like a brother to me. Couldn’t do it without you, Dex. And to the fantastic celebrities who bared it all on Celebrity Fat Farm – you guys put up with a lot, you were great sports, but it was all in good fun, right? And for a good cause? I think what we do on Fat Farm is, we help people. We give people hope. And we have a laugh at the same time. What more could you want? So thanks again to the Veritas Board and we’ll see you all at the Emmys!”
Dexter leaned forward to the microphone to speak: “I’d like to thank my wife Marlene for putting up –”
Dexter’s mouth continued to move but his mic went dead, as the theme from Fat Farm once again blared from the speakers. The lovely model presenting the award steered the winners offstage, as Jason Standlin returned to do some shtick before the next presentation.
“Excuse me, Mr. Maltzman?” A nervous young man of about 25 was tapping him on the shoulder. He didn’t know this man. It took him a moment to realize it was a production assistant from the Awards.
“You’re going to walk onstage from the wings when we present your award. I’m here to escort you to the green room.”
“Oh wow,” said the seat-filler. “You’re Marty Maltzman? I wish I’d known. Because I have, like, this amazing idea for a reality show…”
Tuning the seat-filler out, Marty rose and followed the PA across the auditorium, to a side door that led to the backstage corridor. His head twisted this way and that, as he scanned the room for Crimson. Where was she? Was she going to miss his award?
The PA led Marty through a set of double doors which he unlocked using a keypad combination. They walked down a narrow hallway until they reached the collection of green rooms that housed the awards presenters and VIPS. Passing two rooms full of younger celebrity revelers, the PA ushered him into a chamber with an overhead monitor, two long leather couches, and a craft service spread of beer and wine, soft drinks, cheese, crackers and fruit. As the PA was giving him the rest of his instructions, Marty could’ve sworn he glimpsed the green spectral vision of Crimson, drifting around the corner toward the backstage area.
“Hey, Marty! Congratulations, old man!”
Lounging on the green room sofas was a trio of former A-list TV cops from the ‘80s. In the center was the most famous of all of them, Brett ‘Sterling Silver’ Windsor.
“This is your life, Marty Maltzman!” croaked Pell Sanders, formerly half of the he-said, she-said TV cop team, Marla and Miles. Since his show ended in the late ’80s, the still debonair Sanders had made a killing as a spokesman for the Internet discount travel market.
“Is this an Eighties reunion? Or just a convention of former celebrity guests from Who’s the Liar?” Marty asked.
“I’m just here as a presenter,” said a slightly paunchy John Thomas Wagner, remembered best as the gadget-whiz namesake of the detective series, Kirkpatrick. “I never did Liar. You guys?”
Windsor and Sanders looked at one another and burst into unrestrained laughter.
“What is it?” Marty asked.
