Well, for those of you who don't know, I have a sister. A sister with a blog. A sister who, at one point, wrote a blog about "her day." Now, because there's not a clever bone in my body (nay, I have merely 64 bones, and they're all quite dull), I figured I'd just hijack her idea and give it the "Tyler Twist."
Many of you (by "many" I mean "perhaps one or two," and by "perhaps" I mean "merely," and by "by" when I said "and by" the first and second times, what I meant to say was "also") may be curious as to exactly what a day as an extra is like. Many more of you, I'm sure, are not interested in the least. To those people I say, "Nuts!" Because that's what I say when I have nothing else to say.
Anyhow, to wit: I have "signed up" with four extras casting directors (I'd guestimate there are about 20 dedicated background casting agencies…of varying influence), all of which are programmed into my home phone: Sandy Alessi Casting, Central Casting, Jeff Olan Casting, and Burbank Casting. A few weeks back, I hit the speed dial for Jeff Olan Casting.
"Hello, you've reached the casting hotline for Jeff Olan Casting. It's 4:45 PM on Monday, and we've got a couple of things casting today. First off, we need all ethnicities, ages 18-45 to work on [a popular medical drama]…"
Just a note here…before I get carried away. I decided, late in the writing of this, to remove the name of the show I worked. I realized that I said some things that are…less than flattering about some (mainly two) members of the crew…and, being as I'm very interested in working background again in the future…I decided to make things more anonymous by changing names, not telling the name of the show, stuff like that. Maybe I'm just being paranoid…but there's a chance that one of those two I mention may Google something along the lines of "[The Show I Worked]" and "Background" and "Tyler Twist." May not happen…but better safe than sorry, yes? I'm sure some of you super-sleuths can figure out which of the eighty seven medical dramas out there I'm talking about…and to those people, I give a doff of my cap. In fact, while I'm at it, I'll doff my sweater as well, because I'm feeling punchy, and (also) I'm wearing a sweater.
All right...back to the story. Being as I met the criteria of "any ethnicity," I left a message on a separate line with my last name and phone number. Then I waited.
I did not wait very long – Jeff Olan himself (that's right…the legendary legend who goes by the name of "Jeff Olan") called back 20 minutes later and asked me if I was still available to work. I was. He gave me a third and final number (to get the details of the shoot), a booking number, and a call time of 7:00 AM…which is known (by me, inaccurately) as "The Witching Hour."
Flash forward to the next day (that is, unless you want to hear some very uninteresting details about how I spent the rest of the night watching Janice Dickinson's Modeling Agency reruns. No? Well…maybe some other time…). The only wardrobe I was required to bring was a pair of "Non-white tennis shoes," because they were going to outfit me in scrubs (and "what have you") at the studio. So, at 5:15 in the godforsaken AM, I rolled out of bed, showered, strapped on my shoes, and skittered out the door (because I love skittering).
I decided that, since my car is on the Fritz (poor Fritz…his name will always be synonymous with being atop broken crap), and since the studio was about two miles away, I did what no other Los Angelino has ever done in the history of movie making – I decided to walk to the studio.
A brisk 45 minutes later, I skittered up to the security gate. A friendly man sporting the studio lot "rent-a-cop" outfit checked my I.D., and directed me to "base camp."
I'm not sure exactly how to describe being "on the lot" to someone who's never been. Back when I was threshing grain in the wheat fields of Seattle, I held a good deal of mysticism about the art of movie making. This mystique (can I use both those words interchangeably? I don't think so. Sharla?) has gradually diminished the more I'm around it (which is a topic I've been meaning to blog about). But, to those of you who have never been on an actual studio lot, it pretty much looks like a bunch of shapeless office buildings, surrounded by big ol' warehouses. Littered liberally among the warehouses (or "stages") are dozens of trailers, and usually a bunch of really nice cars. The dozens of trailers house the hair, makeup, wardrobe, production staff, and actors for whatever T.V. show or movie is being filmed. The really nice cars are owned by the people occupying those trailers.
So, as an extra, those first 10 minutes when you walk on set are the most chaotic and weird time you'll have during a typical day. "Background artists" are paid to follow directions and keep quiet. So, when there is no one to give directions, or shush us when we talk, it's a little unsettling. You could ask someone, but the grips (the surly men and women, often identified by a roll of gaff tape on their belts, and an "I don't want to talk to you" look on their faces) feign ignorance when an extra dares to speak with them. And asking other extras usually just results in an Olympic-length shrug-fest (Olympic Shrugging – London, 2012). In fact, it's not unusual to see a half-dozen lost-looking extras, hauling wardrobe bags or clothes on hangers…searching desperately for "a person to tell us what to do." This person, generally, has a walkie-talkie, and a clipboard. He or she is known as the "2nd Assistant Director." Or, as I call them (inaccurately), the "Extras Wrangler."
Today I located the base camp and saw a lone woman sitting amongst the trailers on a camping chair, reading a newspaper. Extras who bring their camping chairs with them to set are people who have been doing extra work for a long time – long enough to warrant the purchase of portable furniture. Some of them are quite pleasant. Some of them are arrogant braggarts who are "really proud" of their long history of background artistry, and the fact that some of the crew members know them by their first names. I made a pledge to myself early on – I will never be one of those extras who brings a camping chair. Something about that just seemed…unseemly to me. Can I use "seemed" and "unseemly" in the same sentence? I don't think so. Sharla?
After about 10 minutes of quiet waiting, my savior – the 2nd A.D. (a woman by the name of Stephanie…which isn't her real name…OR IS IT?!) arrived with a folder full of "vouchers," which are basically an extra's time card, that has a couple of stapled carbon copies stapled to the back. Stephanie greets the four extras sitting around me by their first names, and even hugged two of them. Stephanie is probably in her late 20s to early 30s. She's got what could only be described as a "cap" on her head, a greasy flat face, horn-rimmed glasses, and short hair. She appeared harried (always a bad sign first thing in the morning, personality-wise), and she had a touch of the "abrupt but condescending" approach to speaking with the background actors (at least…those she doesn't know personally…which would mean: "me"). My defense against the "easily stressed condescender" style 2nd A.D. is to find out their first name (so they'll humanize me…in the same way you're supposed to humanize yourself if you're ever held hostage), and be overly polite, punctual, quiet, and professional. And to try not to ask any questions – people who are easily stressed out seem to hate answering questions, as they'll typically automatically assume that the asker is stupid, and gleefully treat it as an opportunity to condescend.
After greeting each extra by name, and personally handing them their vouchers she returned to her perch on the back of the wardrobe trailer. Either she didn't notice me, or she ignored me – either way, it was odd. So I walked up to her, and without looking up from her print-out she asked:
"Number?"
"Four. Uh…number 4." (this was the "booking number" assigned to me by Jeff Olan) "Tyler Rhoades?"
She looks at her sheet. "Ah. There you are." She hands me my voucher. "Fill this out completely, and wardrobe will come out when she's ready for you all."
I fill out the voucher with my name, phone number, and other boring "fill out this form" information. Stephanie returned and looked at my half-filled-out voucher.
"You need to put your address down, and the production company is [whatever production company she told me…I don't remember now]."
I hadn't finished filling out the form yet, but I responded, "All right. Thanks." Trying out my polite.
About ten minutes later I'm assigned a set of "gray scrubs" (which apparently means I "work the catheter") by the wardrobe lady – a young, stylishly dressed brunette in Ugz slippers, a tight ponytail, and jeans. She jokes about how she's "so stressed" about having to outfit five extras (a joke, apparently, because she's normally tasked with dressing at least 50 extras)…but that weak attempt at humor aside, I get the sense that she's another one who gets easily ruffled. But 'tis no matter – the only times one typically has to deal with the costume department is first thing in the morning (to get your outfit, or have the wardrobe you brought approved), then right before you leave (to return your outfit).
Stephanie (whom I will henceforward refer to as "Steph," because it's easier, and it sounds like "Staph," which is funny) instructs the lot of us that we'll "be filming on stage nine today." I look around – apparently I'm on stage infinity (since I'm outside in a parking lot, and not near any stage), and I see nary a stage number in eye-shot. But I figure if I just follow the crowd, I'll be all right.
The only problem is that there was no crowd. After I'd changed into my grey "catheter person" scrubs, I came out to see the trailers deserted. In fact, the entire studio seemed to be deserted, except for a tumbleweed bush that rolled in a clichéd fashion in front of me. So, trying like hell to look like I knew what I was doing, I started walking. I don't know how many times I've been on a set and "tried to look like I knew what I was doing." I'm guessing somewhere in the million billion billion millions!!!!
Of course, inevitably, several terrifying minutes into my brave walk, I saw another person in scrubs and followed her. It was then I saw my first stage number of the day – stage number 7. Two stages to go, I supposed (though studios don't really like to place things in "logical numerical order," for whatever reason). Eventually the woman I was tailing arrived at stage 9…then walked right past the door with the big sign that said "Stage 9" on it. "Well," I thought, "When in Rome," then I stopped thinking, because I have not been to Rome (yet). I had figured she was heading to a different, better door to enter – maybe some secret portal only the "regular" extras knew about. Perhaps something closer to the actual set? So I followed.
As luck would have it, when I was about 20 feet past the Stage 9 door, Steph (who I will now only refer to as "Staph," because as I discovered earlier, it's much funnier than "Steph") pulled up behind me in a golf cart and whistled at me (as one would whistle to a Labrador) and barked (as a Labrador would) "Hey, where you going?" She then waved me at the stage door. Oops – there goes my air of cool professionalism. Oh well.
I followed Staph into the stage, and she told me abruptly to put my stuff down, and to "Make sure you've got your voucher." Well…of course I had my voucher – it was in my bag. Why wouldn't I have my voucher? So I went to follow her (she was walking at a break-neck pace, because she wanted to give me the impression that she was working really hard), then I realized quickly that she wanted me to "bring my voucher along with me." Oops again. I skittered back to my bag, grabbed my voucher, and promptly lost sight of her. She appeared (magically) at a door to the adjoining stage, and beckoned me over (as one would beckon a poodle), muttering, "C'mon, c'mon." I gave her as "cross" of a look as I could manage in the early dawn hours, and sigh audibly as I pass her. Screw "polite," she was being difficult…for no good reason.
See, the reason I was supposed to bring my voucher was that I had to give it to the props department (so I wouldn't walk off of the set with something like a sweet, sweet free stethoscope). The prop dude…a friendly, nondescript guy with a dirty blonde ponytail gives me a name tag, a strange security clip-on tag, and a folder containing x-rays. I attempt to return to the set, and promptly get lost again. Eventually I find Staph, and she guides me to the extra's holding area (actually the waiting room of the hospital).
Staph finds me in the extras holding area, and tells me that the disgruntled costume lady (I'll call her Lucy, because it sounds silly) will be outfitting me as an anesthesiologist (thank you spell check). Apparently folks of the anesthesiological (no thank you spell check) persuasion at this hospital like to wear dark blue. Fine by me. Now I'm the crazy drug doctor in blue.
Once I've changed, I'm brought to the set. I'm in a scene with two doctors, who are operating on a little girl (for some reason…probably because she's sick or something), and it's my responsibility to pretend to look at a screen that has her vitals, oxygen levels, drug levels, etc., and write stuff on a clipboard. I guess that's what anesthesiologists do – I always thought they injected people with syringes (or fiddled with knobs or somesuch) then left to go drug up other people. But apparently they just scribble on a clipboard while the real doctors do all the difficult bloody work, with the cutting, and the pulling, and the clamping. But I tell you what, if I were to ever get into doctoring full-time, I figure anesthesiologist'd be a good way to go.
Here I had my third brush with Lucy – and it turned out my initial impression of her was depressingly accurate. She was outfitting me with a neat-o surgical cap to wear during the procedure. As Lucy was a bit shorter than me, I bent at the knee to help her reach the top of my thinning dome. As I did this, she snapped: "Stand normal, please." I'm not really sure why it bothered her so much…she wasn't short enough to have an inferiority complex. Perhaps she just liked snapping and embarrassing people? Who knows.
Anyhow, a different crewperson got me into place (this person is one of the two "Production Assistants" or PAs, who are generically responsible for the extras' background movements).
I wish I could talk more about the magic of the filming process…but it's actually one of the more unremarkable parts of the day. There's a guy standing by the camera who is the "1st A.D.", and when everything is ready he called, "Background…and…action," (sometimes the director makes this call…though they're typically out of the room watching the scene through a headset and a bank of monitors). When I hear the word "background," I'm supposed to come to life, so that when the actors start on "action," they've got an active scene that they can just jump into…as opposed to having every start at once. Helps with the editing.
Since I started doing this I've been able to watch some of the best actors in the world working, and while you're watching them live you realize quickly that what you see on the T.V. screen isn't really what happens in the studio. T.V. and film acting is usually done in about 30 seconds chunks…several times in a row, and then repeated from a different angle. Most actors come into a scene barely knowing their lines (and the vast majority of them will forget at least part of the scene during rehearsal and the first couple of takes). This is in contrast to theater, where the scenes can last up to an hour and a half…and there are no take-backs. Film acting is still something of a mystery to me, honestly…but maybe some day it'll make sense, and I'll be freaking famous or something. Probably not…but it'd be cool.
Eventually the angle I'm in is completed, and I'm booted out, and replaced by a large light aimed at the actual "actors" (and the camera flips to a new angle – a two-shot of the two doctors). I return to the holding area, and decide, "Hey, wouldn't it be cool to do a running blog entry of my day?" So I start writing on my laptop. I figure I'll be writing most of the day…at least, until my batteries run out. Then I'll have to find something else to do. Maybe strike up a conversation with some of the other actors? Naw… After an hour or so of sitting around, typing this blog, another crewmember came over and asked me my name.
"Tyler."
"Hi Tyler, I'm Chelsie. We're going to use you in this next shot, so would you follow me?"
"Of course."
Finally…someone nice. Chelsie (henceforth to be called "Chelsie," because she was nice) walked me through my movements for the next scene (I was to start walking away from the camera…then turn around and cross back toward the camera – if you pay attention to the background actors in many of these T.V. shows where there are shots of a hospital or a street, you'll probably catch same extras crossing back and forth multiple times). I can't even hear the scene that's going on; I just know that when the dude (that's my name for the 1st A.D. – please do try to keep track, because I'll probably forget at some point, and will have to scroll up to remind myself) calls "background," I start walking. Stop. Wait five seconds, and then start walking in the opposite direction.
This, my friends, is the extent of the skill required to be a background actor. Keep your head down, bring several options of clothes for the costume people, listen to very simple instructions, and try not to get bored. I'd say that this is one of the best jobs I've ever had, but the truth is, in addition to not paying well, it's also very inconsistent work (I worked one day last week. At that rate, I'd make about $225 for the entire month – a little less than half of what my rent is).
Now, I do want to speak to something. I'm afraid that just maybe I've been a little unfair to my good friend Staph (but not nearly as unfair as I'm going to get). See…the problem with background acting is…there are a lot of really dumb people doing background work. Of course, I'm hesitant to use the word "dumb" when I describe other people, because it's almost like bragging that I'm "not dumb"(and I'm just as dumb as the next guy…evidenced by my passion for America's Funniest Home Videos and Janice Dickinson's Modeling Agency), but I really don't know how else to put it. I mean…I'm friends with all of you people – especially those faithful readers of this here blog. So, I can say with authority that none of you are dumb people (because dumb people make awful friends). But some extras can be really…really dumb.
Having made that broad, sweeping, completely unfair and unjustified generalization, I must now state that – having mocked Staph et al, they really have a tough job. I don't know how many ignorant, inattentive, and (frankly, to repeat myself ad naseum) dumb extras I've had the pleasure of working with…I just know there are a lot. And so, when I hear a 2nd A.D. speaking in a condescending, repetitive tone…I kinda' get it. Peoples' responses to the scourge of dumb are varied (like the beautiful rainbow…or a flower with different colored petals…or a bird flying over a rainbow and pooping on a toadstool) – some people get aggressive and frustrated, some people get mad and yell, some get sarcastic and snippy, some get sing-songy and condescending, some deal with things calmly and professionally, and some ignore it until it's a problem. Me? I stab. But that's just me.
Chelsie calls me back – now I've got the Herculean task of pretending to write on a medical file of some kind (the one I got from props, with the x-rays inside), then I was to follow two actors through a door…which means that I was stationed near the two doctors in-between takes…which really means…GOSSIP TIME!!!
Okay, time to gab. Guess what, people?! The stars are JUST LIKE US!!! What did they talk about? Oh…you know…the woman doctor joked around with a male doctor, saying he was acting like a CRAZY PERSON!!! The two women doctors near me discussed their CUES, and whether they were LEAVING TOO EARLY after ACTION was called!!! One of them talked with the hairstyling ladies about BUYING SHOES!!! And how she DIDN'T LIKE IT when women wore TOO MUCH HAIR SPRAY!!! Then she told a story about how, when she goes to an AWARDS SHOW she HAS to buy new SHOES!!! And how, one time, her STYLIST got her shoes that she COULDN'T WALK IN, and she was UPSET WITH HIM!!! The other one FLIRTED with a P.A., and asked a COSTUME LADY to cut off the TAG on her SHIRT!!!
Yep, they're just like us. Except famouser.
Stay tuned tomorrow for Part Two. Little hint -- one of the people in this story WILL BE DEAD BY THE END OF THE DAY.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment