A Year with the Coen Brothers

(Part 1-4)

V

Regardless of my accident, the production had struck a verbal agreement with the local editors union that would allow me, an out-of-town union member, to sync the dailies. [Both locals have since merged.] This agreement was made under the assumption that the picture wouldn't be cut until shooting had finished and we had moved back east. The leg, which would need to be elevated for several weeks, would be a problem, however. I learned to drive with my left foot. (How hard could it be? If anything, it lowered me to a level of driving that would be more in step with the average L.A. motorist.) And hell, the pay raise would be fantastic, so I'd be benefiting all the same.

The next week saw the crew almost double. Activity, which had been steady for so long, suddenly exploded. It was hard to take, cooped up in our little office with nothing to do but think, and think some more. I couldn't get the boys a fucking cup of coffee because of my leg and I felt like a helpless putz. It rained all week, which made getting around even more tenuous; not only did I have to worry about slipping and breaking my ass, but I had to wrap plastic bags around my foot in order to protect the cast. The rain wasn't a good sign of things to come for the shoot either. I saw Schooly D. take over efficiently and enthusiastically. I brooded silently, envious as hell. But by week's end I had enough to keep me busy getting the cutting room organized and, though things weren't ideal, I was adjusting.

The day after the Super Bowl, shooting of The Big Lebowski began on location. I spent the day setting up my sunny new digs. The rain had stopped. In fact it wouldn't rain again for the rest of my stay in LA. My disposition was improving and I was getting the hang of scooting around on crutches.

My pal Sree was fascinated with the cast and the crunches, and had me repeat my war story of how I broke my foot, endlessly. After lunch, I popped into the office of Gilly Rubin, Cameron's second-in-command, and asked how things were going. "Badly," she said pointedly and asked me to sit. Out of nowhere, the hammer fell.

She told me how the IA was screwing me out of synching the dailies after all. I was sober and calm--the sinking feeling of dread came later. When Cameron returned from a remarkably short day (first shot at 9.30 a.m., wrap at 3.42 p.m.--short and sweet, the way Joel and Ethan like it, Gilly told me), he elaborated. "The IA claims we did business in bad faith; they had agreed to make an exception with you because you had been working for the guys. We didn't specify how long you had been with them and furthermore we weren't asked. But since it has only been since September, it won't cut it." On top of this, you have to have worked for thirty days on a local picture in order to qualify for the rotary, or lottery, which then allows you to be simply considered by the local union.

Cameron was even-handed, mulling over a cigar. "We're still looking into the cost effectiveness of our options." I must have looked like a deer in headlights, the panic spread broadly over my kisser. Cameron, in his best straight-man delivery, then gives me the news that truly sets me on edge. "The boys want you to go down to the set tomorrow, mid-morning, and talk to them."

Cue cliffhanger organ music. It must be bad. Otherwise I would have already spoken with the guys. I could see my worst fears realized: being sent back to New York on crutches in the middle of winter, a total failure. That evening I continued to cave in on myself and brace myself for the heave-ho. My roommate Greg G. breathed some lightness to the situation.

"Jesus, AI, these guys obviously like you enough by now, don't you think? They brought you out here, you go over and hang out with them socially, they even hooked you up with medical for your foot-they know that was a complete accident. Believe me, they aren't going to kiss you off."

He was smiling almost wistfully. "Look at you, AI. No one is going to fire you hobbling around like Tiny Tim, man. Tiny Tim doesn't get fired, AI."

Greg G, gouahce on paper

I took a Viccadin, and spent the rest of the evening fighting off all the temptations to turn on myself and play victim. I was going to put some trust in these guys--they had shown me no reason to doubt anything, but now it was something of a test to believe in myself. I mentioned earlier that what I really liked about the boys was that they always treated me like an adult, and expected nothing less in return. Perhaps this whole bind I found myself in was a blessing in disguise; a golden opportunity to conduct myself with some integrity and not ask to be taken care of like a kid.

I was a victim of circumstance--none of it was a reflection of my performance--so why feel rejected, or judged? All that was in my head. The painkillers mellowed me out, and I truly believed the way in which I handled myself the next day was more important than anything I had done on my way to becoming a man. Dare I hop on to that set believing in myself, head up, with some backbone? "You're going to be fine there, Al." Greg G. told me before he went to bed. I was beginning to think, job or no job, that he was right. The next morning I made it to the set. They were shooting the exteriors for the Lebowski house at a mansion in Beverly Hills. When the first set-up was done, the guys pulled me aside. "Step into our office, Hoppy," Ethan said.

And then they did it. They fucking fired Tiny Tim.

On Location

It wasn't done crassly, mind you, but I was pretty much canned after this meeting. Joel did the talking, Eth, the short, circular walking. I knew they both felt terrible about it. I was on the receiving end but I knew that it was killing them to have to deal with it, that it was harder for them than it was for me.

Joel broke it down gingerly. Basically, I was the victim of circumstance that I thought I was, and there wasn't much they could do about it. The deal with the IA had gone sour and they felt badly about it. My injury was a real act of fate that further put me in the sap suit. Shit, everyone wears the threads at some point or another, and, for whatever reasons, this was my time to be tested like so.

Joel put his arm around me in a rare moment of physical affection and then slowly started to laugh reflexively. "We feel really horrible." "I'm fucking fucked, right?" Ethan, peaking up, started to laugh too. Grief support in its purest form.

The next day I drove to another location in Beverly Hills, this time where they were shooting the interiors of the Lebowski mansion. I sat in the courtyard of this joint with Joel next to me on the ground, Cameron seated a few feet away on the floor as well. Ethan stood. Joel had his hand on my shoulder. He was saying, "And you know you could be sitting up the cutting room back in New York a few weeks earlier perhaps, before we finish shooting out here, like the beginning of April."

"Yeah definitely, definitely," I said like a metronome.

Then Joel gave me the opportunity to tell them to fuck off. "That is, ya know, if you still want to. .."

I didn't let the last note trail off too long before I jumped in with real enthusiasm. I thought it was cool of him to offer me the dignified out. "Of course, of course, definitely, definitely."

There was a pause. It was terribly awkward-the kind of moments that Joel and Ethan like to situate their characters in. We were all squirming a bit. I picked the moment to do my thing. "Look," I said, "I know you guys are not responsible, but I want to ask if I could get any kind of severance pay, just 'cause I need to keep eating and. .."

"No, man, we feel horrible. We do feel responsible. We're the ones who dragged you out here."

No one really knew what to do. I was in the company of men all right. We were still and quiet the way men can be with each other. I went on auto-pilot, turned on the tough-upper-lip bit, and chimed some jokes around. The tension of the meeting was over, the business was done. I had to struggle to keep my composure; shit, how pathetic would it be to be stuck on crutches bawling my eyes out?

They agreed to get back to me on some sort of severance and I would finish the week out. I picked myself up on the sticks and steadily made my way off after saying good bye with a smile. I moved past the craft service area where there were crew people I hardly knew; they were all wearing shades and looking the part to the nines and I realized where the fuck I was: far from home, limping on crutches, canned. I felt completely alone.

Perhaps I had misjudged these guys and this all had something to do with the way I asked for a little more money upfront. Or maybe it was the way I wore my pants, hanging off my ass.

When I got to my car I saw Frances and her son Pedro. I hadn't seen her since she'd arrived to stay with Joel until the end of the shoot. I suppose I wanted a shoulder to play the sap on. But in her ubiquitous manner, Frances kept it moving along, kept it short and sweet; letting me know, in effect, that this is business, and she's not going to get involved in the middle of it. She liked me too, but I had to go through this alone and that's that.

This all rushed into my head as I sat in the car, my right leg hoisted onto the passenger's seat, as she and Pedro walked off, down the hill towards the mansion. I was resentful and hurt. It was another beautiful day. But because of what she wouldn't provide, she was giving me a lot. It was, in retrospect, a sobering but classy move.