Fear and loathing at The Lovely Bones

First up, apologies if I've been a bit late in posting this week. I was flat out helping with coverage of The Lovely Bones - you understand.

I wanted to write something about and share my experience, as this was my first red carpet premiere, and certainly my first as a member of the press.

From getting accreditation to going to the preview screening and ultimately covering The Lovely Bones red-carpet premiere, my account is set in the style of Gonzo journalism, pioneered by Hunter S. Thompson himself.

No drugs were used during the making of this blog (except caffeine).

I do hope you get through enjoy it, and I also have some questions for you:

What did you think of the premiere? Did you attend? Was it overhyped? Are you going to see it?

Now, on to my ramblings...

December 14, 13:21PM

Arriving unfashionably early, I'm confronted by the menacing high-rise that is the Intercontinental Hotel, in all its gold-plated glory.

Somehow, I have to find the man, who will give me the card to make me invulnerable to the bigger, burlier men guarding the red carpet.

Glory awaits me there.

I make my way to the counter. The receptionist is confident and chirpy and I ask for directions to the accreditation booth. She feeds me the same line she fed every other card-hungry journalist that day.

"Fourth floor, follow the corridor."

At this point a shining woman appears, unfamiliar to my eyes. She introduces herself as Lee Plumber from MoreFM. We strike a deal to watch each other's back on the way up.

We make our way into one of the gleaming elevators and a man in a suit finer than any of mine presses the button for us. There is no music, and the silence is uncomfortable.

I step out on to the fourth floor, the corridor before us. Nervously, I make my way down the dark hallway and around the corridor to the office.

As I walk through the door I am confronted by a frenzied hive of activity - there must be 20 of them in here - what are these people doing?

Workers sit at computers working at inconceivable goals using tools I've never seen and with software I've never heard of. There's barely room to move and the floor seems narrow and unstable.

Electronic press kits and promotional materials lie strewn about the office in a senseless yet organised fashion.

Suddenly, they're on to me. I've been spotted.

"You're here for accreditation?"

"Uh... yes, yes! Accreditation - that's what I'm here for."

I'm sent deeper into the hive, into the back chamber. I must be close now.

I stop. Where's Lee? The last I saw she was carving a path straight for the back room in a manner only a seasoned radio host can - using her friendly chit-chat like a Desert Eagle, her aim impeccable.

I'm too slow - she got what she came for, and vanished. The hive is nothing new to her, she is immune to their sting.

More drones shuffle paper and a woman stands over a table laden with press junket cards. I spot my golden ticket. As I glance up, her eyes are fixed on me.

"Name?"

"Luke... Luke Appleby - from Stuff."

"I've got yours right here..."

"You don't need any identification?"

She looks at me curiously. Should he need identification? Is he who he says he is? Could this be some sort of trap, something to do with the Large Hadron Collider?

"No, that's fine."

I smile nervously as I grasp the card. The bright pink design coupled with a red lanyard makes me uneasy. It's time to go.

A shuffle backwards as I ready myself to flee. Where's the exit? A sea of workers seems to ebb and flow all around me. I hold my breath and dive through the waves.

Now I'm outside. The fresh air courses into my lungs and I breathe again. Did I make it? Am I still here? I clench the press pass in my pocket.

Still here.

"That was the easy part," I think to myself.

 

December 14 20:14PM

I walk towards the Embassy theatre. I've been instructed to gather intelligence for the big cheese, and that means heading right into the enemy stronghold.

As I approach the front entrance I notice a compatriot of mine. He's calm - legs loosely crossed sitting at a table chatting quietly with two girls, but looking more at his phone than them.

"Foxy!" I whisper. "Where do we get in, their goons are all over the place..."

"Relax, man, we just go straight on in."

He points towards the entrance, flanked on either side by men who look large enough to swallow me whole. We make our dash.

With a quick flurry of lanyards and nodding hellos, we are in. We make our way up the broad, winding stairs leading into the gentle hubbub of the media swarm.

As we reach the landing, their eyes are upon us. Segmented into groups, they have clearly established a hierarchy, and we are at the bottom. We head for the bar and order a drink.

Play it cool, Luke.

JESUS WHAT THE HECK IS THAT THING! IT MUST BE TEN FEET TALL!

"Relax, man," says Foxy.

"That's Oliver Driver."

A light bell rings in the distance - our signal that the gates are opening. We move in fast, ahead of the pack to ensure we take the first glance at the prize.

Inside, a cavernous chamber opens before us, deathly silent, dimly lit and smelling of antique wood and freshly cleaned carpet.

We head to the back, a clean getaway. The screen is immense - almost too large to view. Slowly, the rest of the swarm moves in, each setting up a base and fortifying it with gaudy coats and switched-off cellphones.

A man comes and makes a speech. We pay little attention to what he says. Show us the goods, man.

And then it begins.

A maelstrom of colour - swirling - seething - climbing and falling. The imagery is sharp and clear, it fills my mind with thoughts previously unimagined.

Ships in bottles crashing against rocks on peach-toned shores - trees with leaves of rushing birds transforming with a sudden gust of a strong wind - a suburban house of pure evil - fields of ice and snow with half-submerged sculptures embedded deep within the landscape - a chain-smoking, scotch-guzzling grandmother struggling with a vacuum cleaner - the untimely deaths of children at the hands of a madman.

I am transfixed, I cannot look away. For over an hour I am trapped by a force now known as The Lovely Bones.

My innards are shaken by an impossibly loud sound system. I clench my teeth with suspense at the things I see and hear.

I've seen it all... I've seen too much.

Then suddenly it is over... the names of a thousand brave souls scroll towards the darkened roof.

No applause, no commotion, it is over.

It's time to make our exit. We head back to the landing, and scrawl our names on a sheet of paper, the sole proof that we were there that night.

I head back into the cold night and sleep uneasily thinking of what is to come.

 

December 15 13:24PM

The day arrives, and I head for the press conference being held back at the hive.

Foxy is there, calm as usual. We head into the conference hall with as much gear as we can handle.

Craig Parker makes jokes to us as the press swarm impatiently waits for the main event to begin. Finally, they arrive.

Laid out before us in a row are the stars - they look like dolls. After you see people on TV or in a movie, seeing them in real life is surreal, almost like reaching into the screen-world with your face.

Time rushing by as I film their responses to the swarms questions. Suddenly, our time is up and they are whisked away, as quick as they came.

We head back to the office, to await the main event later that day.

 

December 15 18:15PM

Carrying as much gear as is needed to strain my back, I arrive panting to the final event.

A long, red tongue lolls all over Courtenay Place, tasting the population of Wellington as it welcomes those attending to enter the cavernous jaws of the Embassy.

I head straight for the press pit. I can sense the presence of other journalists already as I stroll calmly through the waiting crowds.

The sun is hot, my eyes strain to focus and I sweat mildly in my business pants and uncomfortable white shirt.

I realise that I have no accreditation to be in the press pit and for a moment I despair.

Then, through the fire and the flames I spot Foxy, he's managed to wrangle his way into the pit. I gesture, but its no good. His phone is all he sees.

As I stand hovering near the entrance watched by a small team of roadies sitting on large boxes, I am spotted by a woman. She calls to me.

"Come in!" she says, gesturing.

"Where?" I respond.

As she emerges from the fog, I realised that the woman is none other than Greer McDonald of The Dominion.

She heads straight through the roadies and their burly guards to the entrance, and calmly ushers me in.

With merely a glance at the security guards, I am amongst my kind once more.

My attention turns back to the tongue, the jaws in clear view from our vantage point.

I scramble to unload and set up my gear - digital SLR, tripod and camcorder, all the burdens on my back are temporarily relieved, as I prepare for the onslaught.

The guests arrive like water returning after a drought to a barren red riverbed.

All the time, the fans are shouting and screaming with desperation. It's hot, and the streets are crowded. They tussle and fight for the better positions.

We scan the crowd for familiar faces - no one of significance yet.

The photographers arm their cannons, some longer than my arm. They wield them with the expert marksmanship gained from long years serving in the fourth estate.

There's hunger in their eyes - desperation. Each shot could be their last.

At the front line, I am surrounded by members of the cream of the New Zealand entertainment press.

They muscle for rank, pushing each other as B-grade celebs glance in our direction, only to be disappointed as they walk right past us.

Then, something big happens. A loud uproar is heard at the end of the tongue. Something's coming.

The bodyguards and B-graders peel back to reveal the rough, but lightly polished diamond that is Susan Sarandon. She swans about the red carpet, calm and carefree, blessed with the confidence of a hundred acting roles.

The large man next to me bellows for her attention as she draws near - I look down at his ID to see that he is Dom Harvey from The Edge. His heckling attracts mild laughter from the press swarm.

More stars arrive and the crowd becomes increasingly excited. I fear for a moment that the barrier will give way and the hordes will wash over us. Thankfully, they hold firm.

Finely dressed goddesses float in front of my lens - they're Saoirse Ronan, Rose McIver and Carolyn Dando. I diligently hold my shot steady as the media asks mundane questions of them.

"What do you think of the carpet?" "Are you having fun?" "What was your favourite part of the movie?" "Are you enjoying Wellington?"

It pains my ears, but I push through, holding firm to my tripod.

If only John Campbell was here - but wait, is he here? There's a live cross going on across the tongue... I can feel John's eye looking over the event from away, lidless and rimmed with fire. The eyes of the nation are upon us.

Then, as soon as they arrived, the nymphs are gone, all gone. Into the jaws of the embassy for what awaits them there.

The celebrity-hungry crowd looks around for their next meal - and here it comes - the main course.

PJ himself walks confidently in his home town. His head held high, he graciously stops to sign dozens of autographs for the crazed and viciously screaming hordes.

He reaches us looking slightly worse for wear - normal for him. His hair is wind-swept and his eyes avoid those of the media. He knows this game well, and he's ready to play.

The swarm bombards him with questions. He keeps a firm distance, side-on, as he answers in a methodical, intelligent way. He's not giving away any outrageous quotes easily. He makes us work for it.

The media swarm resembles a net full of whitebait as it is pulled from the river - we bunch around PJ, scrambling for open air in which to point a lens.

Shutters above my left and right shoulder click at a furious rate and I see their white Canon lenses in my peripheral vision.

Then, it is over. PJ slowly steps away from the swarm, out of our reach, and into the Embassy.

What now? Where do we go from here?

The crowds begin to disperse and the night slowly sets in, the mood is sombre. Only metres away, through a thick wall of concrete, those same celebrities we had just hounded were seeing what I had witnessed the night before.

The secret is out - my work here is done.

I'm one of the last to leave, the experts pack their gear with a ferocity that amazes me, and without a word they are gone - gone to spend many more hours processing this multi-spectrum experience and beam it across the globe.

I wander slowly back to the office to do the same.

This was my first red carpet. Now I see what the all fuss is about. The excitement is incomparable - it's a true day out for the press.

I leave with a fond impression, hoping it will not be my last red carpet, as the memory begins to fade into obscurity.

What did you think of the premiere? Did you attend? Was it overhyped? Are you going to see the movie?

Join Connector on Facebook. Email Luke at connectornz@gmail.com