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Date Posted: 12:31:23 11/16/04 Tue
Author: http://www.jewelshepard.com
Subject: THE BEST KEPT PUBLICIST SECRET

THE BEST KEPT SECRET

There are no more secrets in the film business. They make The Movie and then they make The Making-Of-The-Movie, which shows you how all the special effects were done. Then the stars of The Movie go on every possible talk show, and detail the behind-the-scenes production screw-ups and they may even run out-takes. An hour or two later, when the DVD of The Movie comes out, they put back all the deleted scenes plus the Director does an audio commentary to tell you, that during the close-up you’re watching, the assistant boom mike operator was eating a salmon salad sandwich with lettuce and tomato. Most of this is in the name of promotion and publicity.

So is there anything that’s supposed to be secret? Apparently, yes.

Ask a publicist what color panties Gwyneth Paltrow was wearing under her frock in Scene 37-A and he’ll get you the color, style and maybe even a chance to try them on. But ask about the film’s press junket and suddenly you’re a KGB agent, innocently inquiring about the nuclear silos and whether you can go in and snap a few Polaroids.

Press junkets are the clandestine rituals by which the makers, stars, and publicists of major motion pictures shmooze those who write for your local newspaper. From all around the globe, reporters converge for an orgy of screenings, partying, perks and rigidly-controlled interviews. What transpires at these kaffeeklatsches -- that they even exist at all -- is one of those bamboo-shoots-beneath-the-fingernails secrets that no one wants to give up.

The publicists won’t tell you because their job is to get press coverage without anyone inquiring if maybe, just maybe, that rave review has more to do with the perks that were dispensed than with what will be appearing on-screen at the Cineplex.

No one thinks that a couple of gifts, catered buffets and moments (almost) alone with the stars will induce a film critic to bestow four stars on a stinker. Still, with whole careers and zillions of bucks riding on the opening weekend grosses, no one wants to take the chance that it might have a teensy-impact.

And the critics will rarely, if ever, clue you in about junkets. They know that being wined and dined does not buy their votes, but they aren’t sure you’ll buy that.

Besides, even their editors don’t fully understand what goes on at these things. The boss thinks his film critic landed an exclusive, all-day one-on-one interview with Charlize Theron. No point in calling attention to the fact that dozens were done that day, assembly-line style, and that his representative was herded in and out in twenty minutes…ten of them spent getting Charlize to sign a one-sheet from The Cider House Rules.

And there’s another reason film writers who attend junkets tell you little, if anything, about them: They want to be invited back -- to the next junket and the one after and the one after and the one after.

A free trip to a big city -- usually New York or Hollywood…a luxurious hotel suite…expense account…free food and collectibles…hanging out with movie stars and top directors…who’s about to jeopardize that?

You’re not about to, especially if you’re a film critic, spending your days in dank screening rooms. A junket may be the only time you get to see daylight and/or movie stars in person.

No one says that if you pierce the veil of secrecy -- if you write about junkets instead of the movies -- you’ll be unwelcome at further soirees. But the junket operators have ways of making you feel unwelcome if, say, they find out you’re on assignment from Premiere and you just might give away a secret or three of their covert rituals. Guess how I learned that little tidbit.



I didn’t start out to write about junkets. I started out to write about Mark Berger, a likeable guy who is the film, theater, and video critic at the Winston-Salem Journal, published in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. He is among that rare breed who receives an invitation in the mail -- or, in his case, via fax -- to junket a movie. Sometimes, he does six a year.

Being on those lists means he gets lots of free stuff: T-shirts, sweatshirts, hats, bags, and even soap -- most recently, pink soap, courtesy of the makers of Fight Club. (Rule #1 of Fight Club: You don’t write about Fight Club unless they send you pink soap.)

More importantly, he gets to be up-close and personal with many people, including many he has admired for years. He also gets to see a whole bunch of movies and -- as he tells me several times -- “Movies are my life.? I make arrangements to meet him in New York and tag along.



It is cold in Manhattan but my new friend Mark is attempting to warm me up to the idea that John Frankenheimer is a “Saint.? He has brought along movie posters for him to sign, including one for Black Sunday. “Seen it twenty times,?he tells me, enthusiastically. It is a Berger tradition to, every Super Bowl Sunday, watch this movie which is all about a plot to blow up the Super Bowl.

That’s funny, I think: It’s a female tradition to, every Super Bowl Sunday, plot to blow up the Super Bowl. For real.

Just in case I need any further convincing of his devotion to St. Frankenheimer, he lists every single Frankenheimer movie, along with a little info on each -- who starred in it, what it meant to him, stuff like that. And all the time, he’s wearing a t-shirt displaying one word -- Ronin. Frankenheimer’s previous film.

What each film meant to him is fascinating, since movies clearly mean a lot to Mark. Growing up was hard, owing to his parents?painful divorce. In lieu of some sort of family support, he had television. For hours, days, weeks and years, Mark would watch old movies and even older movies. He claims that, at age ten, he was an expert on William Holden’s career. (At age ten, I was still mastering the recipe for Nestl?s Quik.)

As he got older, Mark yearned to know more about the “people who make the movies?and he began to notice little things -- editing, camera angles, stylistic techniques. It all came together one night when he caught the television premiere of The French Connection II. He was, he tells me, “blown away?by it.

That day, he became a huge Gene Hackman fan and an even bigger fan of John Frankenheimer, the film’s director. Even the worst of the man’s films, Mark says, have “great moments.?

Suddenly, a pressing issue arises...one Mark has obviously given a great amount of thought: How is he going to approach John Frankenheimer for his autograph?

Mark tells me that at every junket, he likes to get a few things signed. A few brethren critics have frowned audibly on his autograph-seeking, decrying him as “unprofessional, immature, and juvenile.?

?..and maybe I am,?Mark grins, not that he cares what they say. Apparently, even film critics don’t listen to film critics when they get bad reviews.

The press junket for Erin Brockovich is being held at the Regency Hotel. As we hike there, Mark decides to stop off and buy a couple of cigars -- one for Albert Finney and one for St. Frankenheimer. Says Mark, “It’s the least I can do for all the hours of enjoyment he’s given me.?

On our way, it begins to snow -- an apt metaphor for what is about to transpire over the next few days.

At the Regency, Mark checks in at Universal Studios?hospitality suite, where we’re invited to partake of a sumptuous buffet -- the first of many we shall see this junket, all equally sumptuous. We meet up with one of Mark’s fellow critics -- Louie from The Calgary Sun, and they launch into immediate evaluations of the “goodie bag?that has been provided. Well, what do you expect? They’re critics.

This one gets Two Thumbs Up, mainly for the high-quality Gear sweatshirt with matching hat, both meticulously displaying the Erin Brockovich logo. Rave reviews are also heard for the press kit which contains a lovely set of color slides and a ton of literature: Storyline, interesting anecdotes about the making of the film, facts and figures, the works. I could write a dozen articles on, and even review Erin Brockovich, just from what’s supplied. That’s without even seeing the film. I wonder how many critics omit that step.

Mark wants to introduce me to Greg, who is head honcho of this junket. Mark doesn’t expect any objections but feels he should inform them I’m writing an article about him. He gets about halfway through the word “article?before Greg’s personal smoke alarm starts beeping.

He refuses to introduce himself and says he fears “seeing his name in print.? This strikes me as odd, given that he is surrounded by professional reporters, all loaded down with notepads and digital recorders, and it is Greg’s current mission to see that they all go home and generate numerous articles. But maybe he’s just afraid that mentions of him will detract from the product he’s pushing. “We’re here to be of help,?Greg explains, “and not to be seen and heard from.?

Mark reassures him that nothing negative will be written and asks if I could attend some of the Round Tables and “One-on-Ones?with the various stars and filmmakers. This is to -- you know, “see what a critic does at a junket.?

Greg responds by turning the color of Ben and Jerry’s Vanilla Heath Bar Crunch ice cream. And he’s almost as warm: “We didn’t know anything about it,?he stammers.

Mark doesn’t understand the problem. He’s brought friends and family members before and no one said boo. But bringing a press person to a press junket has the guy in charge of getting articles written panicked that an article may be written. “This is a sensitive issue,?he says, all the time insisting he is not being paranoid. He finally decides that since I’m not here doing something on Erin Brockovich alone, he “can’t really let me get in on the Round Tables.?

Huh? The suite is steadily filling with reporters and film critics, all of whom are here to cover many films and subjects, not just this one film. They’re all welcome at the Round Tables.

Back and forth Greg paces, all the while impressing upon me “the whole point of this is to promote the movie, not to promote junkets.? Then he adds, “You should see the film. It’s really great.? (Premiere editors, take note: The man in charge of the press junket for Erin Brockovich says the movie is really great. There’s your headline story right there.)

I mingle with the other writers who are busily denuding the buffet. One female critic complains that, though she is junketing Madonna’s latest screen opus, The Next Best Thing, she isn’t going to get to interview Madonna. She’s going to have to settle for its director, John Schlesinger. “This is not why I flew all the way here,?she complains. Apparently, Mr. Schlesinger is not The Next Best Thing.

Another critic -- a man -- tells her that Paramount screwed-up that whole junket, anyway. Madonna was eager to get back to London to “finish up her CD thing?and she cancelled, then uncancelled. I ask him if I should try and catch the movie. “Noooo,?he laughs. “Don’t do that!?

All during this discussion, Greg has been hovering around me, trying to decide if I can help or hurt. Finally, when he finds out I’m from Premiere, he adopts his happiest face and says, “Oh, I’m sorry I tried to dispose of you.? He even demonstrates good faith by telling me his name -- more than my last boy friend did -- though he reminds me several times that the idea here is “to promote the movie and not the junket.? Later, he decides it’s okay for me to attend the screening.

What about the Round Table discussions tomorrow? Uh, well, gee...you never saw a subject changed so rapidly in your life.



Mark and I have a few hours to kill before the movie so we go back to his room. He sprawls on the bed, again musing about the best way to approach Him. “Mr. Frankenheimer, I’m a huge fan,?he rehearses.

“Mr. Frankenheimer, I’m a huge fan...?

“Mr. Frankenheimer, I’m a huge fan...?

He has until Saturday to perfect his reading. That’s when they’re having the “One-on-One?with the director of Reindeer Games, as part of that film’s junket. It’s the latest, hopefully greatest John Frankenheimer flick and the whole reason Mark is here.

“You know, you don’t get into journalism for the money,?he says -- and cites his yearly earnings as proof. They peak-out at around thirty-six thousand dollars, but there’s the occasional non-monetary bonus. He tells me he’s about to realize a long-held dream. Letting out a big sigh, he waves his hand over the precious stills and posters he’s brought and whispers, “To have them all signed…by my all-time favorite director?



Soon, we’re on a Greyhound-looking-bus bound for the Erin Brockovich screening. The same woman critic who earlier was complaining about Madonna is anxiously asking the assemblage, “Has anyone seen The Whole Nine Yards??Apparently no one has and this is not good news.

“I need to find someone...anyone who’s seen it!? She flops down into the seat and groans, “They’ve invited me...now I have to talk to these people and I haven’t seen the movie.?

Another critic has a beef with Julia Roberts: “Why is Julia holding a press conference instead of a round table??

Someone says it’s because she seems to favor the foreign press over them. Yet another shouts, “We love you Julia! Why won’t you love us??

Upon entering the theater, we‘re handed another “official?press kit -- most of the same paperwork but this one contains glossy photos of the stars instead of color slides. We also receive a coupon entitling us “a free medium popcorn and medium soda?and a red ticket stub that allows us to sit in the taped-off, preferred section of the theater.



Heading back to the hotel, Mark decrees that Erin Brockovich “will do big business?and that Julia and Albert “have great chemistry, together.? But he is more interested in talking about tomorrow’s scheduled One-on-One with Albert Finney. Mark has been “allowed?twenty minutes and he’s worried that the guy before him will run long.

He’s also worried about Greg, the publicist for Universal. Mark thinks that Greg fears I’ll do some scathing article on junkets. (That thought hadn’t occurred to me. But it sure has now.)

We join a dinner table with several other critics. The topic is -- surprise, surprise -- movies. Between ordering and dessert, it feels like every movie ever made is analyzed, critiqued and ritually dissected.

I sit there, dumbfounded. I thought I knew a lot about movies but I’m an amateur at this table. These people, collectively, know everything about every movie -- from the most obscure silent flickers to as-yet-unreleased made-for-video productions. They also know all the gossip about current stars, much of it gleaned from recent junkets.

There’s a sudden outbreak of Melanie Griffith stories. Ms. Griffith is, I gather, famed for giving answers that cause interviewers?jaws to carom off the linoleum. At past junkets, she has displayed a certain paucity of I.Q. points like -- if one anecdote is to believed -- what happened at a Round Table for Shining Through. She was asked, the story goes, what she’d learned during its making and she expressed amazement that so many Jews had been killed during World War II.

Another critic speaks of the time in Atlanta when, on a junket for The General’s Daughter, its two stars got so involved in a debate over gun control that they didn’t bother to plug the movie. Madeleine Stowe expressed strong views against violence while John Travolta took the position that it was the media and politicians making a mountain out of a molehill. This was not long after the Columbine High School shooting and it all got very ugly...though all the critics who were present say it was the best Round Table they’d ever attended.

On and on, the war stories continue. Almost every critic has a tale of Holly Hunter screaming, “It’s none of your Goddamn business?when asked any question she doesn’t want to answer. They agree though that she’s still better than certain actors (named but with no consensus) who are, sans script, unable to utter a coherent sentence.



It’s snowing again as Mark and I cab to the Regency Hotel the next day. No one says I can’t sit in on a Round Table with Aaron Eckhart. Unfortunately, Aaron is late so our group sits around, discussing an incident at the previous morning’s Snow Day junket. One critic, they say, asked Chevy Chase, “What happened to your career?? Chevy’s response was a deadpan expression of being terribly insulted, followed by an attempt at humor.

“Actually,?one critic insists, “That’s a good question. What did happen to his career?? A cackle of laughter engulfs the room.

One gathers these people do not have a high opinion of Mr. Chase or his choice of films. (One reporter says Snow Day is “frightfully Godawful?and I find myself wondering what he’d say if he liked it even less.) Later, we hear Chevy has cancelled his Round Tables for today. Gee, I wonder why.

Mark hauls out an eight-by-ten he will get signed by Aaron Eckhart, assuming Aaron shows. A few critics make snide remarks about how they’re there to get interviews, not autographs.

Just then Aaron walks in, followed by a publicist. He takes his place at the head of the conference table where, facing him, are eight tape recorders, poised to record his every word. The publicist takes her position in the corner, seated directly behind him.

Aaron stares, transfixed, at eight red lights on eight tape recorders, indicating they’re on and taping. He smiles and mutters boyishly, “I hope you guys will be kind to me.? Well, since he’s not in Snow Day, they probably will.

For twenty minutes, we hear how great Julia Roberts was to work with, how great she was to kiss, how great the director was, how great Erin Brockovich is. Then he really gets enthusiastic when he talks about his recently-acquired Harley-Davidson, which is really great.

Aaron signs Mark’s eight-by-ten, then he’s done, at least with us. Only five more Round Tables to go for us; God knows how many for him.

As the publicist escorts him out, Albert Finney strolls in without a publicist. He’s a stage-trained actor; he doesn’t miss entrances.

Finney introduces himself to everyone in the room -- like we don’t all know who he is, though it’s still polite. And charming. He holds the room spellbound for a third of an hour, speaking of Erin Brockovich, sharing little personal bits about himself and others -- how he felt meeting Julia for the first time, what he noticed when meeting Steven Sonderbergh for the first time, and so on. He uses words like “superb?and “marvelous?all enunciated and executed with the tone of someone doing Shakespeare-in-the-Park.

He lets us know how impressed he was with Julia, explaining that, in the profession of acting, “Women are not only judged as artists, they’re being judged as women.? In a thunderous tone, that only the British seem capable of handling, he announces that Julia “rose to that occasion.? If there were an Oscar category for Best Performance At A Junket, he’d be a shoo-in.

As it comes time for him to be elsewhere, the critics are on their feet, begging for the seventh or eighth “one last question.? And those who frowned on Mark getting Aaron Eckhart to sign a photo have all pulled Albert Finney’s photo from their press kits for him to sign.

Finally, Mr. Finney makes a mad dash for the door and his next Round Table. We have twenty minutes until the next subject. That means twenty minutes of actor-bashing. The topic is “Small and old.?

Victim #1: Gene Kelly. One critic is still amazed at how Kelly had aged at the junket for That’s Entertainment III. (Never mind the man was eighty at the time. Movie stars aren’t supposed to age.)

Victim #2: Paul Newman. “Short, and much older than he appears on screen,?someone proclaims. (Never mind he’s almost eighty, too.)

Victim #3: Robert Redford. “In person, old, old, old,?someone says.

But, they say, you never know what to expect. A female critic tells of the first time she ever interviewed Michael Jordan. She didn’t know who he was at the time but she did notice, “He’s a tall black man!? (Attention, Premiere editors: I think we have another scoop.)

All bashing ends abruptly as two of the producers of Erin Brockovich, Carla Santos Shamberg and Michael Shamberg, enter and proceed to tell us how big the film will be. Producers aren’t nearly as much fun as actors unless they’re famous. The Shambergs aren’t, as evidenced by the fact that no one wants anything signed.

Fortunately, one of the next producers is famous. Danny DeVito and Stacey Sher waltz in, moments after the Shambergs depart. They also tell us how big the movie will be, though Danny is careful not to say -- as others do of their films -- that it will blow all others off the box office charts. This may be good sportsmanship or it may be because he is also a producer of Drowning Mona, which is on tomorrow’s junket line-up.

Danny and Stacey are very effective as a team. He starts sentences, she finishes them and vice-versa. Then Danny starts talking about films in which he intends to act, films he plans to direct, films he wants to produce. One question sets him off on a mini-tirade about all the different companies that put their logo at the start of a movie. “Future productions will be only logos...no movies.? There are four on Drowning Mona, including his.

As Danny and Stacey leave us, a publicist -- or rather, a publicist’s assistant -- motions me over and makes me review who I am and what magazine I’m writing for. I tell her, adding that Greg “didn’t see a problem.? She thinks it over and decides, “Okay, then I don’t see a problem, either.?

In the meantime, while awaiting the next interviewee, the critics are again bashing actors, in particular Harrison Ford’s performance, not in Random Hearts but at its junket: “It bugs me the way he comes across. It’s obvious he hates junkets. I think he shouldn’t do ‘em, and do us all a favor.? (Yeah, and if he didn’t, that critic would be sitting here moaning, “Harrison Ford thinks he’s too good to talk to us.?

Tom Hanks doesn’t fare much better: “He’s gotten so nasty now that he’s won two Oscars in a row?adding that he’s growing more like his characters, in particular the one he portrayed in Saving Private Ryan.

Yet another argues, “I’ll take Hanks over Helen Hunt any day…”

Enter Stephen Soderbergh. All bashing stops and the critics scurry back to their seats, but not before shoving tape recorders in front of the director of Erin Brockovich. We get the usual twenty minutes before a publicist interrupts. Mark barely has time to get a photo signed to him.



The morning’s Round Tables are done but there’s no rest for the weary, no time to bash stars for succumbing to the aging process. Everyone’s suddenly up and sprinting for the lobby where Julia Roberts will shortly be holding a press conference.

The critics are excited since Ms. Roberts is a genuine, bona fide Movie Star. On the other hand, they don’t much like that she’s doing a press conference instead of Round Tables and One-on-Ones. With this format, it’s harder to craft that article that suggests Julia cleared the day to grant you a personal chat. And it’s almost impossible to get autographs.

Still, we all file into the room, lusting for the front rows.

Well, almost all of us. There is the little matter of me getting in.

“I don’t find you on my list,?the publicist at the door insists with a note of horror in her voice. I explain I’m from Premiere but she says, “We can’t let anybody into the press conference who wasn’t approved already by Julia Roberts?publicist. (Why? Is she discussing National Security Issues in there?)

Another publicist joins her and we go through it all again. I tell her, “Greg said he didn’t see a problem.?

There are more discussions involving still more publicity personnel. I am made to wait while all the other reporters file in, along with other publicists. I try to catch the eye of Greg, who didn’t see a problem, but Greg now doesn’t see me, either. Or maybe doesn’t want to.

Suddenly, a man and a woman storm up to me and, in accusatory tone, demand to know if I have “Round Tabled The Talent?this morning. I admit I was there and suddenly, I feel like I’ve just admitted to being on the grassy knoll with a howitzer, standing right behind Mr. Zapruder.

The woman says The Talent wasn’t given the opportunity of approving me and therefore, whatever I write must not include the names of The Talent, their films or the studios involved.

Well, that will make a splendid article. Can I mention the stunning upholstery in the room? And isn’t the whole idea of this to get the names of The Talent, their films and the studios into print?

The woman adds, “And I can’t let you into the press conference, unfortunately.? She starts to walk away but stops to add, “There’s soup in the ballroom. Have lunch on us.? I resist asking her if I can mention what kind of soup it is, since the croutons haven’t had the chance to approve me.

Instead, I check in with my Premiere editor via pay phone and find that publicists have been calling him to verify my assignment. Simultaneously, other publicists have been calling around the Premiere offices to verify my verifier and/or complain about the fact that I’m here at all. From their tone, it sounds like I have diphtheria and have been coughing on everyone.

Mark comes by, fretting that my presence will somehow cost him his scheduled One-on-One with Albert Finney. After all, he has more pictures to get signed, plus he bought Finney a cigar. But there’s no time to talk about that now; Julia’s press conference is starting.



Later, when we meet up, he is the happiest person on the planet.

“He hugged me,?Mark grins. “I gave him the cigar and Albert Finney hugged me!? Not only hugged him but signed everything else he’d brought and posed for a photo, to boot. But Mark’s mood suddenly turns pale: There’s a “rumor?circulating that a journalist is infiltrating the junkets to write some “underground?story about them.

It sounds pretty silly. First off, Premiere is about as “underground?as the CBS Evening News with Dan Rather. Secondly, as you may have guessed, the secrecy and panic at the prospect of an article about junkets is what is already causing this to morph into an article about junkets.

As we walk to the Essex House -- site of the sessions for Reindeer Games and Drowning Mona, Mark is apologizing but explaining that, henceforth, he must ignore me. He says he doesn’t want to “get screwed out of anything.? He especially doesn’t want to jeopardize his personal audience with John (the Saint) Frankenheimer.

In the Miramax hospitality suite, things are...well, hospitable. A nice gent named Gary has the title, “Manager, Regional Publicity and Junkets?and I tell him flat-out I’m doing a story for Premiere on Mark and on junkets. He does not flinch and tells me I am more than welcome to attend today’s screening of Reindeer Games.

What about the One-on-Ones and the Round Tables? “Oh, well, let me just ask somebody...? But he also adds, “I’m sure we’re gonna make it happen. You can just sit there and do all the Round Tables tomorrow.? Then he turns to Mark and confirms his 3:30 One-on-One with John Frankenheimer. “You know,?he tells Mark. ?:30 is an approximate time. If you were to get here early, I could give you a few more minutes.?

Mark is, once again, the happiest person on the planet.

Then we go up to the suite for the Drowning Mona Junket. Once again, I hear, “I don’t see it being a problem.? This publicist also means the screening of the film, so I ask about the One-on-Ones and the Round Tables. She also has to run it past someone else but, right now, she tells me, “Take a water cooler.?

A what?

She hands me a two-foot tall, miniature working water cooler. On the bottle is a cast photo and below on the base is printed, Drowning Mona. I am also given a lovely press kit and made to feel very welcome, indeed. Just like in the Reindeer Games suite.

Then I go back to my hotel where I find a message from Gary, the publicist for Reindeer Games. It says, “Will not be able to accommodate your request?and it’s time-stamped less than fifteen minutes after I left him and he told me he didn’t see a problem.

Another check-in with my editor. Miramax has been calling Premiere, explaining some sort of company policy. Again, my editor asks what I’m doing here to get everyone so upset. Mark, meanwhile, has decided that henceforth he will have to “fly solo?and that, at tonight’s screening, we’d better sit at opposite ends of the theater.

I ask him if it would make him feel better if I didn’t attend the screening at all. Apparently, it will so I don’t.



The next day, Mark takes the courageous step of walking with me -- in public! -- to the Essex House, where I have so far not been uninvited to the Drowning Mona Round Tables. To my surprise, I am checked off, approved for entry, and even handed a travel expense sheet, via which I could get reimbursed for any cab fare I’d incurred going to or from the previous evening’s screening. I start to feel very guilty for not having gone to it, especially when they tell us that hot coffee and muffins await us within.

This turns out to be half-true: We have coffee but no muffins. Some of the reporters are pissed at this.

As we wait for things to start, Mark reveals to me that at Julia’s press conference, he was pulled aside and told how they “felt compromised?by my presence and that we’d “ambushed them.? Then, at one of the screenings, another publicist “jokingly suggested?to him that, in the future, there might just be a problem with him and junkets.

Uh-oh. Things are getting nasty. Am I the reason we don’t have muffins?

A critic in our group -- Louis of the Houston Chronicle -- is telling us about a privileged One-on-One he had with Julia Roberts. “She was wearing this mauve-purple thing...she looked really nice.?

He goes on to explain that, one thing he noticed in Erin (we’re all now on a first-name basis with the movie) is that Julia is always wearing these enormous platform high heels, and he asked her if she really wore shoes like that. Her reply was to lift her foot and display a shoe with an equally enormous, high heel. He says he also noticed her “mauve, dress-matching pedicure.?

This is the kind of vital information that her publicists are seeking to keep from you, the loyal Premiere reader.

While another critic complains about the lack of muffins, Mark reminds Louis of a funny moment at Julia’s press conference. She was surrounded by at least fifty tape recorders and, in the middle of an answer, one clicked off. End of tape.

Ever helpful, Julia found the tape recorder in question and turned the tape over, only to notice that written on the label of the other side was info denoting a previous interview with Reese Witherspoon. “Sorry, Reese,?Julia said as she pushed the record button. Everyone howled with laughter.

Before things get under way, there is more actor-bashing, along with complaints about the absence of those muffins. Damn it, we were promised muffins!

Finally, Nick Gomez, director of Drowning Mona, enters. A publicist asks him if he needs anything and all the critics answer in unison: “Yes! He needs muffins! Lots of muffins!?

Asked what was the most difficult aspect of the production, Gomez says it was the Yugo. They had to buy them wherever they could find them -- one in Arizona, one in Denver, one in New Jersey and so on. At the time, NATO was bombing Belgrade, where the main office of the Yugo Car Corporation is located. The film wound up buying twelve at the hefty price of two grand apiece and not all were operational. In some shots where it looks like Neve Campbell is driving one, she was in fact being pushed.

Like I said earlier: No secrets anymore.

One reporter asks Nick why he wanted Casey Affleck for this picture. Nick replies, “I don’t know,?which I gather is always the wrong answer in any Round Table. They all pounce on him...

“You don’t know??

“What do you mean, you don’t know?? Apparently, directors are always supposed to know. And arrive with muffins.

Another reporter complains about some anachronisms in what is supposed to be a period picture. “You know the scene where she’s putting on the nail polish,?the reporter asks.

Gomez, who has suddenly found himself on The Chris Farley Show, admits that he remembers the scene where she’s putting on the nail polish.

“Well,?the reporter triumphantly reveals, “that particular brand of polish has been out for about two years.?

The director suppresses the urge to recall all prints of the film for a major edit and mutters, “I didn’t know,?just as the publicist mercifully announces that time is up.

Nick Gomez springs to his feet and, giving a line-reading that wouldn’t survive the first edit of an Ed Wood movie, says “That was fun.? As he hurries from the room, someone asks where the hell those muffins are.

( continue to part 2 )

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