Hope Anderson Productions offers research, writing, directing, producing and editing services for both domestic and international documentary projects. For further information, please contact ha2docs@aol.com

Peg Entwistle's Last Walk

Documentary filmmaking has its challenges, but for those of us not filming of wildlife, technical problems generally aren't among them. Today's high quality video cameras and tape have revolutionized the medium, making filmmakers out of many who would have been defeated at the outset by the expense and difficulty of shooting on film, myself among them.

My first documentary was shot on BetaSP and miniDV in 1999, one of the last years in which video was scorned as an inferior medium, though never by me. I loved my Canon XL1 not only for its portability and ease of use but because it allowed me to interview a woman who had refused to talk in front of a crew. Her objections to cameramen apparently didn't extend to my then-teenage son, Ian, who shot while I undertook the frustrating and generally unsuccessful task of getting her to say what she had happily confided to me off-camera. But at least I got the interview.

Even if I could afford to shoot documentaries on film, I would choose video. The convenience of lightweight video cameras and the stunning qualities of High Definition so outweigh the visual advantages of film—which, though much ballyhooed, almost always go unnoticed by viewers. I'm struck by the fact that moviegoers can't tell whether a movie was shot on film or video, much less distinguish between the various film stocks. Nor do they care about the difference. The film vs. video argument is carried on by elites—cinematographers, directors and film critics—while audiences sensibly prefer to focus on the story.

Yet as someone who enjoys a broad cinematic diet—Hollywood blockbusters, anime, Italian neo-realist films, screwball comedies and just about everything else you can see in a theater or rent on DVD—I'd always wondered what it would be like to shoot on film. In planning the re-enactment of Peg Entwistle's climb to the Hollywood Sign in 1932, I had a chance to find out.

It was, to put it mildly, a stressful and expensive undertaking. The inherent problems of using film—complicated lighting, equipment rentals, lab fees, additional crew members—were compounded by the fact that it would be a night shoot, and that all the action would take place outside, sometimes in areas that had changed a great deal since 1932. After much thought, I got to work planning the sequence, which I estimated would be less than three minutes long. I was surprised at the result. What seemed like a straightforward story required ten set-ups, and two of those involved special effects.

In the re-enactment, Peg leaves her uncle's house in lower Beachwood Canyon and walks north toward Mt. Lee. She passes through the stone gates at the entrance of Hollywoodland—the community for which the original Hollywood Sign functioned as a billboard—and continues up its hilly streets, passing the neighborhood's storybook houses along the way. As she ascends, the Hollywood Sign looms above her, foreshadowing its future status as an icon. The sequence ends at the foot of the "H," where Peg abandons her coat, purse and shoes in order to climb a workman's ladder at the back of the Sign.

Hollywoodland is a historic community whose original houses—castle-like 1920s Norman, Tudor and Spanish-style dwellings—are very much intact. In subsequent decades, however, the neighborhood became much more densely built, with newer houses cantilevered off the hills below the Hollywood Sign. While in 1932 there were virtually no houses in the upper Canyon, now there are hundreds. The only way to depict Beachwood authentically involved matte shots--period pictures in which the only contemporary figure would be the actress playing Peg.

We needed a matte painting that not only showed the hills free of structures but the original Sign, whose 50-foot letters read "Hollywoodland." Tjardus Greidanus, the Director of Photography, created a composite based on an old photograph showing the then newly-built intersection of Heather and Durand Drives, which has a stunning view of the Hollywood Sign. Two weeks before we shot the re-enactment, he cut out section of road in the picture, mounted it on a stand atop his SUV and shot test footage of me walking up Durand Drive. Although the original vantage point is now the rooftop of a 1950s house, a thicket of trees prevented us from shooting there. The closest we could come to re-creating the location was to mount the camera atop one-ton lighting truck that I would rent for the week of the shoot.

Tjardus Greidanus testing the matte shot of the Hollywoodland Sign (photo by Hope Anderson)

The second matte shot showed the stone gates of Hollywoodland and the original houses of tiny commercial district in the village square just inside the gates. Although the buildings depicted in the painting still exist, we needed to block out the stop sign and lane dividers on the road, as well the contemporary cars parked on Beachwood and Westshire Drives. As in the Heather and Durand shot, "Peg" would be filmed walking through a slot in the painting.

While the matte shots presented the greatest technical challenge, they were by no means the only ones. Although the entire sequence would take five days to film, it required nearly a month of prep work, as Tjardus assembled his crew—two grip-electricians, a camera assistant and a volunteer to mark the takes—while I corralled Ian to serve as assistant director for locations and his girlfriend Julie as stand-in for the actress playing Peg. During that time, I also set up accounts for equipment rentals, film processing and film-to-tape transfer, a process akin to applying for a mortgage. I also insured the rentals—not because I wanted to pay $1,023.00 for the week but because Birns and Sawyer required a huge amount of coverage. Then there was the decision about what film stock to use. Because my original choice, Super 8mm, looked excessively grainy in the test footage, I bumped up—at considerable expense—to Super 16mm, which in both tone and grain came closest to the film noir I was trying to replicate.

I had already cast the part of Peg but continued to work on the details of her costume. Because the actress, Kelly Brand, has long, fine hair, I decided the only way to ensure an identical hairstyle was to use a wig. Having seen many period films marred by contemporary hairstyles and makeup, I was determined not to create such anachronisms of my own. Through a friend I was lucky to meet Ric Thompson, who did hair and makeup for the road company of "Victor/Victoria," and who possessed an appropriate blonde wig that he was willing to cut and style for the shoot. Ric arrived for our meeting with Kelly armed with pictures of Peg Entwistle, whose life he had researched thoroughly, and agreed to show up at odd hours to do Kelly's hair and makeup.

Kelly Brand (photo by Cynthia Perry)

Because I would be renting substantial equipment—not only a 16mm camera but a Steadicam for the tracking shots, as well as lights, stands, cables and a truck to put it all in—the entire sequence had to be completed within the week-long rental period. This was the greatest difference between my usual method of shooting, in which scheduling problems are minimized by the use of my own equipment, and shooting film. Tjardus and I settled on the week of April 16th.We would pick up the equipment on Monday, do a camera test of Kelly in full makeup and costume and view the processed film on Tuesday. Then we would film for four nights and one dawn from Wednesday through Sunday before returning the equipment on Monday. What follows is an abbreviated diary from the shoot.

Monday, April 16

The one item of Kelly's costume that I've yet to rent or buy is a garter belt, crucial not only for that period feeling but to hold up the vintage silk stockings I purchased on E-Bay. I run out to Frederick's of Hollywood, find a legal space on the side street and ask for the simplest one they carry. The saleswoman, a motherly type who obviously has dealt with frantic film-related requests before, directs me to a white satiny number and has me out of the store in under five minutes. I arrive home just ahead of Ric and Kelly, who show up simultaneously. Hair, costume and makeup take nearly an hour, during which I am on the phone with Tjardus, who is waiting at Birns and Sawyer with his camera assistant, Zac. Finally Kelly is transformed. I drive her down to the ArcLight complex in my car. In her platinum wig, Kelly reminds me of Marilyn Monroe, and heads turn as we drive through Hollywood. As we walk through the parking garage to Birns and Sawyer, I'm acutely aware of people's stares, though Kelly seems unfazed. The camera test takes all of fifteen minutes, during which I finalize the paperwork for the rentals. The rest of the day is taken up with calls and e-mails, and I finally crash at 1:30am.

Tuesday, April 17

I wake up at 5:30am, although the alarm is set for 7:30. The first order of the day is to rent a one-ton truck at Galpin so that Tjardus and his crew can pick up the lighting and camera rentals. Tjardus and I arrive at the lot separately, each of us under the impression the other has made the rental reservation. As it turns out, neither of us did. After a moment of panic, we learn a truck is available. I sign the papers and make sure Tjardus knows how to drive it. He does, and takes off for North Hollywood to pick up the lights.

I head down to Hancock Park to pick up Peg's suicide note, a prop I've commissioned from my friend and former neighbor, Jennifer Williams. Despite Jennifer's claim that she left it in her mailbox, it's not there. I drive home. Ric comes to pick up the wig, which he will trim and adjust for the shoot.

I spend most of the day conferring with Tjardus and others on the phone and via e-mail, as well as duplicating and sticking letters about the shoot in every mailbox within two blocks of our locations on Beachwood Drive. Because crews of six or less are exempt from permits, I feel we're on safe ground, assuming no one counts our (by now) three volunteers. Still, anyone who objects could call the cops. I emphasize the fact that we will not be recording sound, and that we promise to keep light and noise to a minimum.

Wednesday, April 18

I meet Tjardus at Digital Jungle to watch the footage from yesterday's test. It looks good. Then I head to Costco to pick up all the food and drinks we'll need for the shoot. The fact that I provide craft services in addition to being the producer, director, writer, researcher and on-camera narrator provokes comments like, "Are you crazy?" from my friends. But, much as I despise Costco, I can't bring myself to pay for something that I'm capable of doing myself. "Do you realize how much money I'm saving?" I say in response. I am, after all, the producer.

Later at home, after making a dozen sandwiches and packing two coolers, I head down to my friend Carol Bishop's. Carol, in addition to being in the documentary as a longtime Beachwood resident and artist, has generously allowed her 1915 Craftsman house to stand in for Peg's uncle's place, since the owners of the actual Entwistle house have refused to let me film there based on a previous experience. In the end this turns out to be a good thing: Carol's is a hundred times nicer and, because both her husband and son are directors, she thinks it's normal to open her home to a film crew and a bewigged and costumed actress.

We start shooting around 6pm, when it's still light. Kelly comes out Carol's front door and down the walkway, pauses and looks back, then puts on her coat and heads up the street. Right away it becomes clear to everyone how good Kelly is, able to show a range of emotions—anguish, uncertainty, regret and determination—without saying a word. I'd told her I wanted these feelings to pass over her face like clouds, and they do. Because Tjardus had wanted to re-cast, I feel thrilled and vindicated. After six takes in varying degrees of light, we break down and move locations.

Next we set up at the Hollywoodland gates. One of my most time-consuming tasks during the past week has been securing electricity for the lights we need here. After ruling out a nearby house because none of its plugs were grounded, I got permission from Dino Williams, owner of the Village Coffee Shop, to use its outlet. As we plug in, a voice calls, "What's going on?" Apparently there is someone living above the Coffee Shop, a fact previously unknown to me. After Tjardus explains we're shooting with the owner's permission, the voice asks, "Do you have a permit?" It's too complicated to explain the situation, so I say yes.

We shoot Kelly coming through the smaller of the stone gates, after which she pauses, takes out the suicide note and reads it. Shooting the note itself requires different lighting and another angle and will have to wait. We rush through three takes and leave before the voice upstairs can call the cops on us.

Thursday, April 19

After the usual slew of e-mails and calls, I head out to buy flowers for both Carol and her next-door neighbor, who despite her injuries from a recent bicycle accident allowed us to plug in at her house last night. Carol and I make a bedside visit, and I'm gratified when the woman says she didn't hear a thing from the shoot.

That afternoon I'm at the park with my dog when my son calls to say the cops have shown up at my house, outside of which we'll be shooting tonight. Having delivered filming notices to everyone on either side of Beachwood Drive who might notice the presence of the grip truck, I'm baffled. "Tell them I'm on my way," I say, but by the time I get home, they're gone. The theory is that a neighbor on Woodshire, a street overlooking Beachwood Drive, made the call. Because he's too far away to be affected by our lights, his motive is baffling and possibly malicious. As the man is a habitual and illegal feeder of coyotes, I decide that if the cops shut us down I'll alert Animal Control.

Although I've had my funky old house re-wired in the past year, electrical problems abound. Fuses blow, everyone runs in and out of the house, and no one listens to anything I say about the wiring. Meanwhile, I'm cooking a lamb ragout with orzo and feeling like everyone's mom, but someone has to provide the crew meal.

We're supposed to start shooting at 8pm but our start time gets pushed back to 9. Apparently my garage is the weak link, and we lose power again and again. Tjardus is using a Steadicam to shoot Kelly as she walks up the street, since the alternative—laying track—is impossible on our budget. As the director, I wind up having the least to do of anyone in the crew. Unable to see the monitor attached to Tjardus's rig, I run alongside and watch Kelly as he shoots. She never blows a take, which is good because he blows plenty, as anyone carrying 80 pounds would. At some point I notice Kelly blinking at the same intervals every time, three blinks per take. "Keep up the blinking," I call. "It's perfect."

Outside the weather is cold enough for hats and gloves, the air is damp, and the only novelty is a sighting of Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. Or so two crew members claim; I can't see through the car's window tint. During the break between setups I make Kelly sit in the kitchen to keep warm. Despite the uncomfortable wig, she never complains. Whenever Ian asks if she needs anything, she invariably answers, "Oh no, I'm fine."

Nathan Cornett (back to camera), Kelly Brand, Tjardus Greidanus on Night 2 (photo by Laura Davis)

We quit at midnight but breakdown takes another hour. At 1:30am, washing the last of the dishes, I feel drained of energy. I also look worse than I've ever looked in my life. Checking the weather online—something I've been doing obsessively for over a week—I'm dismayed to see a forecast for rain tomorrow. After the driest winter in 130 years, we're getting a storm. It can't happen.

Friday, April 20

It's drizzling by the time I get to Digital Jungle to watch the dailies from Wednesday. Tjardus doesn't want to cancel the shoot yet, so we spend the afternoon on the phone with each other and the rest of the crew, neurotically debating the condition of the skies. Shooting in the rain isn't an option, since all the shots have to match. Also, Kelly's wig can't get wet, according to Ric. Finally at 3pm I cancel tonight's shoot. We'll make up the shot at dawn on Monday, assuming it doesn't keep raining.

I deliver a bouquet to my next-door neighbors, who provided electricity as well as the facade of their house for the second location last night. When I ask if we disturbed them, they claim not to have heard a thing. It's a miracle.

Saturday, April 21

The weather, though still grey, has cleared. At 5pm we start shooting at the Millennium Plateau, a flat plain directly below the Hollywood Sign where dozens of TV crews shot the illuminated Sign on New Year's Eve, 1999. According to Beachwood residents who were trapped by traffic, so many sightseers came into the Canyon to witness the spectacle that the Sign will never be lit up on a regular basis.

This afternoon the area is sparsely populated with dog walkers and meandering teenagers. I drive Kelly to the end of Mullholland Place and lead her up the pedestrian road to the Plateau. In her period clothes and green suede pumps, she looks like royalty as she climbs the steep path to the set where Tjardus and the guys are waiting. Cynthia Perry, the photographer for the shoot, shows up and starts taking production stills. Kelly even poses in a period manner, and I wonder if she studied old movie magazines to learn how.

Because Tjardus is using the Steadicam to do a 360 around Kelly as she moves across the Plateau, I don't so much direct the scene as hide behind a bush and try to prevent people from walking into the shot. As soon as we start, groups of walkers start coming from all directions, as if disgorged by the undergrowth. Fortunately, this being Hollywood, they all wait uncomplainingly until the end of the take.

Kelly and Tjardus on Millennium Plateau (photo by Laura Davis)

After dinner, we re-set across the street from my house. Like Carol, my neighbor Marcella, a former child actress, thinks it's no big deal to have her home lit up like Christmas and crew running cables from within. She even lets Julie stand at her kitchen window so that we can have a witness to Peg's walk. Kelly walks in her perfect way, beyond the need for my direction. Still, I'm not pleased when her boyfriend shows up and tells Tjardus how glad he is to meet him, the director. "I'm the director," I say. As well as the producer and writer, but what's the point? The Boys' Club is alive and well in the moviemaking world.

The last thing we do is to shoot the insert of the suicide note. Because of the weather we've dropped one of my favorite shots—a reverse angle from one of the public stairs on Beachwood that isn't essential--but I absolutely have to shoot the note, which Jennifer finally messengered to me on Wednesday. We do numerous takes of Kelly unfolding the note and reading it until I realize it's too fast. We slow it down so that the audience can read Peg's last words.

I get to bed at 1:30am and am up at 4:30am for the first of the matte shots.

Sunday, April 22

It's pitch black when I get up and only slightly lighter when Kelly and I drive down to the Gates, where the rest of the crew is waiting. Being neither a habitual early riser nor an insomniac, I despise being up, though I find it fascinating to watch the creeping approach of dawn.

As usual there are technical problems, this time with the matte painting, and Tjardus has to go home to re-cut the slot through which Kelly will walk. Because it's cold, Kelly and I wait inside her Batmobile-like car and talk about food. I promise when the shoot is over I'll cook a real Southern meal for her, since authentic Southern food is impossible to find in California. Then, because we're still waiting, I give her my fried chicken recipe.

At last we're ready to shoot. Kelly walks across Beachwood Drive a number of times, each time in greater light. During a break between shots, she sits down on the bus bench, where a mentally handicapped neighbor of my acquaintance—apparently ignoring the wig, costume and make-up--asks Kelly if she is waiting for the bus. When Kelly tells me this, my mind buzzes with the idea of time-traveling public transport. If I'd been there, instead of twenty feet away with the crew, I would have answered, "Yeah, the bus back to 1932."

We do a few more takes, and Tjardus calls "Action," and "Cut," over me on one of them. "Hey, would you mind letting me do that next time," I say, "since I'm the director?" He apologizes, but I'm furious.

We break at 7:30am. I cook breakfast for Ian and Julie and then try to nap, but it's hard to sleep while stewing. By mid-afternoon I'm on the phone making calls about the evening's shoot, in which the crew will hike along the fire road behind the Sign to shoot Kelly as she walks along the dirt path at the dead end of Mulholland Highway. It looks like it's going to rain again, and we're all nervous about it.

At 5pm Kelly arrives to change into her costume and wig. We drive up to Mulholland under threatening skies. Tjardus and the rest of his crew are already getting rained on up on Cahuenga Peak, but so far it's dry down here.

One good thing about the impending rain is the paucity of walkers I have to beg to stop for the minute or so each take requires. Two of them, hipsters from Japan, are stunned to hear me ask them to get out of the shot in Japanese; they then astonish me by saying they know Peg Entwistle's story.

The whole shoot takes five minutes. Nate and Jon, our two grips, stand at either end of the route, both on walkie-talkies, while I communicate with Tjardus via cell phone. Kelly walks the path twice and we're done for the night. It starts to rain on the drive home.

Monday, April 23

I'm up at 4:30am. Kelly arrives and gets dressed and made up, and then we're off to the final location, at Heather and Durand Drives, where the matte shot of the 1932 version of the Sign, which reads "Hollywoodland," is set up on top of the grip truck. Like yesterday, everyone waits in the damp pre-dawn, but the mood is lighter. Unlike yesterday's location, a mixed residential and commercial area, today's is a quiet residential street. We're running our cables from the home of Joy and Len Efron, whom I've gotten to know over the past month. Their cooperation was crucial to the shot, since we've not only used their electricity but made them move their cars out of the driveway for the shoot. Now, while Kelly walks up the steep hill outside their house, Joy, Len and their grandson watch the monitor with me. It's a nice moment.

After we wrap we all pose for pictures in front of the truck. It's over, and I'm exhausted and relieved. By 7am I'm at my desk, writing checks.

After wrapping: back row, l-r: Nathan Cornett, Zac Sieffert, Tjardus Greidanus, Ian Anderson, front row, l-r: Julie Tomaiko, Kelly Brand, Hope Anderson, Jon Hill (photo by Len Efron)