A casting director paged me one fine morning and informed me that a director had requested me to double for Jack Lemmon's son - Chris - who was starring in an Independent film titled "Yellow Pages".
The production was anxious to jet overseas to a handful of locales where key scenes were being shot for the comedy release on a short schedule with a low budget.
So, what else is new in Tinsel town?
For this reason, the producers wanted a 2nd unit to snag establishing shots in the can before the cast and crew took off overseas.
Basically, the shoot required a series of drive-bys up on Mulholland in Beverly Hills.
When I drove up to the set, the 2nd assistant director bustled me off to wardrobe and make-up to prepare me for the series of quick snippets on celluloid.
Essentially, a wig was pinned to my scalp, then the unruly mop was crowned with a stylish hat to partly hide my full face since I would be plunked inside a long wide old caddie with the top down with "Henry Brilliant" written in an eye-catching script on each side panel.
The camera was set on top of a knoll along a quieter more-picturesque stretch of the infamous drive high above the ritzy enclave where Tinsel Town's tony elite hob-knobbed below.
The initial scenes went off without a hitch, so I thought the wiry little director would call it a wrap shortly after a catered lunch.
"Ah, just the martini shot, now," he sighed, as he strolled to the edge of a cliff and stared down into the deep mouth of the suburban San Fernando Valley stretching out below.
He motioned me over and pointed to an on ramp on Highway 101.
"I'd like you to drive onto the freeway and take up a postion by the side of the road" he instructed, as he pointed out the spot where he'd like me to glide to a neat stop.
"You'll have a walkie-talkie. When the camera is ready, and the setting is just right, I'll give you a cue to pull into traffic and head on down the highway at a good clip."
For some inexplicable reason, the traffic cop on duty overseeing the shoot pursuant to a prerequisite City permit, did not escort me.
As I hopped in the vehicle and turned on the ignition, I recall shouting out to the director:
"Are these plates legal?"
"No problem," he winked.
Well, I managed to get on the ramp, and roar into position with a minimum amount of fuss.
I parked, as instructed, and waited for the signal.
Suddenly, I caught a moving object out of the corner of my eye in the rear-view mirror.
Yikes!
The CHP was boring down on me, fast.
I plucked up the walkie-talkie and pressed hard on the send button.
"I think I have company! The Highway Patrol."
"Oh sh**," I heard the Director mutter as his voice faded into oblivion.
The Officer pulled up behind me and ground to a halt in a cloud of dust.
As he strolled toward the vehicle, the director's voice started to squawk over the box.
When I reached for the communication device, I guess the Officer wasn't sure if I had a gun or something like that, cause he suddenly barked out:
"Hands up in the air where I can see 'em. Drop that."
"It's a walkie-talkie," I managed to screech out, as I just about pooped my pants.
"We're making a movie," I quickly blurted out, because he didn't appear to hear what I said or was under the distinct impression that I was a bald-faced liar, in fact.
Of course, he would think that.
The camera was up on the hill, out-of-sight, and I appeared to be spinning a tall tale.
As he stood beside me befuddled by the name "Henry Brilliant" etched on the side of the dilapidated old vehicle, the walkie-talkie crackled to life once again.
"Are you there?"
"May I pick up," I meekly asked.
He gave a nod, but was still perplexed nonetheless.
"We're sending our traffic cop down to talk to the CHP."
At this juncture, the studly officer chuckled under his breath.
"A Los Angeles traffic cop? He doesn't have any jurisdiction here. This is my turf."
As we waited for him to zip down to us on the lone stretch of highway, the two of us engaged in a bit of idle chit-chat.
"Do you know why I stopped you," he quizzed.
I shook my head.
"Your plate isn't legal."
Imagine that!
It was not only "unregistered" but made out of plain old cardboard.
It was just a prop crafted by set dressing!
Then, things turned for the worse when he asked for my license.
Oh, my gosh!
Because I was in wardrobe, I didn't have my wallet in my possession.
Boy, was I up sh** creek without a paddle!
Finally, once our hired gun met up with old chippie, a pact was struck.
Both agreed that the production company should resolve the tangled legal issues the pickle thrust me in.
I expect there must have been a healthy contribution to the Officer's club, eh?
Bottom line, I learned an important lesson that day.
Never believe what an independent director or his fly-by-night rinky-dink outfit tell 'ya.
Always cover your a**!
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