Mr. Fincher was setting the scene. My Sensei was scribbling furiously into his notebook. I was placed near “the talent”—namely, Mr. Brad Pitt. The movie star and I haven’t spent much time together on this show, with the exception of some brief scenes and hangout time (pot) last year during principal photography. A couple of the crew guys were joking about this becoming an Eyes Wide Shut thing, but that was three years of continuous production, and we’re only at a year. Re-shoots are normal, especially on a major motion picture like this. It’s kind of unusual for Mr. Fincher and My Sensei, but look at all of the great directors, legends, who’ve regularly used re-shoots to better their films: Woody Allen, Paul Thomas Anderson, Robert Zemeckis, Greta Gerwig. These are magnum talents who should be praised and regarded as living legends every time they’re spoken of—or to.
I find that too many journalists and people (journalists aren’t people) are unnecessarily harsh towards the artists they love. They get on them about their politics, their looks, their interviews, their friends. Why? Because the audience understands, whether they know it or not, that they have a hand in who becomes famous, who stays famous, and who stays obscure, and who gets sent back to oblivion. In fact, if you really read the history, you could argue that they’re by far the most powerful force in pop culture, with more influence and decision-making power than the promoters or artists. Why does everyone get mad at My Sensei for choosing to retire after directing 10 films? Because he doesn’t get to decide when he stops—they do. This dynamic plays itself out throughout history, and it’s only been accelerated by the death of the monoculture and the rise of social media. There’s a non-zero chance that so-and-so you may know from and such-and-such you’re always hearing about might read your nasty comment on their personal Instagram. I wouldn’t say it’s likely, but it depends on the celebrity.
My Sensei, and Mr. Fincher, are smart to stay off of social media. It’s a sewer, and they know that as much as you and me. Used to be a time when movies just came out, and you went to see them if you heard they were good… now it’s all fascist this and Nazi that. People don’t ask who’s in a movie anymore, they ask if it’s pro-Zionist. Mark Ruffalo presents a particularly disturbing case of a great artist undone by the New Political Correctness, a shallow form of cultural snobbery that replaced hipsterdom in the mid-2010s and paved the way, and flourished, during the insanity of 2020 and the Biden administration. Thank God we’re done with that. I can tell you that Alex (a friend) will never be President; she’s ambitious, but lacks the stern self-awareness of Hillary Clinton. The last time I talked to Alex, we grabbed a cafecito from the bodega and chopped it up with the owners, and I realized she was campaigning, still. I think she tries too hard and doesn’t realize how self-involved she appears to so many people.
I was thinking about all of this as I stood by Mr. Pitt in a racing suit ready to fight some Korean guys who, for some reason, have ended up in Santa Monica (we’re shooting Bali for Los Angeles; too expensive to film locally now). He was getting impatient as Mr. Fincher and our new DP Jeff Cronenweth (NOT a friend—eats blrdmeat) futzed with the lighting. “I need a smoke,” he said. A PA promptly arrived with a full pack of Marlboro Lights. “No. Reds.” The PA was smart: he pulled out a pack of Reds. He waited for a thank you before Mr. Pitt waved him away. He wasn’t being conscientiousness of his co-stars either, at least me: he forgot my name. What the fuck? Is there any less forgettable name than Bennington Quibbits? It’s certainly more distinctive than “Brad Pitt.”
Mr. Pitt was supposed to make some fake small talk with an arms dealer before facing off against the Koreans. I don’t know these characters, I don’t know these actors, and I don’t know these scenes—My Sensei has written new material while procrastinating on his play. They were taking over an hour to light the scene, so I wandered over to My Sensei and asked him how that play was going. “Love it. But I’m not really… uh… I can’t really talk now, Benny.” At least he’s calling me Benny again. Yesterday it was “Rooster.” Sorry, that’s my cousin you’re somehow best friends with. Why wasn’t I invited when you initially hung out and bonded? I want to bond. Bennington loves to bond!!
The scene was going so slowly that during the 53rd take, Mr. Pitt improvised and picked me up. He started gesturing with me, calling me “his friend,” and telling the Koreans to “say hello” to me. Then he threw me high in the air. I could’ve died (my wings were taped for the scene), but luckily I was snatched by one of the Koreans, who was nice and obedient when I ruined the take and demanded that he put me back down onto solid earth. I was in the doghouse for the rest of the day, and that was my last take on The Continuing Adventures of Cliff Booth. I’m on the call sheet for tomorrow, but I’m not sure I’m going to “be needed” as they say. But we’ll see. My Sensei is calling me by name again, after all—there’s still hope.
—Follow Bennington Quibbits on Twitter: @RoosterQuibbits