Matthew Rhys - My American (So Back Off!)

Reader, I married him. 

Okay, so that was the end of Jane Eyre, and this was May 2013, and the man I was marrying knew nothing about it, but you can’t have everything.

   

But my New Best Friend on board, Jen, officiated. The rings were made of champagne foil. And I moved cabins on Virgin Atlantic to force it onto the finger of Matthew Rhys.

   

To bring you up to speed with MY HUSBAND (stand back, ladies, or I will shoot). Several years ago, I pondered, in this blog, whether the man actually existed, so difficult had my attempts been even to catch a glimpse of him. Then, suddenly, he appeared in the King’s Head in Santa Monica for a rugby match on the TV; two days later, I met him again at a St David’s Day event he organised in LA.

   

This week, he appeared yet again in my life. I was not Stalking by Air, I promise; it really was an accident. I was at the bar on a Virgin Atlantic flight back to LA and telling my NBF about why some UK actors made it big in Hollywood and others didn’t. Talent, charisma, good looks, an ability to get on with others, that extra something that you can’t just put your finger on – the IT Factor. Like Matthew Rhys,” I said.

  

“Oh, he’s on board,” she said. “Just back there.” Well, I tell you, I was up that aisle quicker than you could say Fasten Your Seatbelts.

   

The man who is to be the new Darcy in the sequel to the Jane Austen classic, Pride and Prejudice, was, indeed, there. They practically had to call the paramedics to me. Handsome, dark tousled hair, beautiful eyes, perfect mouth . . . Honestly, if the plane plummets now, I thought, I will die a happy woman. My only worry was that he would usurp me in the South Wales Echo headline – “Hollywood actor goes down” – that sort of thing (in my dreams! . . . By the way, is anyone swallowing (as it were) that Michael Douglas excuse for his throat cancer?).  

   

This week, Rhys came to our screens in The Americans, and he is nothing short of brilliant (as is the show). After five seasons of Brothers and Sisters, playing gay Kevin Walker, Rhys is being heavily tipped to win major awards for his portrayal of a KGB spy living a “normal”, suburban life in the US.

   

It has to be said that Russian spies have never looked so sexy. 

No overcoats, no two octaves below par accents, and at least 30 years younger than his predecessors, Rhys (unlike Austin Powers) is The Spy You Want to S**g.

Sorry. Someone had to say it. 

And he’s my husband. 

So join the queue, bitch!

Another Average Day in Hollywood

A dead body. A court case. And a cat’s funeral. 

Just another average day in Hollywood.

    

The body at the top of the staircase outside my new apartment in West Hollywood appears to be dead. Very dead. White face, no movement and no response when I poke it. Then, I do what they do on TV: place my two fingers against her neck (I have ascertained that the corpse is female) and turn to the assembled throng (well, non-assembled in this case) and shake my head.

    

Going downstairs to get better phone reception, I call 911 and explain the situation. Returning to the corpse to await whatever service is on its way, I am more than a little surprised to witness a resurrection before me. Moreover, a resurrection with a very bad nosebleed dripping all over my carpet. “You wanna chill,” says the ungrateful Lazurus.

    

I call 911 again and tell them of the miracle that has occurred, but stress that the body is still in need of urgent medical attention. The last I see of her, she is in the middle of the road, trying to flag down a taxi. For all I know, she was run down and is now in the morgue, which is where she should have been in the first place. Some people have no sense of drama.

    

A few hours later, I find myself in court – a place I have been just twice in my life. The first time was as a witness for the police in the UK, when they had decided my complaint against a taxi driver warranted a case for "rude and aggressive behaviour".

    

The Appeals Court (he didn't turn up for the first trial - ok, a tad melodramatic, I admit) put the problem down to there not being "enough charisma" between us. How much charisma do you need to go from Wardour Street to Brewer Street (less than a mile) behind a pane of glass, I asked the dumbfounded police afterwards.

    

The second time was in LA in 2011, when I successfully sued my landlady for non-return of a huge chunk of my deposit. Everything I put into practice I learned from watching just one TV show: Judge Alex. And so, for the second time in a day dealing with LA law, I find myself in court for the third time: not in the handcuffs (alas) I fantasised about when I first saw the TV show, and not, thankfully, with my being sued for being the judge’s stalker.

   

Judge Alex used to tape in Houston but is now in LA, and it is not only the best of the courtroom shows, it is one of the funniest shows on TV. It helps that the judge is stunningly handsome, brilliant and witty, and Twitter is packed with legions of swooning female fans; but it is a brilliantly edited show, too.

    

So, I am on the set and asked where I would like to sit - on or off camera. Anyone who knows me would know they could have just plonked me on the Judge's bench at the outset and downgraded me from there.

   

In  fact, anyone who knows me will be surprised to learn that I was not fully robed, gavel in hand, shouting "Action!" with the poor Judge locked in a cupboard elsewhere on the studio lot.

    

So, I am seated second from the left in the front row, and the first person to talk to me is an actor. So is the second. And the third. And the . . . You get my drift. They join lists that provide audiences for studio shows such as Judge Alex and get paid by the day.

    

"They get paid more than we do," says RAN 1 (Resentful Actor Number 1 on my left, who has been to every show today), nodding towards the hallowed ground beyond the wooden barrier where he is penned. "When I was a litigator . . . " he begins. I decide not to point out that he has never been, will never be, a litigator. I also hesitate to point out that he will never be an actor, either, but hold my tongue. (When I returned to see my second show, he was shunted off to "Standing room”. Quite right, too).

    

Behind me sits RAN 2. She's a nurse. Not a real one, of course. She has been a "background actor" in several hospital dramas, but is ready to move centre stage.

    

"Do a monologue - NOW!" shouts RAN 1, a little frighteningly. She stumbles. I think of reciting Henry V's speech from the Battle of Agincourt, but in the millisecond I take for breath, RAN 1 is already off again. "I'm a Shakespearean actor really . . . “

    

There is a very handsome younger man behind him who has played a detective (albeit a "background detective"). He has the kind of look that gives me the feeling that he might just make it, and he comes to these shows to network. He claims they have been very useful.

   

 Oh, Hollywood, I love you. The hope.

    

The cat’s funeral is an altogether more sombre affair. I don’t like cats, but felt I had to support Chrissy, a fellow journalist, in her hour of need. “Mr Love” had been one of her feline companions for 14 years (“Slut”, his mother, lives on, and is very unperturbed by her son’s passing), and had been kept alive by his owner’s adoration and acupuncture, which is big pet business here. The decision to have him put down was a tough one.

    

My biggest concern is when I get a call from Chrissy saying that Bradley, the homeowner hosting the event, can’t find his iPod with Memory from Cats on it, the number Chrissy has chosen for the funeral, so could I gen up on the lyrics ready to sing.

    

When I arrive at Bradley’s, Mr Love is in a box wrapped in Christmas paper, with three sunflowers on the top. Memory is playing on the iPod, which has been found. Phew.

    

Basil, Bradley’s dog, is hovering a little too enthusiastically close to the box, and when we enter the garden for the ceremony, he is locked away.

    

After Chrissy reads an e-mail from a friend, praising both Mr Love and his owner, I decide to sing. I wasn’t going to waste a morning’s practice, after all, so I go for the Welsh hymn Calon Lan, which means a pure/honest/happy heart. I tell the sobbing throng that it’s a love song. I decide to leave out its associations with being sung on the rugby terraces. 

It’s what Mr Love would have wanted.

    

Like I said. Just another average day in Hollywood.

  

Professional Brits Abroad - Doncha Just Love 'Em!

Professional Brits abroad. 

Doncha just love ‘em. 

They save all year to have an experience of a lifetime, only to moan about it once they get there and then spend the whole time whingeing about how much happier they would have been, had they stayed at home.

    

So, yesterday, I was sitting in Il Pastaio, one of my favourite restaurants in Beverly Hills. It is always packed, but especially so on a Friday. The weather has been sensational this week, and yesterday was the hottest day of the year so far. Everyone was smiling. Laughter was contagious on the outdoor terrace of the restaurant. Inside, where I sit at the bar, I touched base with waiters I hadn’t seen in over a year and was welcomed like a long lost member of the family.

   

Then, THEY arrived. Two overweight, red-faced, sweaty Brits from the north of England, sighing heavily like two stab victims stumbling in from the street.

   

“Bad day?” I asked.

    

And they were off. “We hate this weather . . . just been on one of those open top tour buses . . . not really us . . . so hot . . . we hate this weather . . . wish we’d never come here . . . not really our thing . . . can’t wait to leave . . . not our thing at all . . . “

    

On and on and on. “So what is your thing?” I asked.

   

 “The Grand Canyon.”

    

Then why don’t you just piss off to the Grand Canyon, I thought, but politely declined to say. Instead, I said: “Well, at least you’re now in one of the most famous, nicest restaurants in Beverly Hills.”

    

“Really?” said the female lobster. “You wouldn’t think so. It’s very crowded. And there are more waiters than people.”

    

Now, that’s not strictly true, is it, love? There are a lot of waiters because there are a lot of people. If there were more waiters than people, that wouldn’t make economic sense. It would be silly. And if you two shifted your fat backsides off to the Grand Canyon, there were would be room for at least another dozen customers, thereby solving the problem.

    

Having gleaned that the male lobster liked wine, I suggested that as they were staying in the Best Western in Santa Monica, they visit Wine Expo, about five minutes walk from their hotel. It is one of my favourite places in LA and, with daily tastings and a huge store, has the best Italian wine selection outside Italy. The lobsters showed about as much interest as the Pope in a brothel. As they were in LA for another three days, I went on to suggest other places that they might visit off the tourist trail. “It’s just not really our thing” was the response to every idea.

    

Brits in America make the worst tourists (second only to Americans in France, who are the rudest, most ignorant on the planet). Despite the great service, choice of restaurants, and, at the moment, prices that are way below those in Europe, they still find something to moan about. Back at home, they have doubtless been moaning since Christmas about the British weather, their mounting debts, the escalating fuel prices, and there being nothing on the telly. So, they plan a trip to escape it all, only to spend the whole time dreaming about the hellhole they have left in the north of England.

    

I love America, but I especially love LA. True, it’s odd in many ways – you never really know who anyone is. Unlike New York or London, where people tend to wear their hearts on their sleeves, in LA you’re never quite sure what you’re getting. People wear many faces, and you can never be sure which is the real one.

    

But I have found it to be incredibly friendly. I love the work ethic and the fact that it is the centre of the universe for film and television. I love everyone’s belief that anything is possible. Who cares if most of their dreams come to nothing; better to have a dream and live in hope than to look permanently to a black horizon.

    

I don’t care if it’s not your thing. It’s mine. So take your lobster flesh off to the Grand Canyon and then back home, where you can tell everyone about the two-mile radius you believe is LA.

    

Me, I’m off for a stroll on the beach, followed by a frozen Margarita and half an hour watching the sun set over the Pacific. 

Safe trip home, lobsters.

Tattoos, Simon Cowell and Having My Day in Court with Judge Alex

The first time I was in a courtroom was as a witness for the police in the UK, when they had decided my complaint against a taxi driver warranted a case for "rude and aggressive behaviour".

The Appeals Court (he didn't turn up for the first trial - ok, a tad melodramatic, I admit) put the problem down to there not being "enough charisma" between us. How much charisma do you need to go from Wardour Street to Brewer Street (less than a mile) behind a pane of glass, I asked the dumbfounded police afterwards.

The second time was in LA in 2011, when I successfully sued my landlady for non-return of a huge chunk of my deposit. Everything I put into practice I learned from watching just one TV show: Judge Alex (follow @judgealexferrer on Twitter). And so, today, I found myself in court for the third time: not in the handcuffs (alas) I fantasised about when I first saw the TV show, and not, thankfully, with my being sued for being his stalker.

I was there as a member of the audience, and not since I saw Simon Cowell's enormous Winnebago (no, that is not a euphemism) on the set of American Idol a few years back, have I been so excited.

In fact, so excited have I been about knowing both men, I nearly got their names tattooed - one on each shoulder - when I was in Venice Beach a few weeks back.

Alcohol had been consumed. Sobriety had been resumed when I settled for an engraved ingot with WWSD (What Would Simon Do) on it (sorry, Judge, even semi-stalkers have their pecking order).

So, here I am on the set and I am asked where I would like to sit - on or off camera. Anyone who knows me would know they could have just plonked me on the Judge's bench at the outset and downgraded me from there.

In fact, anyone who knows me will be surprised to learn that I was not fully robed, gavel in hand, shouting "Action!" with the poor Judge locked in a cupboard elsewhere on the studio lot.

So, I am seated second from the left in the front row, and the first person to talk to me is an actor. So is the second. And the third. And the . . . You get my drift. They join lists that provide audiences for studio shows such as Judge Alex and get paid by the day. I suggest a sum and am told that yes, I am fairly accurate for days like this. When I arrive, the team is already on show five, and there are three more to go. They record 130 shows in a little over three months and the five blocks of three day taping are clearly the most intense.

"They get paid more than we do," says RAN 1 (the Resentful Actor Number 1 on my left, who has been to every show today), nodding towards the hallowed ground beyond the wooden barrier where he is penned. "When I was a litigator . . . " he begins. I decide not to point out that he has never been, will never be, a litigator. I also hesitate to point out that he will never be an actor, either, but hold my tongue. (When I returned to see my second show, he was shunted off to "Standing room". Quite right).

Behind me sits RAN 2. She's a nurse. Not a real one, of course. She has been a "background actor" in several hospital dramas, but is ready to move centre stage.

"Do a monologue - NOW!" shouts RAN 1, a little frighteningly. She stumbles. I think of reciting Henry V's speech from the Battle of Agincourt, but in the millisecond I take for breath, RAN 1 is already off. "I'm a Shakespearean actor really . . . "

There is a very handsome younger man behind him who has played a detective (albeit a "background detective"). He has the kind of look that gives me the feeling that he might just make it, and he comes to these shows to network. He claims they have been very useful.

Oh, Hollywood, I love you. The hope.

The tension is building and the courtroom bailiff Mason is on the set. Very cute. Great smile. Great presence. And his gun is in my eye line. I don't known what it is about men in uniforms and outfits, but take Judge Alex Ferrer . . . Ex-pilot, cop, judge - oh, your honour, please avoid the medical profession; a white coat might prove the final, fatal straw. Even as I write that sentence, I am fantasising about your stethoscope.

The studio, on Bronson in Hollywood, is all very relaxed ("Remember my name!" whispers RAN 1) until the announcement of "The Honorable (US spelling!) Judge Alex Ferrer", which, unlike when you watch on TV, has a slight air of "Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome your host. . ." about it.

Then he's there. And everything changes. It's like the Second Coming, albeit one a lot more clean-shaven than the first. The cliches of tall, dark and handsome are even more apparent under the studio lights, and from my seat I get a great view.

At least, I did, until the second case, when a very wide defendant blocked my view of Judge Alex completely. Talk about a total eclipse of the Son (geddit? Oh, go back few sentences). I so wanted her to lose. She did.

The third case even had a star guest in singer Freda Payne (most famous for the 1970 hit Band of Gold), which was very exciting. I thought the Judge got a little too overwhelmed at her presence, but by then I was backstage with the producers and out of striking distance of my love rival.

The producers were loving it. I've seen a lot of shows and know a lot of crews and I have never seen one as united and enjoying their work as this one. They laughed, they shared comments, they even clapped when the audience clapped. And they cared. They absolutely cared.

"I really hope she wins," said one, turning to his co-workers. And I could tell he wanted her to. It's drama, after all, and we care about the ending (she did, by the way, and the cheering backstage was heartfelt).

The cases come from all over the US, and Judge Alex (unlike other TV courtroom judges) conducts considerable research into each state's individual laws. With stringers in around 25 states trawling court records, the team also has to weed out people just looking for a free trip to Hollywood. At the studio, the rest room door jammed my finger twice. I told Supervising Producer James that I might sue. He jokingly suggested I could be a case on the final run of taping; even be "the last show".

Oh, James, you really don't know me, do you? I am already shopping for my outfit.

It is not just the research or the good looks (did I mention those?) that make this show easily the best of the US courtroom reality shows - and one of the best shows on TV. The Judge's intelligence, charisma and brilliant lateral thinking are second to none. It comes across on TV, but even more so in the studio where, of the 40 or so minutes taped, by the time you add promos, ads, et al, roughly just 14 will make it to screen. And, having seen the live show, I cannot heap enough praise on the seamless, incredible job they do in the editing suite.

Judge Alex doesn't so much listen to the evidence, it's as if he's breathing it in, and you can see from the initial slight smile, the information being gathered, formulated, and finally delivered in one-liners that are as funny as those from any comedian. I swear I have never laughed aloud so much at anyone on TV. Ever.

And this from a woman who has been watching and reviewing the genre for about 90 hours a week for three decades.

Judge Alex's years as a cop, lawyer and judge seem to be embedded in his DNA and, having had some of the worst criminals before him (the forthcoming movie Pain and Gain is based on one of his most famous cases - the Judge was asked to appear in it but would not renege on a school engagement to which he was already committed), he has seen the lot.

Now, he's clearly having fun, but his ability to combine the minutiae of law with such immense humour is truly breathtaking - as is his incredible energy in being able to perform so eloquently and brilliantly for so many hours under those lights.

And then there are those hands: long, elegant fingers that seem to massage the arguments as the Judge declares “Here’s where we’re at”, before delivering his verdict. Alex Scissorhands.

You'll be hearing more about the show and the Judge when I post the interview I conducted recently with him in Miami, but just in case you're hoping for that Jane Eyre happy ending, I'll put you out of your misery now.

Reader, I didn't marry him.