This Christmas past I was invited by a friend to attend my first Christmas Midnight Mass. I'm not a Catholic and not a religious fellow but I was actually curious to see for myself just what kind of show these cats can put on.
The comments that follow are not meant as ant-Catholic or anti-religious. Many others in this world have debated the merits, pro and con, far better than I ever could. Think of this as you would a review of a theatre production albeit one in which all aspects of the evening's proceedings, including the audience, were critiqued and which was observed under the influence of large amounts Christmas cheer.
We arrived at the church that evening and were greeted, or so I thought, in the lobby by the priest and an entourage. "Nice touch," I thought. I was wrong. I was all smiles and the group was all smiles but no handshakes were proffered. We had, in fact, arrived late and stumbled in among the makings of the opening procession. So much for trying to observe without disturbing. My group hurried off to take their seats with me in tow to allow the ceremony to begin, disappointed at not having been offered the chance to throw out the ceremonial first pitch.
I think I had already pieced it together that the Catholic Church wasn't shy about putting on a show. It isn't only religious dogma that emanates from Rome and filters down to the small parishes. The Vatican must also have it's own theatre school. For a small fishing village this church was some swanky. Pity they had to spoil it all with stiff wooden benches. Stadium seating can't be far off.
So the architecture was something. It does grab one's attention. A bit morbid in places though, I have to say. A man pinned to a cross isn't exactly the most welcoming of things. Admittedly symbols are lost on me. And for a church that is so down on homosexuals it does look to have been designed and decorated by Liberace.
As the service was conducted in French (a challenge I relish) and Latin (didn't the Dodo speak Latin?) I did feel a little lost. For the first part of my life I was raised Presbyterian and it's hard not to know the general story of Christianity so I got the basic premise here. But I did feel a little like being at an art museum where everyone else in my group but me was wearing one of the self-guided tour headphones, all nodding knowingly. For a few days afterwards I was trying to remember where I had known this feeling before. The answer: any calculus class I'd ever been in. Not that I expected the church to provide it, but it would have been swell to have a play-by-play and colour analyst walking me through this.
So there were many things that I didn't understand. For instance, as the emcee introduced each act and filled the time in between with jokes, I couldn't help but notice a rather stern looking fellow flanking him. He must have been aware and approved of the man's presence because he carried on without skipping a beat. Perhaps it was an over-eager understudy?
As the service progressed I noted how physically demanding it is to be a Catholic. If you were to take a survey of leg strength of regular churchgoers I think you'd find that Catholics would beat Protestants hands down. It wouldn't be sporting to beat them with their hands up. Anyway, lots of up down, up down and hands flailing about. I figure it must have something to do with keeping everyone alert. Keep the blood flowing. Since I was an impartial observer I only stood for the tunes but even at that I was winded by the end. Luckily a handy footrest was provided. So this bunch is not entirely masochistic.
One criticism that has dogged the Catholic Church over the years is one involving money. Lots of money. I think these guys have paid for God's retirement and have shuttled him off to Florida just to take him out of the mix. The ultimate golden parachute. As far as I know, and I've spent years and years not researching this number, the Catholic Church is worth an estimated 800 bazillion dollars. The Pope has a flying car now. What an age we live in.
And how does a group, religious or otherwise, amass such a fortune? I don't know. All I know is that they didn't wait too long to shake down the crowd. Slick. I've never seen such a well-olied collection machine. The priest spoke a few words and a phalanx of cheap suited mafioso swarmed the crowded, knocking old ladies down, grabbing at their purses. Little children were hung from their ankles and shaken to free the last pennies from their pockets. Two of the brutes came for me. I threw a handful of change at them and ducked under a pew. The basket on the long stick was thrust into the space between again and again but I somehow by the grace of someone was not struck. Sensing easier booty elsewhere the pirates moved on. I emerged a few moments later to see the collectors proceeding up the aisle, led by a small woman carrying a big cross. Once at the front the money was piled high in front of the alter. The priest paused the service. The angry looking gentleman that flanked the priest helped him remove his costume. Crossing himself quickly he flung himself onto the pile, rolling about in it as a pig in slop. Shouts of "Hallelujah" filled the room. Moments later he sheepishly got to his feet, donned his robe and took his place behind the alter unaware of the ten dollar bill that was entangled in his hair.
On a positive note there was one portion of the service that I felt was very worthwhile. At one point the emcee asked everyone to join hands. I thought this was effective in breaking down barriers between each other. Of course the effect was mitigated in our group as we were surrounded by empty pews. Good thought though.
I had it on good authority that there would be several faux Catholics in attendance and my observations would bare that out. From the same source I know that the size of the congregation that night was more than average. At least I had an excuse for my spotty attendance record. I didn't pay much attention to the crowd as a whole during the show but instead only focused on a few particular people that caught my eye. It was only during the end that my attention was diverted from the doin's on the stage. I was a little surprised to see a number of people, women especially, putting on hats, mittens and coats getting ready to leave even before the priest had uttered the last amen. Apparently good manners were not on the evenings agenda.
Christmas has to rank high on the list of Catholic events. Easter is up there too. So for such an event, a birthday nonetheless, you could not have dug up any more somber music. What a bore. In the 1500's a rebellious German, John Lennon, nailed a note to that Pope's door that stated he, Lennon, was fatter than Jesus. His bandmate, Paul McCartney, in defense of Mr. Lennon's comments about the Church, offered this: "You should have gospel singing, that'll pull them in. You should be more lively, instead of singing hackneyed old hymns. Everyone's heard them and they're not getting off on them anymore." I agree. There is a gospel hall in my neighbourhood and judging from the music they send bouncing out the windows and doors every Sunday they seem like they are having quite the experience. And I'll be damned for eternity if it isn't catchy. It was actually the music or the promise of some good music that helped me overcome my initial reluctance to attending this mass. In the end I was disappointed. The hymns were as hackneyed as Mr. McCartney claimed.
I'll give these Catholics one thing. They weren't pushy. No Moonies or Scientology weirdness here. There was no pressure to sign up. No incentives other than a vague notion of eternal life.
In summary, I came away a little disappointed with the production as a whole. There were some bright spots in the proceedings. I thought the little meet and greet during was positive. The emcee was all smiles throughout. And they did get us in and out in just under an hour. Good message but they lost me in the presentation. Two stars of Bethlehem out of five.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Hollywood North(east) - Diary of an Extra
"They're gonna put me in the movies.
They're gonna make a big star out of me"
I'm tired. I'm wet. I'm underpaid. And I'm quite content, thank you very much. Bright lights, small city. I don't know if you could call it a dream come true but it was pretty darn good. What follows is what I remember of my time as an extra on a long, often times rainy but generally enjoyable evening/morning spent on the set of 'Jesse Stone: No Remorse' currently filming in Halifax starring Mr. Tom Selleck.
The evening was divided between being 'on set', as we say in the biz, and relaxing in what I'd like to call the green room but is referred to rather disparagingly as the 'holding pen'. Oink. Or baah or moo, depending on the role and if you're union or not. The union extras say 'baah'. And they get paid twice what I got paid to say that. C'est la vie. Climb the ladder, as they say.
The evening started out in the holding...green room. Oh, who am I kidding? It might usually have been a conference room in a swanky downtown hotel most of the time but that night I swear I smelled hay. And the conversations of the other extras came together in a mishmash of sound that could have been mistaken for that of a barnyard. And the coffee tasted like horse sh......... ah, but all part of the experience, no?
This was my first go round at trying my hand at being an extra. I've never acted in a movie before. I've acted out. I've acted up. I've acted my age (or was told to). I've acted as if I didn't care. I've played coy, played up to someone, played dead, played games (head and board) and even played the fool but never acted in a movie. So I was a little anxious going in to this adventure. Scanning the busy room as I entered I guessed that I was in the minority in so much as I was one of the few for whom this was the first time. My first bit of acting for the evening was to do what most people do when placed in a foreign situation. I pretended to know what I was doing and headed for a corner to hide. Luckily I was intercepted by a very nice assistant movie person just a few steps inside the room. I was greeted with a sincere "hello" and a rather off-putting "Are you a gay man?". Having never been asked that question I stammered out a quick "no", followed by a garbled sentence about my girlfriend, managing to put the emphasis on the word 'girl'. Her follow up question, "Passerby then?", set me straight (no pun intended). For the purposes of that night and this article, yes, yes I was a gay man. For that was my role. I was to be one of a dozen or so handsome, sharply dressed young men enjoying each other's company on a patio of a fictitious bar in Boston (all the while ignoring the freezing drizzle that fell outside).
Once my temporary sexual orientation was settled we started work on establishing my physical orientation. I was kindly asked to fill out a few forms and directed towards a table upon which were scattered a number of pens. I took a seat among my brothers (or sisters, whichever way you choose to view it) and set about completing the paperwork. The question about postal codes threw me as I had recently moved. It came to me after a few moments of calmly poking around under the piles of unsorted papers that is my brain. The rest of the information easily fell into place. I returned the completed forms and took up a new position along a wall; a vantage point from which to scan the entire room. This was a new species to me. Movie extra. They must be studied and their speech and mannerisms assimilated. Firstly, however, my airline passenger training kicked into gear and I immediately located the nearest exit as well as an alternate route just in case things went south in a hurry. Don't think I'm nuts either. That room was crowded with people, chairs and tables choking me off from escape should the need have arisen. The air was thick with hairspray and powder. One spark and we all could have gone up in such a spectacular fashion that the director would have kicked himself for weeks after for not having gotten it down on film. Having secured my position next to a coat rack and behind a group of overly excited middle aged women, I settled in for what I expected to be a long twelve hours.
The room was buzzing with activity. Or maybe it was the fluorescent lights. I'm still not sure. But there was certainly a doin's a-transpirin'. Was this what it looks like backstage at a beauty pageant? A community theatre on opening night? I've never seen so much preening and primping. There was also generous amounts of poofing, polishing and posing. Two hair stylists off to one side were doing blockbuster business. Have you ever seen Edward Scissor hands? That is the image that stands out in my mind except that each of them had more colour in their cheeks. I was filled with terror. They attacked each victim with more gusto than the previous, chopping great clumps of hair from each head. So much so that I thought they would soon be blocked from view by a huge mound of discarded hair with only the jets of blood squirting high into the air and the cries of the poor soul in the chair to reveal the hidden horror.
Or maybe they snipped a few centimeters here and there. Hard to say. Memory is a tricky thing. One thing is sure: I panicked. See, I'm a rather hirsute fella on the top end of my being. (It's none of your business what the foliage might be from the neck down.) And I carry a little bit of Elvis with me on either side of my face. I've become rather attached to both groups of fur, physically as well as emotionally. More importantly so has my girlfriend. Do you know how long I've been searching for a girl that will embrace this look as much as I have? Point being, I'd really rather not give it up. I thought I was going to escape a shearing until I was beckoned to take a seat. I trembled as I sank into the chair, resigning myself to Samson's fate. But even that I could not see through to the stories rightful ending as their was only one pillar in the room and it looked pretty stout. I hadn't really had a decent supper so I figured I'd have to exact my revenge another way. Perhaps I'd chew loudly during lunch break? Maybe substitute decaf in all the coffee urns? Yes, that'd show them.
As it turned out my fears were unfounded. The nice hair cutting lady simply wanted to straighten my flowing locks with some odd sort of heating implement and enough spray to hold the leaves on a tree through to February. Sidenote: Ladies, for those of you who torture yourself to look good at the salon with wild chemicals and odd bits of styling thingys, thank you. As it is, according to the lady, my hair has great body. I don't know if it was me just getting into my role but I was then quite proud of myself and even began pitching styling ideas. Had I stayed much longer she and I would be commiserating about how men can be such insensitive jerks.
It was a quick five minutes or so in her capable hands. My hair now lay flat, swooping down and to the right......as opposed to its normal way of laying flat, swooping down and to the left. Subtle. Very subtle. With my hair now completed I thought the next step would be makeup. Contrary to popular belief no one yells "Makeup!", prompting a little man to run from the wings to smack you in the face with a large powder puff. I admit I was somewhat disappointed but there was no time for that. Wardrobe was next.
What with this being Nova Scotia and the film industry in its infancy compared to Hollywood, the wardrobe department consisted of whatever was in my closet that I brought to the set. Newbie that I am I chose the apparently worst possible colour for my jacket. Black. My big acting break might have seen me rendered a lifeless dark blob but a snappy blue shirt and a colourful tie saw to it that my fabulousness would shine through. Crisis averted.
Then it was time. The call came to report to set. This was it.
Overture, curtains, lights
This is it, we'll hit the heights
And oh what heights we'll hit
On with the show this is it!
Ok. So no one rapped on my trailer, shouting "You're needed on set, Mr. Johnson". And, ok, so there was no trailer. There was only someone shouting. But I admit it. I was spellbound. If I was a 19 year old beautiful high school cheerleader from the midwest with dreams of the big time, I'd already have hocked my stereo for bus money and be on my way to Hollywood.
I now know what they mean when they talk about the bright lights of Hollywood. Someone call the airport and see if they're missing any lights. I was blinded. Literally. I missed the first step off the curb and nearly fell on a soundman. I do all my own stunts. I collected myself, trying not to look like such a star-struck rube, and took my assigned place in the scene, sharing a table on the patio with my 'boyfriend'. The night was chilly and a light drizzle was falling. Luckily I'd dressed in layers. A stage hand placed an amber coloured bubbly beverage in front of me. It was half empty (or half full, take your pick). "Bad weather be damned," I thought. "this movie business is pretty sweet." No doubt seeing the dribble of saliva on my chin the stage hand reminded me that the beer was only a prop to be sipped during takes. I was the lucky one. Some of us had to make due with water martinis and grape juice wine. After making last minute arrangements with our little corner of the set she felt it necessary to remind me once again that the beer was a prop.
My neck was on a swivel taking in all the action around me. Across the street I saw a tall gentleman standing stock still. Could that be Tom Selleck? It sure did look like him. But this fellow didn't move a muscle. ....could that be a Tom Selleck mannequin? "Why would they need a Tom Selleck mannequin?" I asked myself. Then I clued in. A stand in.
Being an extra is not exactly work that ranks up there with rocket surgery. Basically the first half of my evening on set was spent repeating the same scene over and over. I bid good evening to my companion and strolled off into in the dark, past the other 'Bostonians' out enjoying the cool autumn air, no doubt on my way to hail one of the many Boston cabs that circled the block. Rinse and repeat.
We were treated well. After repeating the above mentioned scene from a few angles a lunch break was announced. We were then shuttled off to a local church hall to be fed. During breaks away from the set I had been reading the novel "All Quiet On the Western Front" (not to ruin the ending but we won) and in a weird way the movie experience helped me become more involved in the story. Lining up for food, ordered from here to there (albeit politely), exposed to the elements. Aspects of military life, no? I suppose my chow hall experience differs from most accounts of army food that I've heard in that it was actually pretty darn good. They even catered to the needs of the vegetarians amongst us. I did pass on the dessert though. I wasn't sure just what it was that I was looking at. Perhaps a few pieces from the prop department had lost their way amongst all the hubbub. I didn't want to be the guy to eat Tom Selleck's stunt mustache.
From the dining hall we were shuttled back to the holding pen. At various times groups of us were called to the set for various scenes. Shouts of "Where are my sidewalk people?!" and "Street bums to hair please!" could be heard. Me, I grabbed a cup of coffee and my book and settled into a corner. Even though this was an all-night shoot there, inexplicably, next to the real coffee, sat an urn of decaf. Decaf? Huh? More accurately, there sat a mostly untouched urn of decaf. Perhaps some amongst us that night had a cup of decaf because it was at this time, well after midnight, that the holding pen took on the look of a Red Cross station during a hurricane. Bodies were stretched out here and there, grabbing whatever sleep they could. Discarded articles of soggy clothing lay scattered throughout the room. I've already mentioned the coffee urns. Then again I suppose there haven't been many hurricanes during which the victims earned $10 an hour.
A short time later my group was called back to the set to film a slightly different part of the movie at the same location. Different seat at the bar, same boyfriend. Same beer actually. Rain water had accumulated in my friend's 'martini', doubling the volume. Before the cameras rolled we exchanged tips extras used to make it look as if we're having a conversation in the background but really only mumbling gibberish. I chose to go the g-rated route with "vegetables, vegetables, vegetables" while my partner spiced things up a bit with "bulls**t, bulls**t, bulls**t". Am I giving away too many movie secrets?
And suddenly there he was, standing next to me.
The guy from the snack counter. He had a coffee and a sandwich for the director. But behind him was Magnum, P.I. in the flesh. The man is a mutant. He stands 10 feet tall if he's a foot. Shoulders as broad as a Great Lakes steamer. Mustache like a giant caterpillar, the great beast clinging to his upper lip. I trembled in the shadow of this giant and bit my tongue, resisting the urge to ask how Higgins is getting along these days.
Mr. Selleck and the director were conversing about the next scene. High paid actor that he is, his part in the scene consisted of him standing there. But, oh, how he stood there. When the camera wasn't rolling he still stood there, an assistant holding an umbrella over his head. A big umbrella. Someone call Cirque du Soleil. I found their missing tent. I could only surmise that the reason he didn't move around much in the scenes was that he shook the ground so much when he walked.
The night rolled on. We managed to complete a few scenes, Tom and I, before the rains came. Members of the cast and crew, myself included, took shelter beneath that famous mustache, warmed by Tom's nose breath. But even this great man was powerless in the face of Mother Nature. The game was called in the bottom of the 7th due to inclement weather. Mr. Selleck was escorted back to his no-doubt luxuriously appointed suite. The crew began breaking down equipment. The extras were herded back to the holding pen, each of us unable to shake the feeling that we'd left a job undone.
And so the long night that had begun with such excitement ended with a whimper. It came from my own mouth. Stepping out into the street from the hotel it began to rain heavier. Good luck finding a cab at this hour of the morning. Pulling the collar of my jacket up I started the long trek home. "Did Tom start out like this?" I asked myself. A car passing by splashed puddle water on me. Climb the ladder, as they say.
David Johnson © 2008
They're gonna make a big star out of me"
I'm tired. I'm wet. I'm underpaid. And I'm quite content, thank you very much. Bright lights, small city. I don't know if you could call it a dream come true but it was pretty darn good. What follows is what I remember of my time as an extra on a long, often times rainy but generally enjoyable evening/morning spent on the set of 'Jesse Stone: No Remorse' currently filming in Halifax starring Mr. Tom Selleck.
The evening was divided between being 'on set', as we say in the biz, and relaxing in what I'd like to call the green room but is referred to rather disparagingly as the 'holding pen'. Oink. Or baah or moo, depending on the role and if you're union or not. The union extras say 'baah'. And they get paid twice what I got paid to say that. C'est la vie. Climb the ladder, as they say.
The evening started out in the holding...green room. Oh, who am I kidding? It might usually have been a conference room in a swanky downtown hotel most of the time but that night I swear I smelled hay. And the conversations of the other extras came together in a mishmash of sound that could have been mistaken for that of a barnyard. And the coffee tasted like horse sh......... ah, but all part of the experience, no?
This was my first go round at trying my hand at being an extra. I've never acted in a movie before. I've acted out. I've acted up. I've acted my age (or was told to). I've acted as if I didn't care. I've played coy, played up to someone, played dead, played games (head and board) and even played the fool but never acted in a movie. So I was a little anxious going in to this adventure. Scanning the busy room as I entered I guessed that I was in the minority in so much as I was one of the few for whom this was the first time. My first bit of acting for the evening was to do what most people do when placed in a foreign situation. I pretended to know what I was doing and headed for a corner to hide. Luckily I was intercepted by a very nice assistant movie person just a few steps inside the room. I was greeted with a sincere "hello" and a rather off-putting "Are you a gay man?". Having never been asked that question I stammered out a quick "no", followed by a garbled sentence about my girlfriend, managing to put the emphasis on the word 'girl'. Her follow up question, "Passerby then?", set me straight (no pun intended). For the purposes of that night and this article, yes, yes I was a gay man. For that was my role. I was to be one of a dozen or so handsome, sharply dressed young men enjoying each other's company on a patio of a fictitious bar in Boston (all the while ignoring the freezing drizzle that fell outside).
Once my temporary sexual orientation was settled we started work on establishing my physical orientation. I was kindly asked to fill out a few forms and directed towards a table upon which were scattered a number of pens. I took a seat among my brothers (or sisters, whichever way you choose to view it) and set about completing the paperwork. The question about postal codes threw me as I had recently moved. It came to me after a few moments of calmly poking around under the piles of unsorted papers that is my brain. The rest of the information easily fell into place. I returned the completed forms and took up a new position along a wall; a vantage point from which to scan the entire room. This was a new species to me. Movie extra. They must be studied and their speech and mannerisms assimilated. Firstly, however, my airline passenger training kicked into gear and I immediately located the nearest exit as well as an alternate route just in case things went south in a hurry. Don't think I'm nuts either. That room was crowded with people, chairs and tables choking me off from escape should the need have arisen. The air was thick with hairspray and powder. One spark and we all could have gone up in such a spectacular fashion that the director would have kicked himself for weeks after for not having gotten it down on film. Having secured my position next to a coat rack and behind a group of overly excited middle aged women, I settled in for what I expected to be a long twelve hours.
The room was buzzing with activity. Or maybe it was the fluorescent lights. I'm still not sure. But there was certainly a doin's a-transpirin'. Was this what it looks like backstage at a beauty pageant? A community theatre on opening night? I've never seen so much preening and primping. There was also generous amounts of poofing, polishing and posing. Two hair stylists off to one side were doing blockbuster business. Have you ever seen Edward Scissor hands? That is the image that stands out in my mind except that each of them had more colour in their cheeks. I was filled with terror. They attacked each victim with more gusto than the previous, chopping great clumps of hair from each head. So much so that I thought they would soon be blocked from view by a huge mound of discarded hair with only the jets of blood squirting high into the air and the cries of the poor soul in the chair to reveal the hidden horror.
Or maybe they snipped a few centimeters here and there. Hard to say. Memory is a tricky thing. One thing is sure: I panicked. See, I'm a rather hirsute fella on the top end of my being. (It's none of your business what the foliage might be from the neck down.) And I carry a little bit of Elvis with me on either side of my face. I've become rather attached to both groups of fur, physically as well as emotionally. More importantly so has my girlfriend. Do you know how long I've been searching for a girl that will embrace this look as much as I have? Point being, I'd really rather not give it up. I thought I was going to escape a shearing until I was beckoned to take a seat. I trembled as I sank into the chair, resigning myself to Samson's fate. But even that I could not see through to the stories rightful ending as their was only one pillar in the room and it looked pretty stout. I hadn't really had a decent supper so I figured I'd have to exact my revenge another way. Perhaps I'd chew loudly during lunch break? Maybe substitute decaf in all the coffee urns? Yes, that'd show them.
As it turned out my fears were unfounded. The nice hair cutting lady simply wanted to straighten my flowing locks with some odd sort of heating implement and enough spray to hold the leaves on a tree through to February. Sidenote: Ladies, for those of you who torture yourself to look good at the salon with wild chemicals and odd bits of styling thingys, thank you. As it is, according to the lady, my hair has great body. I don't know if it was me just getting into my role but I was then quite proud of myself and even began pitching styling ideas. Had I stayed much longer she and I would be commiserating about how men can be such insensitive jerks.
It was a quick five minutes or so in her capable hands. My hair now lay flat, swooping down and to the right......as opposed to its normal way of laying flat, swooping down and to the left. Subtle. Very subtle. With my hair now completed I thought the next step would be makeup. Contrary to popular belief no one yells "Makeup!", prompting a little man to run from the wings to smack you in the face with a large powder puff. I admit I was somewhat disappointed but there was no time for that. Wardrobe was next.
What with this being Nova Scotia and the film industry in its infancy compared to Hollywood, the wardrobe department consisted of whatever was in my closet that I brought to the set. Newbie that I am I chose the apparently worst possible colour for my jacket. Black. My big acting break might have seen me rendered a lifeless dark blob but a snappy blue shirt and a colourful tie saw to it that my fabulousness would shine through. Crisis averted.
Then it was time. The call came to report to set. This was it.
Overture, curtains, lights
This is it, we'll hit the heights
And oh what heights we'll hit
On with the show this is it!
Ok. So no one rapped on my trailer, shouting "You're needed on set, Mr. Johnson". And, ok, so there was no trailer. There was only someone shouting. But I admit it. I was spellbound. If I was a 19 year old beautiful high school cheerleader from the midwest with dreams of the big time, I'd already have hocked my stereo for bus money and be on my way to Hollywood.
I now know what they mean when they talk about the bright lights of Hollywood. Someone call the airport and see if they're missing any lights. I was blinded. Literally. I missed the first step off the curb and nearly fell on a soundman. I do all my own stunts. I collected myself, trying not to look like such a star-struck rube, and took my assigned place in the scene, sharing a table on the patio with my 'boyfriend'. The night was chilly and a light drizzle was falling. Luckily I'd dressed in layers. A stage hand placed an amber coloured bubbly beverage in front of me. It was half empty (or half full, take your pick). "Bad weather be damned," I thought. "this movie business is pretty sweet." No doubt seeing the dribble of saliva on my chin the stage hand reminded me that the beer was only a prop to be sipped during takes. I was the lucky one. Some of us had to make due with water martinis and grape juice wine. After making last minute arrangements with our little corner of the set she felt it necessary to remind me once again that the beer was a prop.
My neck was on a swivel taking in all the action around me. Across the street I saw a tall gentleman standing stock still. Could that be Tom Selleck? It sure did look like him. But this fellow didn't move a muscle. ....could that be a Tom Selleck mannequin? "Why would they need a Tom Selleck mannequin?" I asked myself. Then I clued in. A stand in.
Being an extra is not exactly work that ranks up there with rocket surgery. Basically the first half of my evening on set was spent repeating the same scene over and over. I bid good evening to my companion and strolled off into in the dark, past the other 'Bostonians' out enjoying the cool autumn air, no doubt on my way to hail one of the many Boston cabs that circled the block. Rinse and repeat.
We were treated well. After repeating the above mentioned scene from a few angles a lunch break was announced. We were then shuttled off to a local church hall to be fed. During breaks away from the set I had been reading the novel "All Quiet On the Western Front" (not to ruin the ending but we won) and in a weird way the movie experience helped me become more involved in the story. Lining up for food, ordered from here to there (albeit politely), exposed to the elements. Aspects of military life, no? I suppose my chow hall experience differs from most accounts of army food that I've heard in that it was actually pretty darn good. They even catered to the needs of the vegetarians amongst us. I did pass on the dessert though. I wasn't sure just what it was that I was looking at. Perhaps a few pieces from the prop department had lost their way amongst all the hubbub. I didn't want to be the guy to eat Tom Selleck's stunt mustache.
From the dining hall we were shuttled back to the holding pen. At various times groups of us were called to the set for various scenes. Shouts of "Where are my sidewalk people?!" and "Street bums to hair please!" could be heard. Me, I grabbed a cup of coffee and my book and settled into a corner. Even though this was an all-night shoot there, inexplicably, next to the real coffee, sat an urn of decaf. Decaf? Huh? More accurately, there sat a mostly untouched urn of decaf. Perhaps some amongst us that night had a cup of decaf because it was at this time, well after midnight, that the holding pen took on the look of a Red Cross station during a hurricane. Bodies were stretched out here and there, grabbing whatever sleep they could. Discarded articles of soggy clothing lay scattered throughout the room. I've already mentioned the coffee urns. Then again I suppose there haven't been many hurricanes during which the victims earned $10 an hour.
A short time later my group was called back to the set to film a slightly different part of the movie at the same location. Different seat at the bar, same boyfriend. Same beer actually. Rain water had accumulated in my friend's 'martini', doubling the volume. Before the cameras rolled we exchanged tips extras used to make it look as if we're having a conversation in the background but really only mumbling gibberish. I chose to go the g-rated route with "vegetables, vegetables, vegetables" while my partner spiced things up a bit with "bulls**t, bulls**t, bulls**t". Am I giving away too many movie secrets?
And suddenly there he was, standing next to me.
The guy from the snack counter. He had a coffee and a sandwich for the director. But behind him was Magnum, P.I. in the flesh. The man is a mutant. He stands 10 feet tall if he's a foot. Shoulders as broad as a Great Lakes steamer. Mustache like a giant caterpillar, the great beast clinging to his upper lip. I trembled in the shadow of this giant and bit my tongue, resisting the urge to ask how Higgins is getting along these days.
Mr. Selleck and the director were conversing about the next scene. High paid actor that he is, his part in the scene consisted of him standing there. But, oh, how he stood there. When the camera wasn't rolling he still stood there, an assistant holding an umbrella over his head. A big umbrella. Someone call Cirque du Soleil. I found their missing tent. I could only surmise that the reason he didn't move around much in the scenes was that he shook the ground so much when he walked.
The night rolled on. We managed to complete a few scenes, Tom and I, before the rains came. Members of the cast and crew, myself included, took shelter beneath that famous mustache, warmed by Tom's nose breath. But even this great man was powerless in the face of Mother Nature. The game was called in the bottom of the 7th due to inclement weather. Mr. Selleck was escorted back to his no-doubt luxuriously appointed suite. The crew began breaking down equipment. The extras were herded back to the holding pen, each of us unable to shake the feeling that we'd left a job undone.
And so the long night that had begun with such excitement ended with a whimper. It came from my own mouth. Stepping out into the street from the hotel it began to rain heavier. Good luck finding a cab at this hour of the morning. Pulling the collar of my jacket up I started the long trek home. "Did Tom start out like this?" I asked myself. A car passing by splashed puddle water on me. Climb the ladder, as they say.
David Johnson © 2008
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