The Good Publicist
Dear Wags,
Some weeks we feel as if we are writing one long obituary for Hollywood—at least for the Hollywood we grew up in and loved in spite of ourselves. It could be a messy, mean business but it was populated by indelible characters. It trampled on the heart, but every so often, it made it sing.
Hollywood is now enjoying a Barbie bonanza. It’s a bright patch in the midst of an existential crisis, which affects not just big names but legions of critical behind-the-scenes players. Among them is the misunderstood tribe of entertainment publicists.
Cari Ross was a proud member of that profession and an unforgettable soul. She died at 59, from complications related to a heart condition.
If you crossed paths with Cari in the course of doing show business, her tenderness wasn’t always apparent. For much of her career, she represented stars. Personal publicity is the most challenging nook of a hard vocation. When it came to the job, she could be fierce. In truth, she was quite the opposite, but a ruthless industry jams people into boxes.
Cari came up in the business in the waning years of Big Stardom, in which reps were under extraordinary pressure as the protectors of A-listers. Many of the best people in that line of work were bright young women. They were often treated terribly. If they were forceful, they were rewarded by getting called difficult. It’s an old story.
The business is changing, but certain structural unfairnesses remain: The PR person who handles talent nurtures the closest relationship with the actor, but earns a set fee for services, while the personality’s manager and agent get a cut of the client's earnings. When times are lean, the publicist may be put on hiatus and not paid at all. When trouble hits, the rep is typically the first thrown under the bus. Perennial insecurity and lack of control make for an anxious existence.
Increasingly, publicists refuse to sacrifice everything for the benefit of someone else. It turns out that this flavor of martyrdom, so common in female-dominated professions, is not its own reward. It also explains the pain embedded in the alleged toughness of legendary publicists.
Cari was funny and wise about all of this. When she started in the business, she dealt with a lot of craziness. She told stories about having a designated hiding place for crying as a young PR person. In what cruelly turned out to be her final years, she was emphatic on the subject of having a life.
She was an L.A. kid, who grew up in Brentwood, attending the John Thomas Dye School and what was then the Westlake School for Girls. Being around celebrity early left her unimpressed by it, though she never forgot playdates at Carol Burnett’s house. Cari had that strange Los Angeles quality of seeming very New York-y. She was forthright when it came to sharing her opinions, and would not sugarcoat them. Listen, she’d always begin, and listen you would.
After Pitzer College, Cari figured she would become a lawyer. Her brother, who was then in law school, warned her against it. She needed a new plan. Cari had a group of girlfriends she kept close all her life, and one of them suggested unflinching candor and a love of talking on the phone would make her a great publicist. That was that.
After a scrappy beginning, she joined IDPR, which became one of the most important PR agencies in Hollywood. Her clients included Salma Hayek, Julianna Margulies, Dylan McDermott, and Jennifer Connolly. She was a den mother to talent and worked on award shows and campaigns. She logged time at BWR, another storied agency, and founded her own firm, Balance Public Relations.
As time wore on, Cari wanted different things. After a long stint in New York, she returned to Los Angeles. She focused on writing, weighing in on the #MeToo movement in Variety. She tried her hand at a food delivery business. She contemplated a career in the travel industry. The Trump years made her politically outspoken, and she lent her skills to various causes. Most of all, she was devoted to her beloved Labrador, Georgia. Last year, she joined the Gersh talent agency to head up communications but was determined to make a life on her own terms.
Cari never held back about anything. Once, she saw that my fingernails were dirty from gardening and ordered me to get a weekly manicure. She interrogated me about what movies I loved, and when she discovered I had never seen the 1976 version of A Star is Born she was appalled. Oh my God, I don’t know where to begin, she declared, launching into a lecture about the magic of Kris Kristofferson.
For years after, Cari would grill me about whether I’d seen the film. It became a little routine between us. I’d admit I’d defied her orders and she’d feign horror. Cari loved old movies, Georgia, the Democratic Party, and Bruce Springsteen. She dearly loved her friends. And in her exacting, defiant way, she loved Hollywood.
I wish more people had known that Cari Ross. She bumped up against all the unfairness in the world, and she fought. Her heart absorbed many hurts, but it was mighty. She was unforgettable. Which reminds me, I have a movie to catch.
