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•CONSIDER THIS•
Bounced out of the boys club:
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Bliss Bowen, Andrew Crowley, Ellen Snortland, Kamala Kirk
By Ellen Snortland Pasadena Weekly Columnist
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4 PASADENA WEEKLY | 04.07.22
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orldwide heartache over Ukraine and COVID-19 continues. Meanwhile, “Consider This” is here to amuse and occasionally generate some indignation. “Hi, Jim? I’m calling because I haven’t been put on the director’s schedule to go out with a crew for a couple of weeks… Is everything OK?” “You better come in.” Uh-oh. I wonder if that feeling of being called to the principal’s office will ever leave me. (Nope.) Let me back up and give you some context for my directing career. I have had, and continue to have, a career full of both amazements and WTF moments. On camera, I was a quick-on-my-feet star of a short-lived hidden camera show called “Anything for Money.” I had the opportunity to turn my naughty, prankster nature into gold by being an on-the-street actor, setting unsuspecting people up with actions that ranged from having them floss my teeth to taking care of my pet tarantula while I went to an interview. Hilarity ensued. I was adept at subtly turning people toward the hidden camera and having them speak clearly into my hidden microphone. I was also slick about shutting my mouth and ensuring that what they said was more important than anything I said. The show was a lot of fun and was canceled too soon. When I hit 35, my sell-by date as an on-camera person, I transitioned to behind the camera. There were few female directors in the late ’80s-early ’90s, but I became one of them, and I was good at it. I walk into the Fox Network’s “Totally Hidden Video” production office, and Jim tells me to close the door. I sit. I have a massive lump in my throat. I’m internally running the Kentucky Derby in my head. Some horses in the “I’d done something wrong” race are: I’d blown a shoot; a male crew member was friendly to my face but complained about me behind my back; someone was rankled about working for a female director. “What’s up, Jim?” “Stephen upstairs doesn’t like you.” “I have never met Stephen. Why doesn’t he like me?” “You don’t get enough jiggle.” “Huh?” “You know, tits and ass.” “Now I really don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Between shots, you don’t record women’s butts and chests, so we can use them for interstitials between bits.” “The other directors do that?” “Yes.” “Did I miss a memo? Were they told to?” “No, we don’t have to tell them. They just do it.” I’m never invited to have a beer or golf with the other directors, who are — no surprise — all white and probably heterosexual men. Now I start to understand why. I am speechless. I had no idea there was an unspoken agreement to surreptitiously record unconsenting and unsuspecting women’s orchestra and balconies. If I’d been directed to do that, I would have refused. Or at least, I like to think I would have refused. I probably would have done something smart-ass instead, like shooting dogs’ butts and chests. I liked my supervising producer and intuited that he was uncomfortable, but apparently not enough to stand up for me, even though I was highly competent. I had directed theater. I had hours of experience as a performer in the genre they hired me for. I was so proud. So excited. So well compensated. And it was a significant step forward for me. I had, and still have, a strong ethic of bringing other women up. I made a point of getting female production assistants when I picked the PAs that would go with me on shoots. I had them look through the cam-
era; shadow me, if you will. If the “boys” wouldn’t invite me to socialize with them, I would pass on what I knew to the young women on set. I was determined to use my opportunity and privilege to bring other marginalized people with me. I wish I’d had the guts to go “upstairs” to the Suit Suite and confront the executive. However, then as today, the drive to keep one’s head down, be a “team player,” and not be branded as a bitch was extremely strong. Once a woman gets painted with the broad bitch brush, she’s doomed. As it was, I psychologically limped home and wept, then went into a deep depression. I wish I’d gotten angry. I wish I’d made a scene. I wish I’d done something more, shall we say, “directorial”? And now, it is with a mixture of joy, grief and pride that I see women insisting on female crew members and that there are more and more women directing. I know what the phrase “I could have been a contender” means at a deep level. As it stood, my dream job and a breakthrough for all women was nipped prematurely in the bud because I didn’t understand the Boys’ Club. I didn’t participate in a practice that I found repugnant and still do. Jiggle, my ass! Which they could kiss. Ellen Snortland has written “Consider This…” for a heckuva long time, and she also coaches first-time book authors! Contact her at ellen@beautybitesbeast.com.
•CARTOON•
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