My personal record is two films in a day. My dog and I actually did find one set location on the hike-and-bike trail. He marked the spot appropriately. The next day as a drove out of the parking lot at the end of a long workday, I had to literally drive through a set that featured a tyke on his bike. I never saw the dailies, but, trust me, my little red econobox and I were superb.
My college alumni newsletter gives dates when Emilio Estevez will dine in the school cafeteria; Clint Eastwood is rumored to still haunt the Elephant Room, albeit disguised as Sonny Bono; I swear I saw Cher in the frozen foods section of Randall's (she was very well preserved). Is this the real story behind all of the California license plates I see lately?
Okay, I give up. Where do I enlist?
A downtown hotel, my television told me--and bring a recent photo. One station's talking head said to be there from 3-9 p.m., the other's smiled and said 4-10 p.m. I showed up at 2:30 p.m. and the line of would-be actors already snaked around the room like a talent scout with a vacant couch and a new sharkskin suit to break in.
We were instructed to fill out information cards as we waited. The couple behind me sported nuclear white smiles and perfect skin. "I just lost 10 pounds," the guy, dressed in a sports coat and balancing a gallon of mousse on is head, bragged to his female friend in her cocktail dress. "Looks are all that really matter," he added and nodded toward the slight bulge at my waist line. His friend nodded back. "It's all genetics anyway," she said. "At least until you hit 30." It was her turn to nod at me. I looked at the information card and erased two years from my age.
The film was titled Courage Under Fire . The buzz in line was that it was about Desert Storm. Hmmm. They'll need soldiers, I thought. I wrote FOOTBALL and BASKETBALL in the "sports played" section of the card. Surely I could fake it.
Thirty minutes later I made it to a card table behind which sat the fabled casting director. "My green friend is not available," I said as I handed him a very professional photo of me with my arms around a 6-foot-tall inflatable Gumby. "You're available Saturdays?" he asked without cracking a smile. "Yeah," I said, "and I look great holding a gun." He smiled a little this time, then nodded and pointed toward the exit. Another acting career dies on the casting couch, ur, carpet, I thought.
I was wrong. Two weeks later I got a call from a guy with a heavy Bronx accent.
"You available all day Saturday, Joe?" he said.
"Yeah," I said.
"Call at 4 p.m. Friday for details," he mumbled and hung up.
For two days I was in suspense. A Mafia war flick? No one will be able to recognize me among a throng of fatigue-clad soldiers wearing fedoras, I mused, but at least I'll get to handle firearms.
But military life was not to be. "Go to the catering truck at 13th and Lavaca," I was told. "You're scene is in a motel bar in Georgia. Be there at 10 a.m. Don't wear bright colors, but dress casually. Bring a lot of choices in case they don't like your outfit," my Bronx buddy said. "And, hey Joe, have fun."
I set the alarm for 8:30 a.m., but I couldn't sleep. All night wardrobe choices rolled around in my head. Casual--is that casual from my parents' generation? Maybe khakis? Or from my generation? Blue jean cutoffs? Speedos? Boots? Converse All Stars?
At 8:15 a.m. someone called from the set and asked if I could be there early. I showered, shaved and settled for dark green jeans and a dark blue plaid shirt. I was one of the first extras to arrive. It was a small but important scene, and we might actually be visible in the final film. "If anyone asks what your role is," I was told, "it's Man."
We were led to the wardrobe trailer, sacks of alternate clothing in hand. My green jeans were scrutinized. "Well, it is a motel bar in Georgia," the wardrobe designer said. "Nobody said anything about good taste." I ran to my car to stow the extra clothes and hurried back for my scene.
I waited. Other extras arrived. Pete works in the kitchen of the Dog and Duck. "I'm a writer," I said.
"I've always wanted to write," Pete said.
Pete and I waited. Jesse, who got the plum role of bartender arrived with his daughter, an attorney-writer. We all waited. Brian, a rapper and music producer arrived, so did Valerie, a writer, and Heather, an acting student. We waited. A woman who had once waited tables professionally but now wanted to write showed up for her first acting job. She would play a waitress. Next came a retired personnel director. Finally an extra from earlier in the day was recruited since only his back showed in the earlier shot.
Gawkers began to arrive. Suddenly Denzel Washington came around the corner and pretended to chase a 10-year-old kid away. The kid and he both laughed. As quick as he came, Denzel disappeared into his trailer.
"Extras shouldn't try to chat with the stars," we were firmly instructed.