Unusual Suspects
PHOTOGRAPHY
estevanoriol.com
WORDS Abel
Salas
How Manny Jimenez and a group of motivated ex-gangbangers are tearing down stereotypes and longstanding barriers to break into Hollywood.
"I need everybody to take their hands out of their pockets," says Manuel "Manny" Jimenez. Slightly built with his head shaven, he wears homeboy khakis and a black Joker Brand football jersey as he addresses a score of tattooed homies, hard-core vatos locos who are here for a photo shoot on the streets of L.A. It hasn't taken the Los Angeles Police Department long to show up and demand that the crew and dope-ass lowriders Manny has brought together on a Sunday afternoon vacate the area. Something about a bunch of tough-looking Mexicans concentrated in one place has obviously set off the red flags with the not-so-friendly neighborhood black and whites.
"Get that shit off the
street," says one of LAPD's finest, a motorcycle policeman in storm
trooper jackboots. He threatens to have a posse of officers there in no
time to forcibly remove anyone who doesn't comply with his instructions
immediately, as he bulldogs his way up to the big dude shooting away on
an old-fashioned 35-millimeter camera and stuffs a large pasty hand in
front of the lens.
The cop doesn't have a clue.
There's no way for him to know that the shutterbug he's just shut down
is Estevan Oriol, owner of Joker Brand clothing line and a music video
and documentary director widely known for his work with Cypress Hill,
D12 and Wu Tang Clan's GZA. He has no reason to suspect that the people
gathered are there for a legitimate photo shoot for this periodical or
that they are the talent roster of a fledgling agency called, ironically,
Suspect Entertainment.
Jimenez, a loaded action spring
of energy and hype, is the founder of and visionary force behind Suspect,
a talent company that specializes in "hard-to-find ethnic talent,"
according to a business card. Suspect also scouts locations, casts music
videos, wrangles vehicles and provides dialogue coaching and script consultation
for everything from major Hollywood motion pictures to anti-smoking PSAs.
Where the fuzz sees an ese to intimidate, Jimenez has a magazine essay
to negotiate.
If something were to go down
today, he understands that he will shoulder most, if not all, of the fall-out.
He can't afford a confrontation. Not now. Not when his fledgling enterprise
is finally getting some serious buzz around town. At his request, the
crowd gathered under the 4th Street bridge that joins downtown L.A. and
Boyle Heights—a familiar East L.A. neighborhood—regroups just
blocks away in the industrial zone warehouse where Oriol's Joker Brand
is based. In another unexpected twist of irony, the downtown warehouse
complex also houses an indoor shooting range.
In his de facto role as producer
and director, Jimenez reels in the troops and doles out marching orders.
After supervising the exodus from under the bridge and hanging back to
explain the situation to police officers, he's quickly back in the parking
lot working talent, delegating responsibilities and helping Oriol set
up shots with the firme lowriders now lined up side-by-side in front of
an exposed red brick wall.
Flagging down another “tatted”
cholo with a smooth dome, Jimenez introduces Cesar Garcia, a Suspect member
who is being groomed for public relations work. On one arm, Garcia, 31,
bears the inked-in portraits of Mexican revolutionary heroes Pancho Villa
and Emiliano Zapata, on the other, the faces of fallen hoodmates, including
a younger brother.
Born and raised in "Los"—barrio-speak
for East L.A.—Garcia hooked up with Suspect on the set of a music
video.
"I have a friend named Smurf who builds lowriders. We go way back…since we were kids. And a lot of his cars are in these videos. You name it. Xibit, Dre," Garcia recalls.
"Everytime his car was
in one of these rap videos, he would call me if they needed a gangster,
bald head, tattoos, you know."
Uninterested, Garcia ignored
his camarada's cajoling encouragement. "I'm not the actor type, you
know what I'm sayin'? It's just not me." Talked into an audition
when he had nothing else to do, he finally relented.
"I went to the audition
that day. I did some gangster stuff. It was a no-brainer for me,"
continues Garcia. "They told me to do a little part like something
I always do in my neighborhood. So it was easy. Boom. I was in the video.
And that's when I met Manny."
From the brief conversation, it becomes obvious why Jimenez and Suspect have appointed "Rascal," as Garcia is known on the streets, as spokesperson. He is articulate and easygoing. Tall and slender, his broad smile invites confidence. According to him, he held on to the card Jimenez handed him for months before taking the plunge.
After making the call, submitting
photos and joining the stable of actors, models and extras represented
by Suspect, Garcia booked his first job: Christina Aguilera's "Dirty"
video.
The photo shoot well underway,
Garcia rounds up the next “suspect,” instantly stepping into
the role of publicist. Jimenez has been very specific about who gets interviewed.
It is evident that he wants to reward those who have shown initiative
and loyalty and can represent the agency in a positive, professional manner.
The sentiment is echoed by
Frank Alvarez, a burly 'chuco with a baritone voice who works as a talent
coordinator and vehicle supervisor on the set—when he isn't acting
to "make sure everyone is on time."
With recent credits of his
own on the feature film S.W.A.T., television's Robbery Homicide,
a new show called 10E and a national spot for "El Piolin,"
the syndicated morning DJ at La Nueva101.9 FM (Hispanic Broadcasting Corp's
flagship L.A. station), Alvarez says appearances, professionalism and
punctuality are critical at this stage of the game.
"We're still at the point
where it can make us or break us," he says. "When we send guys
and girls to a set, we let the producers or whoever's running the thing
know…'Okay, these are our guys.' We check them in. If they need something
to drink, we show them where it's at."
For Alvarez, a former student
at Garfield High on the Eastside, it's about "cuddling" and
"stroking" the talent while making sure they follow the proper
protocols and deliver a level of professional conduct that demonstrates
why Suspect has become a reliable agency.
"That's the thing right
now. We're still fairly new. Everybody knows when they call us, we're
going to bring 110 percent," Alvarez explains. "That's the biggest
thing we're trying to get across to Hollywood right now: that we're professional.
We're on time. Our actors and actresses know where to go. [We're] not
out there [like] fools. We know our lines. We know what a mark is…second
unit, whatever. We know the Hollywood lingo. We're not prima donnas where
we need a trailer. Just give us something to drink and a chair and we're
cool."
If anyone has a right to be
a prima donna, it would be Noel Guglielmi, who's logged appearances in
Bruce Almighty, S.W.A.T., Training Day, The Animal, Old School, National
Security and Malibu's Most Wanted. Originally from Orange County,
Guglielmi is a bankable asset who steps up in a black Joker jersey with
the number 69 in blazing contrast. Deep-set eyes that can go from smoldering
to tender in a blink are framed by the shaved scalp and offset by a smooth,
playa attitude.
With the coast clear, the entire
crew has shifted to another location underneath yet another bridge into
East L.A., on the banks of the L.A. River. Guglielmi, of Mexican and Italian
extraction, explains the genesis of Suspect Entertainment, while Jimenez
discusses wardrobe, locations and angles with Oriol.
"I met Manuel maybe five,
six years ago," he says. "We were actually on a set where they
miscast a lot of gangster characters. They put a lot of people in the
movie who just didn't look right for the part. So Manuel and I told the
director to let us bring some of our homeboys down just [to] see the difference.
He seen our homeboys and he seen what was cast. He hired all our homies."
According to Guglielmi, Suspect
is more than a mere talent agency. The goal is to eventually expand into
the realm of production. To that end, he refuses to lord over his pull
in the industry, instead offering acting classes and training to new Suspect
recruits, still managing to "keep it real" by maintaining a
permanent residence in the traditionally rough and tumble neighborhood
near the city of Gardena.
"Manuel has a lot of behind-the-camera
connections like I do. Our dream is to start working on films, and anything
that has to do with Mexican gangsters. We want to bring a real authenticity
to the screen. We feel like we've been misportrayed for awhile,"
he confesses. The idea is to develop stories, characters and independent
projects that are more true to life than most of the two-dimensional stereotypes
Hollywood has limited Latinos too.
If Antonio Villaraigosa, who
came very close to being elected mayor of L.A. in the last election, can
openly discuss his adolescent gang associations, Suspect artists reason,
why can't former gangbangers change their lives, move forward and even
learn to play good guys, attorneys or university professors as actors?
Why can't the leading man or the hero sport tattoos and be bald? Look
at Bruce Willis.
Breaking through the obvious stereotypes, such as those that prompted the appearance of the LAPD at the beginning of the photo shoot, is a significant component of the Suspect Entertainment mission, Jimenez says. His decision to pursue a career in Hollywood came as a revelation during an appearance by Quentin Tarantino on a late-night talk show.
"I was just surfing one
night…and I happened to catch him on Leno when he was talking about
how anyone can come to Hollywood. You can have felonies on your record.
All that matters is what you do once you’re there, once you’re
in," says Jimenez. In and out of juvenile hall, on the streets and
sporting some heavy-duty tattoos, Jimenez beat the pavement endlessly
looking for work, getting turned away repeatedly before being hired at
Toys 'R Us where his people skills and virtuoso salesmanship earned him
recognition as employee of the month.
Struck by Tarantino's advice,
he had his girlfriend drive him around to film sets where he sought work.
He hasn't looked backed since. From extra work to a role as a consultant
and casting director on major Hollywood releases to representation at
ICM for a number of projects in the Suspect pipeline, Jimenez is providing
a way out for homies from Southern California’s toughest neighborhoods,
which is in and of itself an amazing thing.
"What turns me on most
is helping my people achieve their dreams. That's what really makes me
happy, that we've got love for each other. And I'm talking dudes that
would just as soon have shot each other point blank under any other circumstances,"
he says, almost unwilling to believe he’s been responsible for the
turnaround in their situations. "These are guys who want to change
their lives and make something better for themselves and their families."
The fact that he's bringing
sworn enemies out of the life and into a world where anything is possible
and dreams do come true is cool enough, but the vision goes further. As
the founder and owner of Suspect, he's cultivating relationships and grooming
team players who are equally excited about creating new opportunities
and wielding both economic and cultural power as a way to lead the next
generation of media-savvy Latinos forward.
"When I was on the set
as an extra, I met a lot of people that were all talk," Jimenez says.
Among those willing to go the distance and do what needed to be done were
Guglielmi and Inland Empire actor Jesse Acosta. According to Acosta, they
“walked the talk.” Acosta, never really a gangbanger, has now
begun stretching his wings as a writer and a producer, taking meetings
at powerbroker Hollywood agencies such as ICM alongside Jimenez.
“It’s all about strength
and power,” explains Jimenez. “When I was on the set as an extra,
I looked around and I saw that the power was in the script. Everything
came back to the script.” The story, he realized, was the source
of all the motion, all the machinery, the budgeting. It was the origin
of an elaborate process that put all of these people to work. The realization
proved to be a shrewd observation for a young man driven to learn. It
was, he says, “a free education.” While he may not have been
paid handsomely for his work as an extra, he was able to absorb the essentials
and begin applying those lessons when he launched Suspect Entertainment.
As an example he relates how
he’s been caught on a fence more than once. Hired to help cast a
project, he knows it’s his job to keep talent costs low, but as the
head of Suspect, he wants to get the best rates for the actors he represents.
“It’s a conflict. But I make sure I’m up front about it
with the studio or the production executives. And they respect me for
it. And they’re usually willing to meet me somewhere in the middle.”
Despite an episodic drama series
still under wraps and an independent feature up the Suspect sleeve, Jimenez
remains humble and excited by everything surfacing in his grasp. He admires
and remembers the actors who began as extras and who, although they may
have gotten larger roles and bigger paychecks, still make an effort to
be friendly with the side players, the day players, the anonymous, and
often nameless, faceless extras. Latinos doing that are the ones who stand
out, according to Jimenez. Most instant celebrities, particularly if they
happen to be Latino, will look down on the homeboys as if they were somehow
superior, acting like assholes, when three months prior they were slogging
through the same auditions and driving the same beat-up old Nissans.
At Suspect, the mantra is cooperation,
sharing audition calls and turning others on to possible job prospects.
Jimenez, home at night after the daylong photo shoot and exhausted, reflects
quietly on the burdens of responsibility.
“Sometimes I’m like a counselor, a father, a brother. Sometimes I’ll be a production coordinator. These guys are like my new friends,” describing the new post-millennium homeboy hood, a “virtual barrio” that has begun to take root in the airy climes of Hollywood and makes room for locos and not-so-locos from every corner of the Southland—provided they’re willing to pledge an allegiance to something bigger, something magical, something that means more than all the sets and clicas combined.
“It’s about taking
a walk down a different path and surviving,” says Jimenez, about
building something positive out of a negative and providing a better example
for the children who will need role models. With three cellular phones
and an office near L.A.’s Miracle Mile, Jimenez goes non-stop, returning
calls until midnight and getting up at dawn to take his son to grade school.
“I’ve had to get
really selective. I want to make sure I get people who are done with that
[gang] stuff,” he says with a slight sigh.
These days, he doesn’t
even have time for auditions himself. He’s too busy managing the
day-to-day Suspect operations, sending people to sets and auditions, directing
logistics and planning the next move, preparing for his eventual roles
as a producer and a director.
“My agent had an audition
for me. I went in but I told the casting agent that I was really busy.
I thanked them and apologized for taking up their time,” Jimenez
says, his voice once again rising with energy and enthusiasm.
“Everything that I learned
on the streets and in the ‘hood comes in handy,” he continues.
He is especially proud of how his crew is made up of youngsters and veteranos
from different communities. “I can’t always believe it myself.
All I can say is that I’m very, very honored—and I mean it from
the bottom of my heart—to have them be a part of my team.”
Ultimately, Jimenez is a believer,
not just in himself but in his people. He is an advisor to the homeboys
trying to leave the vida loca behind, and a role model for the raza who
dream of someday being involved with movies and movie making. His most
poignant bit of advice, “Just make the decision.”
And for the producers in Hollywood, he has another bit of advice, “Don’t call us because we have good rates. Call us because we have good talent.”
Abel Salas has written for The Los Angeles Times Magazine, Los Angeles Magazine, The Austin Chronicle, La Revista Cristina and Hispanic Magazine.
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