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Every day, a gaggle of guys and gals in movie character costumes mill around Hollywood Boulevard, attempting to make a living off of tips handed to them by tourists who want their picture taken with a simulacrum of their favorite silver-screen hero. Documentarian Matthew Ogens interviews four of them: a man who not only plays Superman but has dedicated his life to the collection of Superman memorabilia, a former homeless dude who now wears a Hulk suit (inside which it can reach 130 degrees), a Tennessee transplant who spends her days as Wonder Woman, and a vaguely Clooneyesque Batman with a (possibly fabricated) checquered past and anger management issues.
Just as Vegas residents steer clear of the strip, Angelenos in their right mind put the maximum possible distance between themselves and the Hollywood Walk of Fame. I don't even live in L.A. yet, and I think the thing is sheer grotesquerie. Last time I had to go by there, I couldn't stop looking at one of the characters in particular. Perhaps owing to the recent film trilogy, Spider Man is a very popular costume for a professional character — I think there are six of them — but one Spider Man stood out to me, because his suit was just a little too loose. A lonely Spider Man, standing on the sidewalk, slightly too skinny for his costume, hoping for tips, his Nikes visible, waving. The essence of human tragedy.
Few things are more intriguing to me than learning the details of unusual jobs, hobbies or pursuits. Suiting up as the Caped Crusader in the morning and then shaking down sightseers in fanny packs fits that bill nicely. I was thrilled when, in a voiceover, Christopher "Superman" Dennis said "here's how it goes" and walked the audience through what it's like to work as a character. The strategy is to look appealing enough that tourists approach you. If they start to snap a shot, make it known that you "work on tips." Make it well-known, but not too well-known, and make damn sure not to cross the thin line between public and private property. When the rubes hand over the bills, stuff them into your costume and keep on milling.
I've often wondered how lucrative an enterprise this is. Answer: the very best days bring in close to $600, but you might get nothing, too. Considering the low barrier to entry, even a $300 per day average isn't a terrible wage. (Work six days a week, and you pull down a good-but-not-great $86k per year, tax free.) Too bad the work sucks; standing around all day in the L.A. heat requires certain makeshift cooling measures, such as strategically moistening one's costume. (Yes, the film shows this moistening.) There's also the issue of non-paying customers: as Superman frequently reminds the often-hostile Batman, tipping is not mandatory.
All four examined characters are doing this to cover their bills while they look, mostly in vain, for acting work. Perhaps non-coincidentally, all four of their lives are near-absolute trainwrecks. Superman's tiny apartment is impossibly crowded with Man of Steel memorabilia, Wonder Woman is stuck with a lethargic frat-boyish hubby, Batman is perpetually surrounded with seediness and The Hulk only recently stopped sleeping in the gutter. Most are past their sell-by dates, snagging the occasional commercial or walk-on in movies that look like they were shot on VHS. (The Hulk is the standout success, having by the end of Confessions landed a role in Justin Lin's comedy about The Game of Death.)
I see two major questions at the heart of all this. First, why do so many aspiring actors — and I wonder why there are so many in the first place, given the glutted market for actors — just plop themselves in L.A. and hit audition after pathetic audition, refusing to lay any groundwork? Do they think they're in a Horatio Alger novel? Their intention is clearly not to hone their craft, as, say, your Samuel L. Jacksons did in their early years. They're not taking challenging small-time theater roles to build their skills. They seem to think acting is an occupation at which nobody is better or worse than anyone else, and is only succeeded at by being plucked out of the crowd by a studio bigwig who "likes your look." It's as if they were trying to enter a building by repeatedly walking into it, hoping to eventually abrade away the wall in their path, when they could, with just slightly more thought and up-front effort, climb in through a window.
Second, why do tourists go to the Walk of Fame at all? It's so unappealing, so tacky. There's nothing to do but gawk, and what's there to gawk at isn't fascinating. Why do they want their pictures taken with lowlifes in costumes? What, precisely, is the value of a snapshot of yourself with a gap-toothed Superman, sloppily skinny in his leotard and boots, who goes home to two rooms brimming with junk and a fiancée who, after some work, could qualify as homely? They act like it's thrilling, but isn't it, I don't know, saddening?
- Andrew Dominik's The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford
- Julian Schnabel's The Diving-Bell and the Butterfly
- Béla Tarr's The Man from London
- Paul Thomas Anderson's There Will Be Blood
- Joel and Ethan Coen's No Country for Old Men
- Anton Corbijn's Control
- Robinson Devor's Zoo
- Ang Lee's Lust, Caution
- Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck's The Lives of Others
- Gary Hustwit's Helvetica
- Matthew Ogens' Confessions of a Superhero
- Jason Reitman's Juno
- Wes Anderson's The Darjeeling Limited
- David Cronenberg's Eastern Promises
- Greg Mottola's Superbad
- Seth Gordon's The King of Kong: A Fistful of Quarters
- Anthony Hopkins' Slipstream
- Marjane Satrapi and Vincent Paronnaud's Persepolis
- Sidney Lumet's Before the Devil Knows You're Dead
- Kenneth Branagh's Sleuth
- Jake Kasdan's The TV Set
- David Silverman's The Simpsons Movie
- J.A. Bayona's The Orphanage
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