Читать книгу Confessions of a Showbiz Reporter - Holly Forrest - Страница 12

Working premieres as a journalist can be fun simply because of the buzz. You can almost taste the expectation in the air, as you stand behind the rope, all your colleagues squashed up against each other (it helps to get on with other showbiz journos for precisely this reason), each of you excitedly uncertain as to what the next couple of hours will hold. In London there’s a premiere roughly every week. The majority don’t get the kind of blanket national press coverage that publicists dream of. But when they work, they really work, for both the film companies and the attendees. Liz Hurley turning up to the premiere of Four Weddings and a Funeral in a dress held together by safety pins made her name. Borat arriving at his premiere in a cart pulled by Kazakhstani peasant women guaranteed Sacha Baron Cohen a million column inches. And, while Julia Roberts forgetting to shave under her arms for the premiere of Notting Hill might not have been a planned publicity stunt, it got that movie more attention than the PR company could have dreamt of. Somewhere, some film producer is still counting his money and silently thanking a dippy LA maid for forgetting to pack Julia’s razor. So, while many premieres come and go uneventfully, some change the face of showbiz. Who will turn up? What will they be wearing? Will the star of the movie stop and talk or not? With a well-known TV presenter usually hosting the night’s events from a stage in Leicester Square and whipping the audience into a frenzy with promises of imminent arrivals, it’s impossible not to feed off the energy of the night. Fans scream. Paparazzi flashes light up the night. Familiar reporters line the carpet with their cameramen, all hoping to get the best interview of the night. The red carpet has a magical pull. But as a journalist, there’s also a downside; once the curtains go up, we have to go straight back to work. When the final celebrity has arrived, the final flashbulb has popped, the final interview wound up, it’s back to the office we go to write up the night’s events. The guests? Oh, they’re in the cinema having a great time watching the film and thinking about how many free drinks and nibbles they can neck at the party afterwards. But me, I’m quickly shoved back into the real world; working late with only my computer screen and mug of cold tea for company, and listening back to the endless soundbites, trying to sniff out a sexy story from it all. As a showbiz reporter you get close to an extremely opulent and glamorous world – but never quite close enough. Which is why, when my first proper invite to a premiere arrived, I went a bit over the top …

I couldn’t believe it. I had been working as a journalist for just over a year, and was well versed in the art of standing behind barriers on red carpets, waiting in the freezing cold for Celebrity X to turn up and possibly say a few words into my microphone. But now I finally had in my hands what I’d always dreamt of: a proper invite to a premiere. I looked at it again; even the gold lettering embossed on the thick cardboard was enough to get the butterflies in my stomach flapping like crazy. In just seven days I wouldn’t be like all my colleagues, crammed into what’s charmingly called the ‘press pen’ for hours. Oh no. I would be leaving my recording gear happily at home. My time as a voyeur would be over. I would be on the other side, glamorously swishing up the red carpet and mingling with the VIPs: a proper guest at a film premiere and party.

I had to start preparing. The bank of snappers gathered on their ladders might want to take my picture as I arrived; I had to look my best. I studiously practised posing in front of my bedroom mirror before I went to bed each night, drifting off to sleep with the imagined sound of a hundred camera shutters chiming melodically in my head.

Why was I invited? Errrr … That never really crossed my mind, to be honest. I’d had a couple of articles published in the magazine by this point, and I must have thought that I was making a name for myself. This was most likely a reward from a thoughtful film company for a complimentary story. In truth, the whole thing had made me a little ditzy. I wasn’t used to special treatment. Suddenly, uncharacteristically, all I cared about was being thought of as ‘someone’ for the night – the mysterious girl on the red carpet that gets the crowds whispering …

‘Who is she?’

‘I’ve no idea. But if she’s got an invite, she must be famous.’

‘True. Over here strange lady! Over here! Sign my autograph book and let me have a photo taken with you!’

Vacuous, I know. But what can I say? I’ve never been fame-hungry, but I have always been fascinated by unlikely celebrities; people like Chantelle Houghton, the girl-next-door that posed as a star and ended up winning Celebrity Big Brother. During my short time as a showbiz reporter, I’d already come to realise that sometimes the main difference between ‘the stars’ and ‘us’ is attitude. The stars believe that they’re worthy of fame, and as a result, it comes their way. It’s all about conviction. I’d had very little opportunity to actually put this theory into practice, until now, with a red carpet to walk, where I could try it out.

The days before the big night seemed to last a lifetime. I even had to work another premiere in the run-up, and enviously watched the guests saunter up the red carpet without a care in the world. Very soon, I reassured myself, that would be me. I’d bought a new outfit for the occasion, something that was high street, but could never be described as ‘just another dress’. With a low-cut neckline and swishing fishtail, I was out to make a statement. The day before, I humiliated myself by putting on paper knickers and allowing a stranger to spray me mahogany, to give me that LA radiance. Debuting the whole ensemble in front of my housemate Erica that night – who as my ‘date’ was also primping and preening like a TOWIE girl – I couldn’t help but think back to the disparaging comments I’d had about my showbiz obsession back at college. Of course, interest rates and global warming are much more urgent topics of discussion than the latest blockbuster in the grand scheme of things, but nothing could compare to this for pure excitement. Showbiz should be exciting. Empty it may occasionally be, but is there really anything wrong with simple fun? Back at university, Erica and I had bonded over a mutual love of Ewan McGregor nude scenes and perfecting the moves to ‘The Macarena’, so I knew she’d be my perfect companion. The last person you want next to you at a premiere is someone who takes it all seriously.

Leicester Square seemed extra packed that night; clambering through the crowds to the start of the carpet proved especially difficult in four-inch heels, one of which I’d already managed to get unceremoniously stuck in the groove of a London Underground escalator. I was starting to feel a little sweaty from the exertion, and began to dream about the kind of chauffeur-driven limo that transports most celebs to premieres. I just had to hope I could pass off my hot flush as ‘glow’.

Eventually we reached the security men who were guarding the sacred carpet from the great unwashed and, after flashing my tickets at them with a degree of smugness that even I was surprised by, we were let on to the crimson runway. It stretched ahead of us for about 100 metres, stopping just short of the cinema doors – but now was not the time to pull a Usain Bolt, I would be taking this slowly, savouring every second. On our left were fans and autograph hunters, many of whom would have been camped out since this morning in order to get a good position. On our right, the journalists, familiar faces largely, but they looked different from this angle, as if they were more bored than excited. But I didn’t want to be reminded of my day job. I took a deep breath, blocked them out and began my journey.

And then came the deafening sound of … silence. As we strutted up the carpet, the colour drained even from my fake-tanned skin as I found myself being firmly put into place. No one shouted my name. No one took a photo. And, of course, from my colleagues in the press pen, there was not one request for an interview. All I saw on their faces was an expression that said ‘Who does she think she is?’

I soon started to quicken my pace, desperate to get the whole experience over with quickly. I’d hoped to feel, just for a moment, like a part of the celeb world; in the end, I’d never felt further away from it. While a red carpet might feel like home for the famous, the screams of fans serving as a validation of their work, for someone unknown like me it is the loneliest place in the world.

Eventually inside, I had another humiliation to suffer. I bumped into a girl from a rival magazine, like me she was there as a guest, and was chatting to a group of people I knew from a local radio station. They’d been sent a whole bunch of invites too. Still dressed in their work clothes, they looked me up and down, smiled sympathetically at all the effort I’d gone to, then carried on their conversation. A journalist trying to be glam was obviously ‘so not cool’.

Since that night, I’ve learnt an important lesson about premieres: eventually everyone gets invited. Of course, film companies send out wads of tickets – they want the event to look busy and buzzing. It wouldn’t do to have empty seats at a premiere; after all, they don’t want their star to look out from the stage as they introduce the movie only to be greeted by the sight of a half-full auditorium. So us ‘regular’ people in the media get invited. We’re needed only for our bulk.

Erica gave my hand a reassuring squeeze as we walked down the aisle. We took our seats – just regular chairs at the back of a cinema I’d sat in many times before. The sheen was rapidly vanishing from the evening. More people, all of whom looked as if they’d come straight from the office, took the seats around us. The only ‘celebrities’ visible in the vicinity were a dance duo who’d found minor fame on a TV talent show a couple of years earlier. While the ticket may have said that we must be seated by 6.45 p.m. sharp, at 7.20 p.m. we were still no nearer to watching the film. We sat there waiting, uncertain what to say, munching loudly on the free packets of Maltesers that had been placed on our seats. I started to feel nostalgic for the cosiness of my office, with my dazzling computer screen and my trusty cuppa. Finally, after 45 minutes, the producer and stars of the film appeared on the stage to introduce the movie. But, as the lights went down, I saw them slip out of the fire exit with their entourages, heading off into the night to do something far more sexy and exclusive than watching their movie with a bunch of nobodies. I slipped off my high heels and curled up into the seat – as much as I could curl up in that bloody dress, anyway – wishing I could just go home.

Thankfully, I wasn’t allowed to. The film, which to add insult to injury, was terrible, wrapped up and Erica virtually dragged me up to the waiting buses that were shipping us all out to a party venue down by the Thames. I knew that I was about to get a talking to.

‘Holly Forrest, you listen to me. You might not be a superstar and the movie that you took me to might have sucked big time, but that’s no reason for our night to end on a downer, okay? Let’s get on this bus, let’s sit on the back seat like naughty schoolgirls, then let’s go to the party and drink too much and dance like idiots. Are you with me or are you with me?’

I swear Erica could have been a sergeant major in another life.

So that’s exactly what we did. Until four in the morning, if you really want to know. And the best thing about all of it? Almost every celebrity we saw there looked miserable, unable to really let their hair down because they know it’s never good to be photographed looking worse for wear. But us? We could do whatever we wanted and no one would care – two deliriously drunk, happily carefree nobodies.