One

January 2006

J
eannie, there’s a problem,” my assistant, Caitlin, said
calmly. “She won’t come out of her trailer.” The pho-
tographer and I jerked our heads up from studying the
lighting on the test shots. The “she” was the star of the movie.
The photographer looked at me. We both knew this one was my
problem, not his. He got paid fifty thousand dollars a day just to
snap photos, not deal with unreasonable, egotistical, or just plain
psychotic movie stars. That was my job. I’m an executive at a
major film studio, Oxford Pictures, and I handle the advertising.
This means I head up teams of ­people to create the movie trailers,
television spots, and posters.
I was in the middle of a photo shoot for Oxford Pictures’
Heaven Is in the Wind. It was a dog of a film and we all knew
it. I could just see the review headlines now: “It blows.” But that
didn’t matter. Opening weekend of a picture is the marketing ex-
ecutive’s responsibility. After that, it stands or stumbles on its own
merits. But an audience initially goes to a film based on the ad-

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 8 Dana Precious

vertising and publicity. So while I didn’t make the films, it was my

job to sell them to an unsuspecting public.
Right now, I was attempting to get photos of the damn star,
Nikki Strong, so we could create a poster. And, as usual, Nikki
Strong was not cooperating.
“Okay, where’s her publicist?” I asked Caitlin. Although we
spoke in quiet tones, it was a calm neither one of us felt. It had
taken months just to nail down a date for this photo shoot, then
another month to get the star to agree to a photographer, all while
the studio pressed me to make it happen.
“She’s at two o’clock and bearing down on you,” Caitlin said in
my ear. “And you have the director of TechnoCat on hold on line
one, the producer of Sheer Panic on line two, your iPhone just
beeped with some emails from the studio, and a messenger deliv-
ered a bunch of paperwork you have to sign and return ASAP.” I
nodded, feeling that tightening in my stomach that happens when
it seems that I can only keep up if I run at a dead sprint all day and
all night. I have that feeling pretty much all the time.
“Oh, and your sister Sammie called and wants you to call
back as soon as you can,” Caitlin called over her shoulder as
she whisked away to check on the special catering that had been
ordered for Nikki—no carbs, no fats, no pepper, salt, cheddar
cheese, or brown M&M’s.
The publicist stormed up to me and thrust a bottle in my face.
“Where is it? I demand to know why you don’t have the Belgian
water that Nikki drinks. I won’t let her come out of that trailer
until she has it! No Nikki, no shoot!” I looked this ranting woman
straight in the eye. This shoot day was costing about $125,000.
No matter how much I had to beg, squeeze, cajole, or threaten
­people, it had to happen. A publicist, on the other hand, is hired
by the star to handle things like appearances on Jay Leno or in

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 Born Under a Lucky Moon 9

­ eople. They spin the press when “their star” is caught doing
P
something like mating with a donkey. (He was only petting it.
Don’t believe the photos. Did I tell you how much of a humanitar-
ian he is? Every cent he makes goes to the ASPCA.)
They are also responsible for working with the likes of me on
photo shoots. Most of the publicists are pretty nice, but this one
was on the verge of being fired by Nikki Strong, her meal ticket.
The gossip was all over town and, worse, all over the industry
blogs. I took the bottle and studied the label. Then I looked at my
clipboard, which had the list of the star’s “needs” for the shoot.
This very publicist had emailed it to me personally. I had checked
and double-checked it. “There is no mention of Belgian water on
your list,” I said in my sweetest voice.
Caitlin came up behind me. “Perhaps if you tell me where I
can buy it I can send someone for it.”
“You moron! You buy it in Belgium. You would have had to
ship it here two days ago via FedEx.” Desperation had crept into
the nasty tone of her voice. She snatched the clipboard out of my
hands and studied the list. The water wasn’t mentioned.
Caitlin’s face didn’t register the name-calling. She just whis-
pered, “We’ve lost an hour between this water thing and the
makeup artist being late. That means you have to kill two shots.
Want me to talk to the art director about it?” I gave an impercep-
tible nod without turning from the frantic publicist and Caitlin
glided away. The publicist sagged on the Philippe Starck couch
and leaned against the purple wall. She knew the water wasn’t
on the list. I sat beside her. “Let’s work this thing out. How many
bottles do you have with you?”
“Just this one,” she croaked. “Nikki said she wouldn’t come
out unless there are twelve.” Ah, I thought. There’s the truth. The
publicist had said that she wouldn’t let Nikki come out, but it was

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 10 Dana Precious

really Nikki being unreasonable. The publicist had made a little

power play so it would look like she was in charge, but nope.
Now, I could have marched up to Nikki’s trailer and nicely
explained that we didn’t have the water and asked her if perhaps
another water would do for her. But that’s not the way it works.
The trick is never to let the talent have an excuse not to show up
on set. If I admitted that we didn’t have the water, I would be at
the mercy of the pampered star. You might expect Nikki to be
reasonable and say, “Of course. Don’t be silly. I’ll drink tap water
and be right out there on set in a jiffy.” But chances were pretty
good that she would really say, “This is unacceptable! I’m taking
these scented candles and that case of Cristal champagne and
this cute makeup man and going home!” Then the studio would
be out all the money we had spent on the shoot. But, more im-
portantly, I wouldn’t have the photos for the poster. While Oxford
Pictures will forgive a cost overrun, it will never forgive the movie
advertising being late.
I looked at the bottle shape. It looked like a bottle of Evian
except for the label. I signaled Caitlin to get the ad agency art
director. He bounced up to me with a smile that quickly faded
when he saw the publicist’s face.
“Do you have a computer and printer here?” I asked him.
“Yeah,” he said warily.
“What about a scanner?”
“No, but I could get one here in ten minutes.”
“All right, this is what you are going to do,” I said. “Gently,
and I do mean gently, peel this label off the bottle. Then scan it
and print out twelve copies.” The art director nodded. I turned to
Caitlin but she had already anticipated me.
“I’ll get twelve identical bottles,” she said and walked off. She
called over her shoulder, “I told the director of TechnoCat you

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 Born Under a Lucky Moon 11

would call back but he had a hissy fit. He’s still on hold. The pro-
ducer of Sheer Panic said he’ll phone back in an hour. Oh, and
that guy who stars in Jet Fuel left you a message.”
I felt my colon twist again. There was never enough time to
take care of everyone. I felt like a kindergarten teacher. No parent
cares that you have twelve other kids to deal with besides their
precious Jane or Johnny. And no film director or producer wants
to know you’re handling any other movie than their own.
The art director reaching for the Belgian water bottle brought
me back to the here and now. I hung on to it fast. “Can you give
us just one sec?” I asked the art director. He moved out of ear-
shot.
“Here’s the deal,” I told the publicist as I patted her hand.
“You’re going to have to do one thing that you’re going to hate
before any of that bottle-making can happen.”
She lifted an eyebrow.
“You’re going to apologize to Caitlin for calling her a moron.”
“Who’s Caitlin?”
I couldn’t believe it. Caitlin had been speaking to this publicist
on the phone fifteen times a day for months. “She’s my assistant.”
“I’m not apologizing to an assistant.”
What a bitch! I stared at her. Then I called her bluff. I handed
her back the bottle, stood up, and walked away. I thought she
wasn’t going to do it. Nobody in Hollywood apologizes for any-
thing. You will never hear the words “I’m sorry” because this indi-
cates fault, and nobody is ever at fault in Hollywood. I had taken
four steps before I heard, “Okay, I’ll do it.”
Caitlin was on the other side of the room talking urgently to a
caterer. I assumed she was telling them to get the bottles. Catching
her eye, I motioned for her to come over. The publicist didn’t even
look up as she breathed, “I apologize for calling you a moron.”

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 12 Dana Precious

“I accept your apology,” Caitlin said promptly, then turned on

her heel and went back to the caterer. I patted the publicist’s hand
again. Then I handed off the bottle to the art director and ran to
pick up line one.
“Do you realize you have kept me waiting for almost four min-
utes?” a familiar nasal voice rang in my ear.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, trying not to pant from running, “I was in
the bathroom.” That’s a pretty fail-safe answer because nobody
can dispute it and nobody particularly wants details.
“I want to talk to you again about the marketing strategy for
TechnoCat. I don’t understand why the studio thinks we should
downplay Cat’s mother dying of cancer. It’s a timely issue. ­People
will flock to see that.”
I had serious doubts that anyone would flock to see a movie
about cancer on the Fourth of July weekend, or on any other
weekend. But I couldn’t say that. “Well, Stripe”—I shook my head
to myself every time I had to say his absurd name—“this is a
film with big special effects, huge action, a love story, and it’s
based on the most beloved newspaper comic strip of our time.
The cancer is just a minuscule portion of the story.”
“But it’s pivotal. It’s what gives TechnoCat her strength and
angst. We have to portray that!”
“But we’re targeting our primary advertising to ­people from
the ages of thirteen to thirty-four. There are more exciting ways
to drive them to a theater than to talk about cancer.” I held the
phone to my ear with my shoulder while the art director handed
me the phony water labels. I looked at them and nodded and the
art director darted off.
I tuned back in to the voice in my ear. “I’m not stopping until
I get the trailer I want! And the trailer I want focuses on cancer.
I’m calling the president of marketing and the chairman of the

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 Born Under a Lucky Moon 13

studio and telling them you are being uncooperative!” The phone
slammed in my ear. Be my guest, Stripe, I thought. The studio
knew that TechnoCat had to open to at least sixty million dollars
to make its money back. They would not support the cancer ap-
proach to marketing.
But I also knew that they wouldn’t directly tell him that. No, I
knew I was going to be told to cut a cancer-ridden trailer so that
boundless amounts of money could be spent on research. This
research would prove what the studio knew all along: that not too
many ­people would race to see a movie about cancer. But it de-
flected a confrontation with a valuable director and the director
could then blame the appropriate party: the audience.
I sighed but was happy to see twelve Belgian-labeled bottles,
filled with Evian water, sitting proudly on the catering table. Cait-
lin was in charge of making sure nobody, but nobody, touched
the bottles except for Miss Nikki Strong. I checked my watch.
Only seventeen minutes had elapsed. Not bad.
I reviewed the photo shoot list I had meticulously planned out
over the past week. It had every detail of the day listed down to
the minute. Shot one: Headshots (happy) 10:00 a.m. Shot two:
Headshots (sad) 10:15 a.m. And on and on. After confirming we
hadn’t lost one of the crucial poses, I finally took a break. All we
could do now was wait for the star to come on set. Caitlin sat
down next to me and checked her BlackBerry.
“Hey.” She nudged me while looking at an email. “Looks
like Katsu got that promotion.” I barely looked up from my own
emails. Katsu Tanaka was another creative advertising executive
at Oxford Pictures. He was a few ranks below me and worked on
the smaller-budgeted films. I didn’t pay him much attention.
“Yeah, he’s been bucking for senior vice president for a while
now. I heard it was finally going to happen.”

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 14 Dana Precious

“He didn’t get SVP, Jeannie,” Caitlin said. “This press release
says he got executive vice president.”
“What?” I snatched her BlackBerry to see for myself. No way
had Katsu skipped up two levels to EVP. That was unheard of.
Furthermore, it meant he was now my equal. I studied the press
release. How the hell had this happened? It wasn’t like Katsu had
done anything spectacular for the studio—which meant he had
formed allies in high places who were helping him with a me-
teoric rise. Working at a studio is a lot like playing chess. Most
everyone is a player and trying to maneuver into a better position.
I realized with a sinking feeling that somehow I hadn’t noticed a
few crucial moves.
Before I could dwell on the situation, Nikki finally arrived on
set. She blew air kisses on either side of the photographer’s face
and ignored the studio ­people. I saw her eyes narrow and move
to the water. She was making sure that we had jumped through
the proper hoops for her. After all, she was the third most power-
ful female star in America, wasn’t she?
“Would you like some water, Miss Strong?” Caitlin inquired.
“No water today. I want a Diet Coke with two cubes of ice,”
Nikki sniffed, and tossed her famous golden ringlets. I looked
over at the catering table, where Diet Pepsi bottles were neatly
lined up, and sighed.
The shoot finally ended around eight o’clock that evening.
Since it was a Saturday, it had ended fairly early. After thanking
the star for actually doing her job, I bolted out the door.
I was having dinner with Aidan tonight, and he had told me it
was for something special. He was making me a gourmet dinner.
He’s a great cook. I’m a lousy cook but a good eater, so it works
out. At red lights I texted furiously, trying to get more information

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