A San Diego Comic-Con Memoir, Part One: Lines, Tequila and Frustration
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During the next press conference, for Prometheus, I sat within restraining-order distance of Charlize Theron, one of the most beautiful women in the entire world. You couldn’t stare directly at her, though; it’s like looking into the sun.
The Fox reps didn’t have a ticket into Hall H for me, so I was barred from entering that room to see all the previously unseen footage.
That would be a recurring theme all weekend. Fans camp out to get into the Hall, but pretty much commit to planting themselves there for the entire day and miss out on everything else. Outlets that seriously cover the Con post a reporter or two exclusively there, often camped out, next to the civilians. Studios have a short supply of special passes that can get you in to their panel, but often run out and leave many journalists just trying to do their job completely stranded.
Between the fans and the journalists, it’s even worse for the celebrities during the four-day event.
When I text him to ask how many autographs he’s signed at San Diego, Marvel Entertainment CCO Joe Quesada answers, “Thousands.”
“And the occasional breasts,” he adds, “Sometimes they’re even on women.”
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Nevertheless, I struggle with iPhone reception to type out a nasty email to every Fox publicist contact I have before going off to my first party of the weekend.
THURSDAY 7 P.M.
Warner Bros. has The Dark Knight Rises and The Hobbit on the horizon for next year – it was announced that Zack Snyder’s Superman reboot is being delayed a year – but oddly the studio has almost no movie presence at this year’s Comic-Con. My theory is that Warner felt burned by last year’s mediocre reception to the unfinished footage for Green Lantern and decided not to spend the millions to ferry their A-listers to San Diego this year.
Instead, the studio decided to spend thousands on free booze for a Final Destination V party.
Meeting a friend from college, Pam, at the party, we down free beers and engage in increasingly sloppy games of foosball. It’s not a party until someone breaks out a foosball table, but at least we weren’t one of the nerds playing air hockey in the middle of a happening party.
On the way out, I nearly bump into Tony Todd, who plays Death in the Final Destination movies. I wonder what diabolical plan Death has for me and decide it’s probably going to be a blown liver after tonight.
A few hours later, I finally meet up with my roommate for the weekend, Hollywood.com’s ace box office analyst, Paul Dergarabedian, at a Mexican restaurant. He’s with his boss, Danny Hubschman, and Danny’s fiancée, Laura. They’re really sweet and fun – until we get into a heated discussion on the Lost finale. Danny and Laura are men (and women) of faith; I’m a man who wants six years of my life back.
The motel that Paul and I are staying in, ironically named America’s Best Value Inn, is in walking distance – a brisk 20-minute jog through San Diego’s worst gang neighborhood. They don’t tell you that on Google maps.
So we decide to fortify ourselves with more tequila shots and an ill-advised Car Bomb and I know I’ll regret it the next morning when I have to face Conan.
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