This is ridiculously hyperspecific to my particular profession, but one of my favorite work occurrences as a movie location scout is when we take the director and VIPs to visit The House Where You Have To Take Off Your Shoes.
Some background on what the heck I’m talking about –
Location scouting works like this: as a scout, I clear and photograph a ton of options for the location manager, who then reviews them with the production designer and director. A handful of “selects” are then chosen to visit on a director scout.
Now, I have NO issue with any home that asks me to take off my shoes before I scout. Homeowners will often be so bashful when making the request, but I always assure them, I’m the guest, and am happy to abide by their rules.
There’s only one slight hiccup that occurs with surprising frequency: the homeowner will ask if I’ll take off my shoes, and I’ll say of course, and then I look around the entrance for a bench or stool to sit on…and there’s nothing.
I’ll sort of sneak a glance at the owner to see if there’s a place I’m supposed to sit, but their expression will be a blank smile, and I realize: the floor is the option.
So I’ll plunk down on the floor, and man, nothing makes you feel more like you’re a little kid again than sitting on your butt trying to hurriedly wrestle off your shoes.
Of course, this will be the moment your laces get stuck, so you’re trying to make small talk while calmly undoing some ungodly knot. It’s tricky!
Over the years, I’ve mostly managed to master the more composed “kneeling” shoe-removal method, where you look a little more “adult” by dropping to one knee for one shoe, then switch to do the other – though it’s very easy to teeter if you haven’t developed those requisite shoe-changing muscles.
The funniest thing is that I’ll usually have to shoot the backyard. So they’ll take me to the backdoor, and I’ll say, “Oh, should I go get my shoes?” And they’ll say, “no it’s OK.” And then I realize: they’re saying they’re OK me with me walking around outside in my socks, then coming back in the house. Which always seems a bit odd to me, because it feels like my socks are going to track in much more dirt than my shoes? But again, their house, their rules!
Eventually, we narrow down the locations I’ve scouted to a few selects, then pile into a van so the VIPs can visit each in person to ultimately choose one.
These van rides are among my absolute least favorite parts of the filmmaking process. Individually, most people you work with in 2026 are pretty chill and easy to talk to, no matter where they fall on the movie ladder. Long gone (for the most part) are the horrific egos and “how dare you talk to me” pretensions of Hollywood’s decades of yore.
But something changes when everyone gets in the van. Right off the bat, the hierarchy becomes apparent as people choose seats. Obviously the director is going to sit up front, and then the producer, prod designer, LM, and 1st AD will all want to be close. And then others will take the further back seats.
And then, a strange spell settles over, where everyone gets really quiet and reserved, as though any comment is being made in front of a firing squad.
People will mostly keep to themselves, but then a topic about the movie will come up. And for some reason, the van environment just skews toward negativity.
So people will weigh in on the topic in noncommittal ways. And then, suddenly, someone will find the guts and say, “I think X would be a great idea.”
The van goes silent. Time passes as people read the room.
And then, more often than not, someone will say, “ehh, I’m not so sure,” and then someone else will agree that it’s not right – and then, the whole group will dismiss the idea and move on, leaving the original person having learned their lesson about offering ideas in the van.
Which is weird! Because in literally EVERY other part of the process, filmmaking is THE consummate collaborative group exercise. People are incredibly inviting and encouraging of one’s thoughts and contributions in nearly every other setting.
But the van just introduces some sort of weird social dynamic where it’s easier to be negative than positive. So the whole thing just ends up feeling like a weird mirror universe of the job.
Which is why I love rolling up to the house where you have to take off your shoes.
Because this bubble of stark austerity INSTANTLY pops when you have ten or more grown adults all trying to gracefully squat on the front hallway rug as they writhe to take off their shoes, like little kids about to go into a pre-K class.
Everyone always look so disheveled after standing back up again, shirts untucked, hair unkempt. And it’s a good reminder why it’s important to keep your sock game on point! Because someone always has a hole in their socks (I’m guilty myself! best to try and hide it by scrunching up the torn fabric in your toes!).
Someone else will always be revealed as wearing a pair of killer socks with a smart print, so everyone compliments that. Mismatched socks are always a fun surprise.
But my favorite was on a shoot with a director who indeed had been a bit full of himself. So it was nice when he pulled off his $300 limited edition sneakers to reveal the same cheap Kirkland socks I was wearing. “Ah, a fellow Costco connoisseur,” my eye contact must have conveyed.
But as silly as it sounds, I find that the simple act of removing one’s shoes can serve as a MUCH needed reset button on director scouts. Because let’s face it: filmmaking is professional make-believe. And in my experience, such pursuits only flourish when levity and risk are not only allowed, but fully embraced.
Nothing beats a director scout where everyone is walking around in their socks, like we’re all on a sleepover at a friend’s house. All of a sudden, people are laughing and joking again.
And then, the real work can finally resume.
