A Week in the Life of Lynda Obst

A Hollywood producer making a TV pilot bonds with a Teamster who won't swear

The Wall Street Journal | Link »
September 25, 2015
By Lynda Obst

I had lunch in the Universal commissary last week with a talented Exec VP of production, and before we ordered our salads, she asked me if I thought the Academy would punish Avatar for being so successful.

I often say that I curse like a Teamster. But this summer, while driving with my favorite actual Teamster, Herbie Lieberz—who, for our eighth TV project together, is getting me safely to the set—I discover that my habitual excuse for dropping an F-bomb is a big fat lie.

I'm in New York to produce an Amazon pilot called "Good Girls Revolt." On this Thursday morning, Herbie is taking me from my Manhattan hotel to our stage in Bethpage, Long Island—in traffic that has no rhyme or reason no matter the hour. I suddenly realize that I'm cursing and Herbie isn't. In fact, I realize, I've never heard him use the F-word.

At dinner that night, I discuss the origins of my dirty mouth with an erudite editor and his philosopher-king husband. This editor, who knows everything about everything, is for some reason deeply steeped in the mores of the movie business. "It's the agents," he postulates. "It's a testosterone culture—they're aping those tough old Hollywood moguls."

He's right. Rough language is like carrying a club into the ape house. First-generation Hollywood women like me often needed those clubs to protect ourselves in the testosterone-filled rooms to which we were just gaining access.

But Herbie has real testosterone, so he doesn't need a fake club. Maybe I don't either, I think. Maybe my cursing club is vestigial.

The next day, I tell Herbie: I will try to stop using the F-word. I'll let you know how I do.

Today, we have the EPK on set—the Electronic Press Kit, in which everyone is interviewed for publicity (to be used somewhere sometime) as if they're on "The View," except without a moderator.

The fun part: Producers get treated like the stars and have our hair and makeup done by pros—that is, when the stars aren't having their hair and makeup done for the show and their own EPKs, which are the ones that actually get used.

Producers try to plan something for the night we get our hair and makeup done. I spend much of the day trying to make plans for my hair's big night, but since it's late summer, and we're shooting on weekends, and it's Friday, everyone I know is in one Hampton or another.

I retreat to my hotel, order room service and watch baseball. The waiter doesn't notice my great hair and makeup. The Orioles lose. Still I curse not.

Herbie has befriended the doormen at my hotel, with whom he gossips until I'm ready to leave for the set. He arrives at 5:30 a.m. from his home in Bethpage (to beat the morning traffic), therefore performing a quadruple commute (home-hotel-stage-hotel-home, repeat) every day.

Today is Wednesday—our "Monday" after our absurd Monday-Tuesday weekend. Weekends are very low-status for me at the hotel, I've learned, because in New York, you are your transportation. When Herbie is on, everyone smiles at me and thinks I am a deal. On my day off, I walk or take a cab to Pilates, and the doormen are bereft.

I don't know what Brad or Clint do, but on my drives with Herbie, I sit shotgun, sometimes with my legs on the dashboard, sipping coffee he has picked up at Sant Ambroeus. We discuss philosophy, sports and our kids—but most of all, Herbie gives me advice about the day. There is nothing about the show he doesn't hear about.

It is our third-to-last day, and all is going well with our difficult final scenes. We emerge from our producers' trailer after lunch to see an ambulance outside the stage door—never good. Was an actor hurt? A crew member? I rush to talk to our medic.

"What's up with the ambulance?" I ask.

"An extra had a mental breakdown on set," she answers as a woman is carried away.

Huh? This is a new one. We have a lot of "background," as we call the extras.

"What happened?" I ask.

"She was convinced that three producers on set were trying to mind-manipulate her into sexual slavery," the medic replies.

I look at my two producing partners.

"Are you [expletive] kidding me?" I exclaim.

And with that, I've failed myself. Worse, I've failed Herbie.