In 2006, after watching eight blacked-out SUVs screech to a halt in Los Angeles, the inhabitants practically leaping from their cars to take photos of Paris Hilton, waitress Jennifer Buhl decided that the life of the paparazzi might just be for her.
While the learning curve was steep, including abuse from fellow “paps” and celebrities alike, she was instantly attracted to the rush of it all, calling it “the ultimate video game,” and spelling out what drew her in: “spying, celebrities, chases, shooting, loot. Everything is here — and more.”
She rose to become one of the most successful in the business, earning $10,000 a month as her shots were published in the likes of Us Weekly and Star. Still, the life was wearying, and by year three, she was ready to call it quits. Now she lives in Boulder, Colo., where she specializes in family portraits.
Buhl shared with The Post some excerpts from her new memoir, “Shooting Stars: My Unexpected Life Photographing Hollywood’s Most Famous” (Sourcebooks)…
Innocent Miley
Way before she started flirting with foam fingers, Miley Cyrus was just an innocent, fresh-faced 15-year-old, as the paps learned from her dad, Billy Ray Cyrus.
One afternoon, Billy Ray came outside to have a talk with us. “What happened yesterday was unacceptable,” he said. “I can’t have you using vocabulary like that around my Miley. [F-bombs being dropped by us were what he was referring to]. And this rushing up on her, getting in her face to take a picture, it has to stop.”
We all nodded in agreement. And we meant it. Rules make our job easy: They tell us how everyone else is going to operate.
A few days later, we followed Miley to the Coffee Bean, where she smiled and waved to all of us on our long lenses. Once she was inside, Sam, a burly Aussie with two black holes where his two front teeth used to be, turned to a non-regular Miley pap who had decided to join us that day, and in a flat, stern voice said, “We do NOT use language like that in front of Miley.”
Whispered threats
It was not unusual for celebrities to get testy with the paparazzi. Some took it further than others.
“I’m gonna bitchslap you.”
“You’re gonna what?” I sputter, stunned. I don’t know exactly what “bitchslap” means, but I’m sure it’s not nice.
“I said, I’m gonna bitchslap you,” he says again. He doesn’t say it loudly — others aren’t far away — but he says it boldly and he looks me dead in the eyes.
“Hang on a second. Why don’t you say that for my video?”
I put down my camera, rummage through my backseat for my point-and-shoot, then turn it on and start recording. By then, I’m noticeably unnerved and shaking. I point the camera at him.
“What did you say, Seal?” I think to use his name for sound bite purposes. He doesn’t say anything.
“Did you tell me that you were gonna bitchslap me?”
“No, I never said that.”
“I think you did.”
He moves away. I figure he realizes he doesn’t want to be here, not with video.
The Seal altercation was rather unusual. I will come to find that of celebrities, generally it will be women who give me a hard time. For any number of reasons, female celebrities seem to take out their frustration on their female paparazzi counterparts.
In my experience, Hilary Duff — who seems to love it most of the time — will berate only me with insults when a half a dozen male paps are also shooting her. Another female pap, Carol, said she had Marcia Cross get in her face — right up to her nose, so as not to be recorded on the nearby video — and whisper, “F—ing trashy bitch.”
The worst I ever hear about apparently comes out of Nicole Richie’s mouth. She reportedly tells a girl pap, “Your p—y stinks,” when the pap comes within earshot.
The paydays
Whose pictures pay the most for paparazzi?
Matthew McConaughey, in a bathing suit on the beach, was the individual who probably brought me the most over my career. He sold very well and was easy to photograph because he loved to show it off! His beach sets would consistently bring in $2,000-$3,000 each, and I had several of those over his big show-off summer.
Paris Hilton would be right up there, too. All of her photos sold very well, and around the world, too.
My top individual photos, which, all said and done (all the residuals came in), I probably made $6,000-$8,000 on:
- Hilton holding a Bible. While it wasn’t “exclusive,” I was the only photographer who got the entire “Holy Bible” words in view.
- Justin Chambers (of “Grey’s Anatomy”) and his five kids all in view. While he was never very famous, whenever the magazine wanted to talk to Justin, they always bought this photo — because it was the only one with his whole family.
- Jessica Alba in a bathing suit, doing a sexy photo shoot on Malibu beach. Of course.
A bad day with Cameron
On a stakeout of Cameron Diaz with a pap named Bradley, Buhl made the mistake of smoking marijuana and getting stoned. After Diaz left her gym, Buhl followed her into a parking garage and prepared to shoot.
Diaz was not pleased.
“You’re on private property. You can’t shoot here,” she says matter-of-factly.
I’m still a little stoned. Hmmm, now what? I’m standing in a dark parking deck with zero confidence (which I know she picks up on), sorely aware that if I try to bring my camera to my face, she’ll just turn the other way.
She’s fully in control.
So, I don’t try to shoot. Instead, I’ve got it, I’ll follow her again. Into the elevator.
What the hell am I doing? I glance at Bradley, who is 30 feet away snuggly in his car — he smiles and waves me on.
Cameron gets in the elevator.
I get in the elevator.
My camera’s down. I’m looking at the ground.
It’s just me and her.
The door closes.
Just me and her.
Silence.
No one pushes a button. The elevator doesn’t move.
“You need to get off,” she says.
I don’t say anything and refuse to move my eyeballs from the floor.
But I can feel her stare. She’s looking at me like I’m a fever blister.
I’m really normal, Cameron. I bet we could be friends.
Silence.
“This is really weird,” she says.
I have an MBA, Cameron. I’m smart. I’m not like them. I’m one of you. You’d like me.
She’s right. This is really weird.
Cam is a very experienced celebrity — she knows pap protocol. And, as I can now attest, this is most definitely not it.
I’m super-glad I smoked pot earlier.
“I’m just gonna see where you’re going,” I finally whisper, still staring at the floor.
Forever-long pause.
“Humf. Fine. I’ll get off then.”
She pushes the button, the door opens, and she walks out. The door closes, and I’m left alone.
Eventually I push the button, the door reopens, and Cameron, standing there, moves aside so I can pass. I never look up. When I make it to Bradley’s car, he’s curled up on the floor and can’t talk for laughing so hard.
I whack him on the back of his head. “Get up! Let’s go.”
Drew’s dog dodge
As little tolerance as Diaz had for the paparazzi, Drew Barrymore had even less, as Buhl learned on a stakeout of her house with her friend Elif.
At around noon, one of Drew’s many cars comes out — a Prius. A young guy is in the driver’s seat, and through the car’s untinted windows I see no one else inside. I grab his eyes intentionally. He averts my stare, which is odd. Though I delay, I follow. I am able to catch up to the car after about a minute. Still, I see only his figure inside. If a celeb were “hiding by ducking,” she normally would have popped up by now, especially because I hadn’t followed her at first. But this is Drew. I don’t trust her.
A few blocks later at a light, I pull into the adjacent lane and from the high cab of my truck am able to see inside the car. And there she is, scrunched up on the passenger seat floor like a Nordstrom’s shopping bag. Nice one, Drew. I pull in behind the car, but the driver U-turns and goes directly back home. Drew continues to stay down — stubborn, won’t even admit she’s caught.
Over the next hour, three cars pass us in the direction of Drew’s house. We follow them up the hill and watch as they enter her gate. She’s surely devising a plan.
We’re back in position when we hear a loud motor coming down her street. It’s her old pickup driven by the same guy, this time disguised in a low-brimmed hat and a different T-shirt. I’m standing outside my car, and again he doesn’t look at me. It’s suspicious.
The pickup rolls by too nonchalantly, and it’s moving so slowly that I am able to tiptoe up and peer inside. There’s a dog curled up on the passenger seat floor, but that’s all I see. The truck carries on.
It takes a minute to register: No normal dog would lie on the floor curled up in a ball when he’s just gotten into the car.
“Elif, get in the car! Drew’s under her dog!”
We race. But it’s too late, and they’re gone.