The dictum prevailed that what mattered was not what you might know but whom you already knew. Actors, writers, directors, musicians, artists-whether famous or not-might have existed on another planet, a heavenly body to which none of us were ever likely to travel. In my childhood in working class South London, and later in the verdant Hampshire of my teens, no one knew anyone famous. My fellow elevator travelers could barely contain their excitement at such shoulder-to-shoulder proximity to a celebrity and during our collective anabasis, one of them, in investigative frame of mind, asked the star ‘How is you get recognized so easily?’ To which the ensnared Williams replied, “Must be my face, I guess.” Excruciatingly embarrassed by the awkwardness of it all, I couldn’t wait for the doors to open so I could make my escape… Pinter was-more to the oblique but piercing glance perhaps, of which there were one or two, oblique though not piercing, and not from him…Ī couple of years before, I happened to be in Manhattan, in a store on Lexington on the Upper East Side trapped in a packed ‘lift’ (as we English call them) alongside Robin Williams. Here was a man who had worked with Alfred Hitchcock on one of my perennially favorite films: North by Northwest. I wanted to say how excited I was merely to find myself in his presence. Years later, in a Beverly Hills parking structure, I found myself elevator-bound with formidable actor Martin Landau. The pause, technically, was not a pause at all since there was no dialogue to either side of it. Nothing was said, although I wanted to say so much. Once, at the BBC Rehearsal Rooms in North Acton, London, I traveled several precious floors in an elevator with the great playwright and screenwriter Harold Pinter-master of the pregnant pause.

Calibre bend lane hiring indeed