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When I went to Los Angeles for Temple University's Film & Media Arts internship program, I don't recall being possessed with the notion that I'd sniff at the riches or fame of show business. I would certainly not attain either. Realistically, I hoped to make my own infinitesimal contribution, gain some experience, and graduate, but on June 27th 2007, the glitz and glamour would waft my way regardless: I would get my first brush with the Hollywood elite at the Los Angeles premiere of Transformers .

Unlike many of my fellow students, I did not seek internships with large production companies or representative firms, mainly because I did not want to spend my entire summer licking envelopes and getting coffee. I settled instead on two smaller internship offers, hoping to get more face time for the 'sacrifice'. The first was Kadokawa Pictures America:

Busy international 2000 title Film production company seeks Interns. School credit, no pay. Interns assist in picking remakes from film library, script coverage, research, and office work in feature and TV development, finance, international business relationships and acquisitions. First-hand experience in active production company. Email resume.

At Kadokawa, I made it clear that I preferred doing script coverage. I was thusly caged with a mountain of screenplays and put to work. Fortunately, I was reviewing scripts for films that were either in production or recently completed, including Burn After Reading , Synecdoche, New York , Righteous Kill , Rendition , Crossing Over , The Brothers Bloom , Rudo y Cursi , Bright Star , The Boys Are Back , The Time Traveler's Wife and After.Life . My goal was to report whether or not these projects could be successful in Japan, which required a bit of market research before I could render my verdict. Despite the reasons behind my choice in employer, I disappeared at Kadokawa. The CIA couldn't find me in their building; discussions about ordering lunch for the office were often held in the opening of my cubicle without acknowledging my presence, and I once overheard another intern complaining that I got all the scripts and he had nothing to do. I wasn't snooping; this conversation took place on the other side of my flimsy cubicle wall. While it was gratifying to hear one of my bosses say my coverage was exceptional, it was less gratifying when my invisibility later allowed me to overhear this same intern sorrowfully recount the incident on the phone - to his mother.

The second internship bore a deceptively simple employment offer:

Boutique Personal Management/Production Company seeks intern. No pay but college credit given. Must work two days a week. Intern will be reading scripts and writing coverage for an A-List Client. A great opportunity to learn about development as well as talent management. Fax or email cover letters/resumes.

John Crosby Management put me in the employ of a talent manager who provided his services for John Hurt, Rene Russo, James Denton, and Shia LaBeouf contemporaneously, and previously Charlize Theron and Jeri Ryan. I admit that I was most excited at the notion of rubbing elbows with Mr. Hurt, whose performance in The Elephant Man always reduces me to rubble, but I had apparently failed to register the rather seismic impact Mr. LaBeouf was having on the industry. He had accepted his role in the latest Indiana Jones film a month before my arrival, and I was reading scripts in Crosby's suburban office the day Shia met Steven Spielberg elsewhere, cementing his deal for Eagle Eye . Needless to say, everyone in Hollywood wanted him in their movie that summer, and I was tasked with sorting the wheat from the chaff. And there was a lot of chaff. The most high-profile pitch was an early version of Hacksaw Ridge , then tantalizingly titled The C.O. and severely lacking in the Mel Gibson department. I recommended a pass.

Unlike Kadokawa, I had constant social interaction with everyone at JCM and was often bought drinks after work. The main agents, John and Jackie, regularly engaged with me, interested in both my opinion and my personal life. A treasured exchange saw me furiously typing an e-mail to an ex-girlfriend on my laptop. Hearing what must've sounded like the fingers of a cocaine-addled psychopath hammering away at the keys, Mr. Crosby walked out of his office and asked "What the fuck are you doing?" Caught in the act, I decided honesty was the best policy. "Writing an e-mail to an ex-girlfriend." He nodded approvingly. "Oh. Good. Just as long as you're not working that hard!" The creative executive, Lucas, was the best boss I've ever had. During my interview, he confided that I already had the job because I was the only candidate who submitted sample coverage in less than 24 hours, then praised the savagery of said coverage. We worked and socialized on the exact same wavelength, and at the conclusion of my summer, he took me out for drinks and gave me the best and most thorough feedback that my original screenplay Noise Pollution would ever receive. It was all gravy, and at times, seemed almost too easy.

However, on the day of the Transformers premiere, feces was flung into the JCM fan and there was no one to help scrape it off: tickets that were supposed to have been mailed to members of Mr. LaBeouf's family instead arrived at our office, so we were forced to redistribute them in addition to the herculean task of preparing our star for one of the largest premieres in history. Suffice it to say, the office was tense. With Jackie sick and the bulk of the cleanup left to myself and Lucas, four-letter words were ping-ponging off the walls at a volume that would've given passersby legitimate cause to dial 911. When the smoke cleared, I was being praised for my professionalism under stress. I literally hadn't done anything, but apparently, that was more than enough, though it did little to assuage my lingering fear that I wasn't a particularly good or memorable intern, especially since Kadokawa hadn't exactly bolstered my already iffy self-confidence. Lucky for me, the boss poured some oil by taking us all out to lunch. Between tacos, he charged me with standing at Sunset and Hilgard during rush hour with a sign and the last two tickets to distribute. I was happy to oblige him.

Moments later, he produced an envelope embossed with the Transformers logo: I was being given tickets to the premiere.

Any lingering excitement was scotched by my sojourn to Sunset and Hilgard. Standing on asphalt in the mid-summer heat while waving at reams of traffic left me sweaty and haggard, and with the premiere's start time approaching, I didn't have an opportunity to get changed out of my sub-'business casual' attire. A drive to my destination in the embrace of my car's air conditioning was no less fraught; greater Los Angeles can be notoriously difficult to navigate for neophytes, and this was years before the ubiquitous cell phone GPS. When I arrived at the proper parking garage, I must've asked the attendant ten questions before I felt I was in the right place.

A brief wander through Westwood Village at the foot of UCLA's campus revealed that I couldn't get lost if I was blindfolded. There were thousands of people packed into the sidewalks with only flimsy metal crowd control barriers and a handful of cops to stop them from spilling into the street. In the throng, I caught a sobering sight: a fledgling middle-aged screenwriter holding up a florid billboard entreating Shia to read his masterpiece. A plastic picnic table sat near the start of the crowd: the ticket distributors. The envelope from Mr. Crosby had only included a parking pass and a receipt to pick up my ticket, not the ticket itself. I manfully walked up and handed off the receipt, only to hear a question that would wither me: "Name?"

If there was ever a moment for my house of cards to come tumbling down, it was this. I would tell her my name, she would say "Not on the list", and I would spend the next several hours milling around, dithering over whether it would be proper to text and call my JCM superiors during the premiere, and whether or not they would receive or ignore such attempts. Occasionally, my paranoia is staggering, and my fear was nearing intoxicating levels as the ticket distributor leafed through the names. Amusingly enough, by the end of the internship, Lucas would write me a letter of recommendation that Temple's program facilitator hailed as the best she'd ever read. Finally, the ticket distributor's fingers stopped. She handed me my ticket. And VIP pass.



Apparently, they thought more of me than I did of myself. With my admittance secured, I got in touch with Lucas, who invited me to a bar at the adjacent corner. When I arrived, Lucas quietly informed me that Mr. LaBeouf was late - his limo driver got lost - and that we were keeping the boss blissfully unaware. I kept my lips sealed. Mr. LaBeouf arrived discreetly and didn't betray any notions of stress or annoyance - the man can act. His smart suit and the fact that he avoided the busker with the billboard prove he has taste. He dodged our entourage to have about a trillion red carpet pictures taken. Meanwhile, as I admired the huge crowds across the street, I bumped into Jon Voight. Literally. I confess I didn't notice many more celebrities - at the time, I had no idea who Megan Fox was.

The screening was one of the best movie experiences in my life. The energy in the theater was electric, and the buzz was addictive. When Optimus Prime disposed of Bone Crusher on the highway, the audience erupted in a thunderous standing ovation.

Once the credits rolled, Lucas scooped me back into Mr. LaBeouf's entourage. Walking out, I was blinded by flashbulbs before being herded past the enormous line for the block party by Mr. LaBeouf himself. As we walked down the block, Mr. Crosby had me stay equidistant between himself and his client. When everyone was caught up, Crosby officially introduced me to Shia. We shook hands and continued on our way. At the end of the block, a massive white wall separated the rest of the party from the VIP area. Again, I breached it with the entourage. Behind the veil, servers waited on us hand and foot. I suspect if they knew how insignificant I was they'd have turned up their noses at my corduroy slacks, but I was well situated at a table adjacent from Shia.

Mr. Crosby's wife tried to make Shia aware that I was the office intern, but it was all for not. I understood. I must admit that I was impressed with him. He never turned down a handshake, autograph, or picture, remaining polite and humble all evening. Shia departed before the rest of his entourage, as he had a 9:00am call time in Massachusetts for Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull the following day. Keep in mind, it was probably 2:00am in the east already when he left. However, we had a brief moment for a picture to memorialize the occasion - for me, at least.

As appreciative as I was, and still am, I must admit the picture with John, Jackie, and Lucas is the more cherished artifact. I ended the summer with my degree and gained the invaluable experience I sought, but I'm heartened by the reminder that I spent three months working and socializing with these unforgettably terrific people, laboring behind the scenes to make my first infinitesimal contribution to show business.





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