The Lead Dog

Note: Hey, guess what — a fresh post, that’s what — not a retread from the good old/bad old days!

I've heard that phrase more times than I can count, and although the words resonate when paired with an image like this, it’s always seemed a bit glib to me.¹ After all, the lead dog isn't exactly running wild and free -- he's chained to the same heavy sled just like the rest of the pack. Granted, his view is an endless expanse of ice and snow rather than ice, snow, and the butts of all the other dogs, but I'm not sure it makes much difference when every member of the team is pulling with all they’ve got.

When applied to Hollywood, I have to wonder who the "lead dog" on a show might be. Both best boys answer to their respective superiors, the key grip and gaffer, who in turn answer to the DP. Like the other department heads, the DP answers to the director, who answers to the executive producer, who answers to the network or studio executives, who answer to a board of directors, who answer to whichever rich scumbag owns the most shares of the corporation's stock. Does that mean the lead dog is a majority stockholder: some smug, overfed A-hole who drinks mimosas made with Dom Perigon for breakfast and has a closet full of Brioni suits but nary a callus on his smoothly manicured hands?

I dunno, but it seems to me that everybody has a boss of one sort or another, and even if there is no overall lead dog who enjoys the very best view, each department on and off set really does need to be led by someone who knows what he-she-or they is doing.

There are no superfluous members of a film crew -- everybody has a role in carrying a show across the finish line. Still, some people really are born to lead — due to whatever quirk of personality, they actually need to be out front — and when they're not, things can get squirrely.

When I started working as a gaffer, the position was handed to me: in essence, I inherited the job. I'd never harbored any big ambitions on set -- I just wanted to do a good job with the rest of our crew -- but when circumstance shoved me to the front of my lighting crew, I tried to make it work. It seemed to for a while, but being granted that nice view and truly earning it are two very different things, and I couldn't make it stick. Still, I learned a lot from the experience, regrouped, and eventually came back as a much stronger gaffer the second time around. Even then, if being the lead dog of my little lighting tribe offered a better view, it came with a price. As gaffer, I had to stand by the dolly all... day... long, watching, listening, and paying full attention to what was going in in front of the camera -- and on something like an eight-day "Barbie Doll" commercial, an intense focus on something so utterly absurd and ultimately meaningless can turn a guy's brain to mush. A fellow gaffer termed this phenomenon "content poisoning," and he was right. Maintaining my concentration on jobs like that was some of the hardest work I ever did on set.

At one point the best boy grip of our group began getting into petty conflicts with my crew. I never witnessed them -- they happened out of sight and earshot -- but I'd hear about them later. I probably should have talked to that best boy myself, but the key grip and I had come up through the ranks together over many years, so I went to him. He dealt with it and things got better for a while, but the best boy eventually returned to his troublesome ways just as we landed a four-day car commercial to be shot in a city a thousand miles from LA. This time the key grip was booked on another gig, which meant his best boy would bump up to the key grip slot. Now, it seemed, he and I would finally have that confrontation ... but a funny thing happened on location: the trouble-making best boy morphed into an excellent key grip. He was totally solicitous of me and my department for the entire job, always asking what else he could do to make my job -- our job -- easier. This astonishing about-face confounded me until I realized the obvious: he was one of those people who couldn't be happy unless he was the lead dog on his crew, and once there his attitude and actions did a full turnaround. I literally could not have asked for a better key grip on that job.²

That said, people are different. The gaffer I worked with on the longest run of my television career -- a show called Melissa & Joey -- was one of the best. He was smart, had a great sense of humor, never got stressed or rattled on set, and really knew his business. Working with him on that crew was a real pleasure. We'd often end up day-playing together on other shows between seasons of M&J, and he was just as good a juicer as he was a gaffer. His approach to the two very different jobs was exactly the same: pay attention, speak only when necessary, and work hard. That kind of professional flexibility is crucial to surviving in the freelance jungle of Hollywood, because there's only one lead dog on each department’s crew. If you're a gaffer or key grip and none of your DPs are working, you have to take whatever gigs you can get — and when dropping down to work as a juicer or '“extra hammer,” you still need to bring your A-game and be the kind of worker you’d want on your crew.

On that note, my dozen or so years as a gaffer made me a much better juicer when runaway production traded my light meter for a pair of gloves back in the late ‘90s.

The bottom line is this: a good lead dog is essential, but he or she is only as good as his or her crew. Those pulling the sled behind are just as important, whether they like the view or not.

1. Kind of like “Don't Sweat the Small Stuff”

2. He went on to have a long successful career as a key grip.