The latest edition of Hollywood Momentum, the trade paper of the people who circle the important trade paper stories for their bosses, features a fine return to form for its Screamers section, where aggrieved assistants anonymously chronicle their tales of abuse. (And too frequently, the triumphant moment where they give their insensitive overlords the what-for, thereby earning their grudging respect. The Hollywood underclass thrives on tears, not hugging and learning!) Let the sympathetic, primal yawps of the exploited begin:
I was working for an A – list, Oscar nominated actor. He asked me to make him a dinner reservation – party of 8 at 8pm – at a top restaurant, and he was being a real a—hole about it. I called, but the maitre-d said no, even after I told him who it was for. I said, “You don’t understand, how can I make this happen?” He said there was no way.
I told my boss that it wasn’t going to happen. He looked at me, “Did you tell them it was me?” I was stunned. “Of course I did.”
Get this – he ended up going anyway. Just showed up with his party of 8 at 8pm saying that he had a reservation. When the maitre-d told him that there was no reservation, he flipped out, saying that his secretary had assured him that a reservation had been made. Of course they ended up seating him anyway.
The next day he told me that he’d gone, but advised me, “Don’t ever go there. Because your name is mud."
All in all, this doesn't seem like such an unjust punishment for an assistant who commits the unpardonable sin of telling his boss he wasn't important enough to pull a last-minute reservation. Weinstein-era Miramax staffers have had acid thrown in their face for far less.
Oh, don't read anything in to the picture we've used to illustrate the story. We just like the idea that Haley Joel Osment's dad can't eat at Spago anymore.