How Somebodies Cope
Hollywood deals with Sept. 11.

By Rob Long, an NR contributing editor. A Hollywood writer, Long writes “The Long View” for NR.
October 22, 2001 8:10 a.m.

n actor friend of mine tells the following story: He was working as a lunch-shift bartender at a swank Beverly Hills restaurant. The customers were all talking about a terrible plane crash that occurred earlier that morning. A well-known agent stopped by the bar while waiting for his lunch guest to arrive. He overheard two customers talking about the crash. It was the first he had heard of it. "How many people died?" he asked. They told him that the death count was somewhere between three and four hundred. He winced. "Oh, man, how awful," he said. "So was there anybody on the plane?"

He didn't mean anyone anyone. He meant anyone show business anyone. He meant anyone I have pretended to be best friends with in the past anyone. People who are not in show business — or, to be more specific, people who do not live in the 310 or 212 telephone area codes — are an impenetrable mystery to those of us who do. What movies they watch and why, what television shows they choose and why, what they eat, why they eat it, when they work, what they drive, and especially how on earth they seem to make do on such skimpy salaries — these thoughts obsess our waking hours. Figure them out and the world is yours. That's the chief irony of this most ironic business: Only those with the common touch can afford to live like kings. Steven Spielberg is so tuned in to the sensibilities of ordinary Americans that he no longer needs to be around them. Ever.

But it's not like we don't notice when big things happen. Since September 11th, people out here have been frantically trying to read the national mood: Do they want stories about terrorists? Do they not want stories about terrorists? Are comedies going to be big? And in an era of renewed patriotism and wartime unity, will Hollywood still be able to rely on the federal government as its catchall villain?

Hollywood, though, has a chaotic and haphazard way of stumbling right over the national mood. Of our six key genres — action/suspense, romantic drama, comedy, romantic comedy, thriller, and plain old drama — one of them has to fit the national mood, and only the first, the action picture, really seems out of the mix for a while. If there's one thing we all learned on September 11th, it's that big exploding things aren't thrilling, and that Bruce Willis is not on the airplane to save the passengers and kill the terrorists. The action picture's predictable and happy ending can't compete with September 11th's tragic fade out.

That's what we're all thinking about out here, as we wait an extra 15 minutes in the morning to have our cars searched and sniffed. The FBI has reported that the major studios may be targets of further terrorist attacks, so our cars are stopped at the studio gate, our mail is x-rayed and checked for anthrax, dogs sniff our tires, and the formerly friendly, casual gate guard — a man I have waved to twice daily for ten years — demands to see my studio ID, and when I tell him I can't find it, demands that I either find it, or in the future, stay home.

As of this morning, anthrax spores have been found in areas of Washington, DC and New York. So far, Hollywood has been spared. But in this most insecure and status conscious of towns, there is a slight sliver of the feeling of being left out, like we're suddenly not on the "A" list of people important enough to poison. This is hard for us to swallow — I mean, if we were going after the really important people, we'd certainly hit us. Maybe we'll be lucky and be overlooked. Or maybe we'll be lucky and be attacked. It all depends, I guess, on whether you're a normal person, or just know what normal people want.