That's How She Became the Million Dollar Baby

She had style, she had flair, she was there

The strike is still happening, and as the summer turns to fall, heading out to the picket lines has caused more anxiety than enthusiasm. The giddy energy of the early days of the strike has given way to solemn duty. I would say I feel like Rocky when he gets knocked out or whatever, but I’ve never seen Rocky. I have seen Million Dollar Baby and so I can say I feel like Hilary Swank begging Clint Eastwood for a euthanasia injection.

On Wednesday, all the pickets were combined into a single, big SAG-AFTRA led march and rally, starting at Netflix and ending at Paramount—a decent but not unmanageable walk. Because my life revolves around a capricious napper (baby), I missed the march but could make the rally. I packed my defeated spirit in my Corolla and headed out.

As I approached Paramount, the familiar signs of a large LA event appeared—helicopters in the air, traffic blocked off, and a general sense of chaos. I parked at the first spot I found and walked over, “What’s the point?” echoing in my tired brain as I did.

I turned onto Melrose right at the moment the march arrived in front of the studio, and like the Grinch having his free solo moment watching the townspeople sing their dumb song, my heart swelled. I felt tiny tears in the corners of my tired eyes, making their way to their wrinkly sluices.

IMAGE DESCRIPTION: a whole big bunch of writers and actors lined up on Melrose in front of Paramount Studios

Later, I not only listened to The Nanny herself give a speech about labor and collective action but I got amped up by said speech, which is why I think this whole thing has backfired on corporate conglomerates. In their devaluing of performers and writers, they've given those performers and writers the time and inclination to perform and write for their lives, on a global platform, which will always be more compelling than a press release.

IMAGE DESCRIPTION: The Nanny addresses the crowd as people hold up signs and phones. A lot of straw hats in the crowd. One green fedora. One pink fedora.

For now, at least, it was enough for me to metaphorically swat Clint Eastwood’s leathery hand away from my veins. This million-dollar baby lives to fight another day. And maybe it’s not for a million dollars, but enough-to-afford-LA-preschools dollars, which now that I think of it is probably a million dollars so I guess I do want one million dollars after all. That doesn’t seem too much to ask!

IMAGE DESCRIPTION: A woman holds up a sign reading “A TEACHER SUPPORTING WRITERS AND ACTORS” in front of a truck where a band of white people played rock and roll

IMAGE DESCRIPTION: a man in an orange spacesuit (Ad Astra vibes) holds a sign saying “SPECIAL EFFECTS PUPPETEERS & SUIT PERFORMERS”

IMAGE DESCRIPTION: Abraham Lincoln, former president, back from the dead, peers over a SAG-AFTRA sign