How Hollywood Taught Me Not to Behave

As the Obama era commences, I find myself pausing to reflect upon the lessons I’ve learned over the last eight years. Feeling somewhat shell-shocked by the sudden surge of America-love exploding from the far-left corners of the Hollywood universe, I am otherwise oddly drained of emotion. Besides an inner, rumbling disquiet – perhaps due, in part, to the burrito I ingested at lunch – I can pinpoint another peculiar sensation: relief. As if I’ve just been sprung from an elementary school classroom full of spoiled, vicious, ten year-olds engaged in a perpetual, two thousand, nine hundred and twenty-day temper tantrum.

Let me explain. I am the product of political “diversity.” My father – a retired professor and classics scholar who speaks six languages – was raised “a Kennedy Democrat.” Involved in east coast politics, he actually met Jack and Bobby on several occasions and briefly toyed with the idea of moving to Washington to work in JFK’s administration (as per an invitation, mind you). Bluntly acknowledging that today’s Democrats have more in common with Karl Marx than JFK, he is currently disgusted with the whole lot of them. My mother, also a retired professor, is a direct descendant of a family who came to America in the 1660’s. A legacy Republican, her ancestors fought in every American war and her 18th Century, childhood home was used to house escaped slaves. Not surprisingly, I was raised to seek out at as many facts as I could lay my hands on before opening my mouth at the dinner table. Improperly rationalizing an opinion could lead to a deadly, thirty-minute lecture featuring etiological references in both Greek and Latin. More importantly, I was raised to be polite. “Polite: showing good manners towards others, as in courteous behavior and speech. Civil, refined, cultured.”

Beginning in 2001, I began to encounter a strange phenomenon. Filmmakers who, during the Clinton years, cruised around in Range Rovers unconcerned about their carbon footprints and who were oblivious to overseas death tolls from botched American policies, were suddenly outraged…about everything! Overnight, we had changed from a “progressive” country to a fascist regime. Instantly, my Palm Pilot roster transformed itself from a list of professional colleagues into a who’s who hotbed of political activists.

My first mistake was to question this. How, I casually queried a film director friend one evening in a chat room, had this country turned upside down in a single day? His response was a multi-page diatribe wherein Bush was simultaneously compared to Hitler, Stalin and Alfred E. Newman. From the moment the term “dangling chad” demolition-derbied its way into the American lexicon, politics would never be the same. Despite multiple recounts, lawsuits, investigations, congressional hearings, a Supreme Court ruling, and a never-ending stream of journalists determined to obtain a Pulitzer by proving the election was “stolen,” the conclusion was: it wasn’t. Yet “stolen” it would remain forevermore to every liberal between here and West Quoddy Head, Maine.

I next committed the classic blunder of countering the fallacies of my liberal associates with logic. Why, for example, the sudden panic over arsenic levels in tap water? Was it not the same tap water they had been using quite satisfactorily during the Clinton years? Why the histrionics over wiretapping? Could they tell me which president wasn’t a prolific wiretapper – warrantless or otherwise – since the technology was invented? Why was our earth – a tough, 4.5 billion year old, battle-scarred bitch who had survived more cataclysms than we’ll ever know and who will be fully capable of reinventing herself well beyond our extinction – suddenly a “delicate, fragile” pie crust planet pushed to the brink of destruction by a mere century of fossil fuel emissions? How could a generation raised under the cloud of pending ice age doom so unquestioningly embrace the opposite theory within the blink of an eye? My Palm Pilot began to drop contacts faster than my neighbor shed post-gastric bypass surgery pounds. Who were these people I had associated with for years without so much as an angry outburst or a harsh word?

I then tried countering the rising tide of cyber panic with humor. Did my writer, director and actor friends know, for example, that the largest, land roving dinosaur measured about 2/3 the length of a football field, traveled in herds that consumed entire forests for lunch and eliminated several tons of excrement each? Talk about greenhouse gases! My associates were not amused.

Soon, I became aware that a new, highly contagious, physiological neurosis was rapidly infecting even my most emotionally stable, liberal friends. In the midst of a pleasant gathering, they would suddenly become seized by a bizarre form of political Tourette’s syndrome. This disease quickly spread to every social gathering I attended. The age-old “No Religion, No Politics” rule of hospitality was roughly heave-ho’d out the door, revealing myself to be surrounded by some of the most ill-bred people on the face of the earth. Typical conversation starters included rancid, kindergarten style jokes about “Dubya,” hateful, bigoted stereotyping of all Christians and conservatives, and comparing America to Nazi Germany.

At first, I thought it was merely a passing phase. I even made a game out of Guess-When-The-First-Outburst-Will-Occur. Times generally averaged between thirty seconds to five minutes from the moment I walked in the door. Sometimes, after listening silently to a twenty-minute, group-think diatribe, I would reach my limit. Offering a few pointed questions (that, invariably, no one at the table could answer) I was instantly perceived as rude. In Hollywood, it’s okay to be the focus of relentless insults at someone’s dinner table, but it’s NOT okay to make the insulters even slightly uncomfortable about it. Even the calmest of counterpoints produced a reaction similar to the release of a silent-but-deadly fart in a Smart Car. I found myself capable of emptying entire rooms in a matter of minutes. My Palm Pilot began to show signs of needing life support.

Then Bush was re-elected.

My 2004 “meet and greets” – a painful ritual endured by screenwriters trolling for work and studio executives who have no intention of giving it to them – were scheduled immediately after Kerry’s defeat. I knew a paradigm shift was happening the minute I walked into my first meeting and the executive was crying. “My God,” I said. “Are you all right?” “I’m sorry,” she sniveled, “it’s just so awful! I mean, what do you think about all this?” It took me a moment to realize that she was not referring to her company’s refusal to option my script. My mind immediately sprang into “spin” mode. This was a new and different animal. Potential employers were now putting me on the spot regarding my political beliefs. Wasn’t there a post-Blacklist rule out there somewhere that proclaimed this type of behavior a definite no-no? Quickly, I realized there was no “correct” way for me to respond. “I think I’d prefer not to talk about politics. But I’d love to talk with you about my work,” I offered. I could immediately sense by the expression on her face that I’d said the wrong thing. That my response, instead of being perceived as benign, was somehow heard as: “I think I’d like you to smell the crushed cat turd embedded in the bottom of my shoe.”

From there, things really went downhill with ‘Bush Derangement Syndrome’ rearing its ugly head at meetings, in pitch sessions, in conversations with producers, even in pre-production. While reviewing a location with a D.P. one day, I asked: “What do you think about this gate?” “I think Bush is a f—ing a–hole!” was his reply.

Quaint concepts like professionalism, basic courtesy and respect for diversity of opinion were officially things of the past. Though war wasn’t the answer, moving through life as a roving combat unit of perpetual anger and hostility apparently was. I found myself shrinking away from the few social gatherings I was still invited to. I stressed about meetings, constantly strategizing over ways to effectively communicate with people whose personal politics were tantamount to religious fanaticism.

Finally, in 2008, Hollywood got its way.

As we “change” into a society that blindly embraces the most egregious policies of failed European socialism, I can only “hope” that enough of us will see reason before it’s too late. And yet, as we ignore all the warnings of our founding fathers and grow government beyond anything they could have imagined; as we place our bipartisan spending spree on speed; as we knowingly quadruple our grandchildren’s debt; as we roll back our security to pre 9/11 mentality, paving the way for an even-more devastating attack, I have once again begun to dip my toe into the Hollywood social pool.

At a series of post-election dinner parties, I notice that barely a passing word was uttered about politics. The beatific smiles and jovial attitudes of my liberal associates told me it was once more safe to go back into the water. With a far-left hand firmly steering the American wheel, La-La Land can once more revert itself back to ye goode olde days of Clintonian apathy. Though I am anything but apathetic about America’s future, I am also keenly aware of how not to behave towards what few remaining liberal friends and colleagues I still have over the next four years. I promise to disagree without being rude, crude, obnoxious, arrogant, intolerant, childish, warlike and, most of all, without putting potential colleagues on the spot during a meeting and/or interview.

That, I learned from Hollywood.