Pillow Concierge!

Most excellent three days in Boston with Brian--a great combination of local color and prodigious luxury. We love Boston, but it's just so darned crowded. A couple of times already this year we've decamped early because we just couldn't deal with the traffic and the crowds. Accommodations at the Battery Wharf Hotel--problem solved! When they say it's "on the water," they mean it's literally on top of the water, on a pier. No cars anywhere around. Even with the windows open, all you hear is the sound of little waves lapping.

Recently, luxury hotels have re-discovered the blatantly obvious fact that real luxury, especially for us boomers, is getting a decent night's sleep. I remember Aunt Wanda and Uncle Eddie used to carry around their pierzyna (Polish featherbed) on trips, whether it was to camp out in the Bay of Fundy (reached by private plane; there were no roads) or rest in regal splendor at the Château Frontenac. No vacation was worth taking, to them, if the bed wasn't as good as theirs at home. And better to be safe than sorry.

I feel the same way. So I was excited to discover that the Battery Wharf Hotel has a pillow concierge! The pillow concierge of my imagination wears a special little costume, poufy and floaty, trimmed with tassels, feathers, and bits of eiderdown. She glides into your room with a selection of restful bed accessories and lets you try them out. Kind of a cross between Mary Poppins, the Sandman and Tinkerbell, but with feathers.

Okay, so the reality doesn't exactly match the fantasy. The results, however, are the same. The Battery Wharf has a selection of pillows, so if you don't like what's provided (a feather pillow), you have your choice of foam, or gel, for example. In my case, the bed as made up in standard fashion (high-end sheets, snowy duvet, pillowtop mattress, feather pillows) was perfection. So I had no need to call on the services of the pillow concierge. She may forever remain the be-tasselled sprite of my imagination.

On the other hand, the coffee was so good (Nespresso coffee maker in room, yum!) and I drank so much of it (hey, I'm a writer....caffeine is my fuel) that I managed to run out of those little pots of cream. So I got to test out the coffee concierge (as I like to think of him). One phone call and I got enough sugar and cream to last the rest of the trip...from an attendant who beamed at me so brightly, I felt I had somehow made his day.

In Which We Travel Back in Time

Last week I got an offer from a Boston casting company to work on the new Cameron Diaz movie, The Box. Actually, they wanted my car, but they offered to pay both of us and said they'd find something for me to do on the set as well. Silvie's been a little jealous about all the movie parts I've been taking, and this was her big break, so I said yes for both of us. Today was the first day of shooting.

The Box is adapted from a short story by Richard Matheson called "Button, Button." It was made into an episode of The Twilight Zone in 1986. The story takes place in 1976. A woman receives a mysterious box with a button on it. If she pushes the button, she comes into a lot of money, but someone she doesn't know will die.

Today's scenes were shot in South Boston. A house on the corner of 4th Street had been comandeered for the shoot; the mildly excited and bewildered owners--Mom, Dad, little boy, little dog Buffy, plus a neighbor--were eating breakfast in the holding area, courtesy of the film crew. Just one of the perks of being kicked out of your own house! I parked Silvie on the curb as instructed, and joined them in holding (the social center of a nearby church) for a cup of strong coffee and an English muffin.

For purposes of the movie, it was supposed to be winter in Virginia. Silvie got fake Virginia plates stuck over her real ones. The house was supposed to be a crime scene. In preparation for the first shot, a light blue and white police car was pulled up in front of the house at a crazy angle, engine running, lights flashing. A big van was similarly pulled up opposite. When the director yelled "Action!" the fake cops would jump out of the vehicles and rush into the house. (I guess this was the result of Cameron Diaz pushing the button.)

The director liked my car and decided to feature her in the shot. I was put at the head of a parade of three cars; we lined up out of camera range, and on cue proceeded slowly down the street and around the corner. Then around the rest of the block and back to the mark, ready for the next take. Ten or twelve takes and the director was satisfied.

The next scene was the police car--driven by a stunt car driver--screeching down the cross street and pulling up at the crazy angle. The wardrobe mistress, impressed by my outfit (all of it pieces which had been hanging in my closet since the seventies), requested that I be in the scene. I was paired with two other women, one pushing a baby carriage with a plastic baby in it. We were carefully positioned (our main function was to block the view of some non-vintage vehicles way up the street) and told to chat. Hard work, but somebody has to do it.

That was it for the outdoor scenes. In between was a lot of standing around, sitting in cars, and helping ourselves to catered food at the church. All the extras were car people, more interested in discussing original equipment and m.p.g. than the movie. Nothing against actors, but it was refreshing.

We wrapped around 4:30, none too soon. It was freezing out. I'd forgotten how cold we were in the seventies. Camel hair coat, panty hose, penny loafers, green lambswool sweater, brown skirt, necklace of wooden beads....I don't dress that way anymore. I was getting hives from all the wool. Driving back with Silvie's excellent heater was lovely. Climbing back into all-cotton socks, sweats, and turtleneck at home was even better. It's fun to visit the bad old days, but I'm glad I don't have to live there anymore.

Luck Be a Lady

It's official! The "Untitled Blackjack Picture" finally has a name.

The movie's based on Ben Mezrich's book Bringing Down the House, but a movie with that name already existed. The producers were going to call the movie "21," but then legal problems surfaced, and the project became the "Untitled Blackjack Picture, formerly known as '21.'" At one point, the filmmakers were encouraging Boston Globe readers to think up a new name.

Legal hurdles have apparently been cleared, and the movie is now officially "21." Boston was still basking in the glow of "The Departed" when Kevin Spacey and company arrived to film "21." Now the Hollywood crew is gone, the movie's not coming out till next year, and wannabe actors in the area are concentrating on the next movie to be made locally: "27 Dresses."

According to Variety: "'Grey's Anatomy' star Katherine Heigl will play a single woman who has served as a bridesmaid 27 times. She is enlisted once again for the job, and this time it's particularly painful: Her sister is marrying the man the bridesmaid is madly in love with."

Filming on this one begins in Providence in May. Apparently lots of extras will be needed for the wedding scenes. M's got a summer home not too far from where the set will be. The casting director's got our resumes and headshots. Now the best we can do is pray. Luck, be a lady tonight!

Cicily Goes Hollywood

Last night and this morning was the shoot for the "Untitled Blackjack Picture." My old friend Alma had landed a part in it as well, so we drove into Boston together on Thursday afternoon. Parked in the Boston Common Parking Garage, as instructed, and looked for the bus which would take us to the set. Here it is, with some engaging muppets who happened to be strolling by. After this shot, I put away my camera for the evening. Try to take a picure on the set and you're thrown out--into a box, with rats, as they warn you.

Throughout the night (we were there for eleven hours) a total of maybe two minutes of the film was shot. If they even use the scenes. In the first scene, Kevin Spacey and Jim Sturgess walk down the street, heads bent, deep in conversation. Later, Sturgess comes back along the same street, glancing from a scrap of paper up to the buildings as if searching for an address. Still later, he comes out of an alley. And that's it.

These scenes were shot in Chinatown. Gund Kwok (which means "heroine" in Chinese), the only Asian Women Lion & Dragon Dance Troupe in the United States, provided local color. One of the women told me during a break that Thursday is their night to practice anyway. A pyrotechnics squad provided extremely noisy firecrackers. Some of us, myself included, scored sparklers, which we were supposed to light for each take. Sparklers are illegal in Massachusetts, but the head of the squad told Alma and me that we were operating under his license.

Between scenes, we could sit inside. The third floor of a restaurant was reserved for us. Catered food was brought in for two meals and snacks. Union actors are fed first, because if they go more than a certain length of time without food, they get a hefty bonus (something like $300 apiece). But there was plenty left over for the rest of the talent (as I now prefer to designated).

Traffic was light going to Boston and returning, since we were going in the opposite direction from most everyone else. The night was extremely mild. We accumulated around 12 hours, which means we'll get some overtime pay. The casting company validated our parking. Alma and I got to chat about some projects we've got lined up for spring and summer. I got home and crossed my number one resolution ("be in a movie") off of the napkin on my refrigerator. I got to work with one of my favorite actors. All in all, a great night.

Callback

Yesterday my actor friend M sent me an excited email. She had just gotten a callback on the industrial gig she had tried out for in Boston the other day. Later, she telephoned to fill me in on the details.

It seems the head of the casting company had called, apologizing first of all for contacting her directly rather than going through her agent. "I couldn't find the agent's contact information", she explained. "You didn't attach it to your headshot or résumé."

"I don't have an agent," M admitted, pleased nevertheless that Maura Tighe should think she had someone to represent her.

"But I saw the woman myself," Maura insisted. "She signed you in at the casting call. She was wearing a fur coat and carrying a briefcase."

"That wasn't my agent, that was my friend Cicily," M told her. "She was just coming along for the ride."

I had dressed nicely in my favorite Max Studio skirt, expensive boots, and "fur" coat because, well, it was Boston. Carried M's briefcase for her because she had too many bags and not enough hands. Signed her in because she had forgotten her reading glasses. Stood in the hall giving her what must have looked like a pep talk because I didn't want the casting agents to hear my dumb questions. I guess maybe I did look and behave like an agent.

Hey--was I slipping into a role?? Getting myself noticed by a casting agent? This acting stuff might be contagious!

Posterville

I had to go to Boston today to attend the annual meeting of the American Academy of Cerebral Palsy and Developmental Medicine. The publisher of the monograph I'm working on had an exhibit there and had requested that I attend. For me, the event was just a bit of meet-and-greet, and a chance to learn something about cerebral palsy, about which I currently know next to nothing. Well, I know that it's not a disease but a disability: the result of an episode that causes a lack of oxygen to the brain and resultant damage. Cerebral = "of the brain" and palsy = "lack of muscle control."

The monograph I'm authoring is on hyperbaric oxygen therapy, used but not approved at this point for treatment of CP.

I met the group manning the exhibit, people I may have occasion to work with in the future as I develop a relationship with this publisher. Then I wandered around for the rest of the day, looking for anything which would help me understand the connection between HBOT and CP. Which wasn't that easy, because the exhibits, posters, and sessions were mostly highly specialized and technical, many directed at physical therapists. I stared at flexible orthotics for plantarflexion control, drop foot splints, thera-suits, wheelchairs operated with "sip and puff" lip switches. I studied posters detailing statistical studies of topics like "Assessment of Lower Extremity Selective Motor Control in Spastic Cerebral Palsy" and "The Use of Botox Injections to the Upper Extremity in the Treatment of Children With Cerebral Palsy.” I asked dumb questions of doctors, researchers and physical therapists, many of whom were from outside of the U.S.

A few of the poster exhibits were sociological in nature, showing the results of surveys taken of MD (motor disabled) and NMD (non-motor disabled) subjects. Educational levels and transitioning to independent living were a couple of the areas examined. In one study, adults with CP were asked to recall positive experiences with health care providers. In another, groups of MD and NMD teenagers were asked to define terms like success, happiness, and independence.

What researchers found, over and over again, was that there's not a heck of a lot of difference between disabled and non-disabled people in most areas. Happiness and success for everybody is achieving the goals you set for yourself, whatever they happen to be, and being surounded by people who love and support you. Independence is being able to make decisions for yourself, even if it's just having a motorized wheelchair so you can be the one to decide when you look out of the window or when you come inside.

The biggest difference I noted, mentioned also in most of the researchers' conclusions, was that people with disabilities put more emphasis on finding useful work. This emphasis reflects their frustration with obtaining it, of course.

On the scale of needs, physiological needs are the most basic. Breathing and eliminating wastes are even more urgent than water and food, which are in turn more urgent than safety and security, which are more urgent than love and belonging, and so on. Caregivers of the severely disabled are often so focused on providing the very basic needs--making sure a child keeps breathing through the night, or a shunt doesn't fail--that they never get to the point of helping the person reach the higher goals of self-actualization.

For those who don't work closely with the disabled, it's even more difficult to understand that a non-verbal individual, limbs contorted by spasticity, is feeling pretty much what everyone else is feeling. Not just "help me," but "how can I help you?"