Let me tell you a story…

A few years ago a writer buddy invited me to meet up with his actor friend, an up and comer who would eventually go on to win an Academy Award, but hadn’t yet, at this speakeasy – the “hottest place in town”.

When I was naïve and bouncy, the hottest place in town was Skybar in West Hollywood where ,if you were cool, you’d skip the line, sit poolside, look pretty, and talk. But, at the time of this story in order to be cool you’d skip the line in East Hollywood, enter a dark room with a trap door leading to a staircase descending to a secret courtyard where you could sip nouveau moonshine, look pretty and talk.

A few moonshines in, the Up And Comer gets a text inviting us to HIS friend’s place up at the top of Mulholland. HIS friend is an A-LISTER. He was huge then. He’s huge now.

I’m not starstruck. I have never been fascinated by actors mostly because I get insecure if a guy is skinnier, prettier, and more fit than I am. But I would be lying if I said I wasn’t more than curious about this uber famous A Lister and what this party would entail.

I’m not naming these people because:
1. Name dropping is obnoxious
2. To protect the guilty

Amanda Moresco

We’re speeding up Mulholland in the Up and Comer’s fancy car. He swerves. I scream. I’ve been in some “Hollywood” situations in my time, speeding up Mulholland at midnight with an actor who may have had too much to drink. Sure I was going to die like James Dean is the MOST Hollywood (and stupid) I’ve ever been and will EVER be again.

There were no secret doors to get in. The place was not the A lister’s property, just a quaint little half mansion at the top of Mulholland production had rented for him while he was shooting in L.A. I learned this from a guest whom I figured was his assistant because of the way she abruptly proclaimed it during the brief tour of the kitchen. And then, there he was. The A-Lister. His face has been on the cover of every single magazine in the world and he’s sitting on the living room floor in his pajamas playing Grand Theft Auto. That was the extent of the “party.” I had almost died to watch a superstar play video games.

This story contains EVERY SINGLE THING you need to know about Hollywood. There’s another important detail that makes my point but I’ll get to that in a minute. First…

Let me tell you very quickly that I grew up in Hell’s Kitchen. My father Bobby Moresco who eventually won the Academy Award for co-writing the movie Crash was a construction worker. We were blue collar people. My sister and I slept on a pull out couch until we got approved by our building to move into a two bedroom where we shared bunk beds.

It’s helpful to read this next paragraph in Ferris Bueller’s voice: “While my dad was working construction, my mother had a city job. He’d come home at night and write stage plays in notebooks and my mother would go to work and pretend to be entering data into her 200lb computer, but was really typing scripts. My dad finishes a play, gets it produced in a tiny, off-off-off Broadway theater where a producer happens to see it and refers him to Paul Haggis – who happened to be segueing out of sitcoms and into crime shows. Hot diggity. My parents decide they’ve had it with snow, real crime and actual criminals, move to sunny L.A. where my dad could write about fictional crimes and pretend criminals. The rest my friends, is made for TV movie history.” Thanks Ferris, you can go now.

I have a podcast. On the first episode I explain how I went from a teenage poet-playwright with a goal to be a sports journalist to Bobby Moresco’s daughter with a fifteen year resume that lists all of his projects that I worked on. I won’t bore you by admitting that I struggle with finding my own identity as a writer and I certainly wouldn’t admit to a complete stranger on the internet that I’ve made a living being the cheaper Bobby Moresco (if you can’t get him, you can get his daughter), and that I’ve been killing myself to prove otherwise. But I do talk about it on the podcast. Give it a listen!

I’m here today to tell you how I learned not to be an asshole. I learned it by paying attention.

In the beginning, we were swimming in them. People would show up in flashy clothes and promise financing, ingratiate themselves to my family, then casually pitch their movie ideas, befriend ME… then ask to meet my dad. Moving to a new state planet, trying to make “friends” only to realize there is no such thing as a friend in Hollywoodland was tough.

CAR SCREECH SOUND EFFECT

Don’t try to make friends in Hollywood. This is cynical. This is critical. Hollywood is a business town. Not a friend making town. Cherish the friends you have before you go to Hollywoodland. Keep them close. Never confuse your friendly business associates that you spend every day of your life with for your friends. If you keep these things separate you will never be confused or heartbroken when they screw you over. This does not make them bad people. It makes them sales associates in a cut throat business where the commodity they’re selling is themselves. If you have two or three people who have proven themselves to you over the years by showing up in supportive ways and not wanting anything from you, DBAA. Stay loyal to those people.

Dinner. My house. The first movie my father ever directed. Another Movie Star whose face you’ve seen on every magazine, sitting at our dining room table. I had not learned any lessons yet. He confided in us that someone he cared about kept making the same error. He’d work on movies and afterwards want to keep in touch with everyone, and when those people didn’t want to keep in touch with him, he’d be devastated.

So, this Movie Star said to his loved one: “These people aren’t your friends. They’re people you go to war with. A movie is like a war. When the war is over you go home and you don’t want to revisit it. You’ve shared a magical experience. But they’re not your friends.”

Wow. At the time I thought HE was the a**hole. Twenty years later, they’re some of the wisest words I’ve never forgotten.

HERE’S THE LESSON: As my father rose through the ranks I began to notice a strange phenomenon. The more successful and smarter a person ACTUALLY is… the more money a person ACTUALLY has… the quieter they are about it. This is some indirect correlation mathematical formula, and while it’s not infallible, in my experience it’s true eighty percent of the time – and those are good numbers.

Don’t show. Don’t tell. JUST DO.

It only takes being an a-hole for one day to be an a-hole forever in this town. That’s because nobody wants to work with an a-hole. Everybody wants to work with accomplished doers who understand that the only thing we should be talking about is the quality of the work. Shut up and do. And if you find yourself sitting across from someone who is NOT talking about the work and how to produce the highest quality product possible through honest, honorable means. If they’re talking about ANYTHING else… good chance that person is an a-hole. Get out of there. Fast. It’s not worth it.

Oh… here’s the little detail I left out of that story. The A-Lister Grand Theft Auto Gamer at the top of Mulholland had been offered a role in a movie my father had written that was attached to an Oscar Winning director (not Paul Haggis). The offer had already gone out to him and he was reading the script. The fact that my acquaintance took us to his house was one hundred percent total coincidence. I never said a word about it to anyone. Sometime during the night someone asked the A-Lister what he was doing next and he, slightly annoyed at the question, said I’m reading this script by Bobby Moresco.

My Writer Buddy and the Up And Comer looked at me and then looked at him and said… “that’s her dad”. And then someone said: “Did you know he was reading your dad’s script this whole time and you never mentioned it?” And I said “Of course, I knew… but that’s business… and we’re not here on business.”

The A-Lister and I shared a knowing look and we all went on enjoying the quiet evening not talking about things we didn’t feel the need to talk about… just as if we were friends.