Goldie Hawn doesn’t know it, but she jumpstarted my freelance writing career when the production company for her movie Protocol came to Sacramento in 1984. The plot was centered in Washington D.C. The producer, Anthea Sylbert (Chinatown, Rosemary’s Baby, Day Of The Dophin), wanted a location that looked enough like Washington D.C. to spare the expense of moving cast, crew, and equipment to the nation's capital for a single scene requiring a backdrop of Greek Revival government buildings. There are two of them in Sacramento, facing each other on the Capitol Mall traffic circle, across the street from the capitol itself. Just the setting the producer wanted.
At the time I was in a period of creative repose, a polite way of saying unemployed, when a buddy called saying a movie company was coming to town and hiring locals as extras. “They want people who look like anonymous bureaucrats,” she said. “I thought of you right away. I mean, you were an anonymous bureaucrat for eleven years, so you don’t even need an acting coach. Just be yourself.”
Gee thanks.
“You get $50 and a catered lunch.”
That clinched it. I asked if I should have my people call their people.
“Very funny. Look, one of the associate producers is screening people at the state employment office tomorrow. Wear your sincere suit, the blue pinstriped one.”
I showed up at the employment office five minutes after it opened. A handwritten sign had been taped to the door stating all the movie extra positions had been filled -- probably by employment office staff plus their friends and relatives -- but I saw this as a karmic test. Buddha dwells everywhere, even in adversity. So, if I couldn’t be immortalized on the silver screen and get $50 and a free lunch, I could at least write about the local people chosen as extras and peddle the story to a magazine.
But Buddha wasn’t done with me yet. “This is a closed set,” the unit publicist told me when I showed up in my sincere suit with an expired press pass pinned to a lapel and a 35 mm camera slung from my neck. “No media allowed,” she said. Some publicist.
A uniformed cop moved closer in case I made a fuss. I later learned the film had drawn the ire of Muammar Khaddafy’s Libyan government for its portrayal of a Muslim diplomat’s attraction to an American cocktail waitress played by Ms. Hawn who was -- worse yet -- Jewish in real life. Not only that, but the estimable Ms. Hawn was a practicing Buddhist. That made her a double whammy infidel in the eyes of the Prophet Mohammed and his nutty disciple in Libya.
So what did that have to do with me, a publicist and a cop on the other side of the world? Well, since the movie was also being filmed in Libya, Khaddafy’s displeasure had real traction with the U.S. Department of State -- and with the cast and crew who needed Libyan visas stamped on their passports. The last thing the producer wanted was publicity at this stage of the game, any publicity, even the kind generated by a bush league freelancer in a pinstriped suit.
I was blissfully ignorant of all this fuss, but it would not have made a bit of difference if I had known. Opportunity was not just knocking on my door, it was hammering with a closed fist. I made a big show out of looking around at the assembled crowd. “Doesn’t look very closed to me,” I said. “Anyway, I just want to talk to some local extras and be on my way.”
In other words, leave me alone and I won’t make waves. Not that I could, but this Hollywood gofer didn’t know that. Besides, I had Buddha in my corner. No way I was giving up this contest of wills, especially after being aced of $50 and a free lunch.
At the time I was in a period of creative repose, a polite way of saying unemployed, when a buddy called saying a movie company was coming to town and hiring locals as extras. “They want people who look like anonymous bureaucrats,” she said. “I thought of you right away. I mean, you were an anonymous bureaucrat for eleven years, so you don’t even need an acting coach. Just be yourself.”
Gee thanks.
“You get $50 and a catered lunch.”
That clinched it. I asked if I should have my people call their people.
“Very funny. Look, one of the associate producers is screening people at the state employment office tomorrow. Wear your sincere suit, the blue pinstriped one.”
I showed up at the employment office five minutes after it opened. A handwritten sign had been taped to the door stating all the movie extra positions had been filled -- probably by employment office staff plus their friends and relatives -- but I saw this as a karmic test. Buddha dwells everywhere, even in adversity. So, if I couldn’t be immortalized on the silver screen and get $50 and a free lunch, I could at least write about the local people chosen as extras and peddle the story to a magazine.
But Buddha wasn’t done with me yet. “This is a closed set,” the unit publicist told me when I showed up in my sincere suit with an expired press pass pinned to a lapel and a 35 mm camera slung from my neck. “No media allowed,” she said. Some publicist.
A uniformed cop moved closer in case I made a fuss. I later learned the film had drawn the ire of Muammar Khaddafy’s Libyan government for its portrayal of a Muslim diplomat’s attraction to an American cocktail waitress played by Ms. Hawn who was -- worse yet -- Jewish in real life. Not only that, but the estimable Ms. Hawn was a practicing Buddhist. That made her a double whammy infidel in the eyes of the Prophet Mohammed and his nutty disciple in Libya.
So what did that have to do with me, a publicist and a cop on the other side of the world? Well, since the movie was also being filmed in Libya, Khaddafy’s displeasure had real traction with the U.S. Department of State -- and with the cast and crew who needed Libyan visas stamped on their passports. The last thing the producer wanted was publicity at this stage of the game, any publicity, even the kind generated by a bush league freelancer in a pinstriped suit.
I was blissfully ignorant of all this fuss, but it would not have made a bit of difference if I had known. Opportunity was not just knocking on my door, it was hammering with a closed fist. I made a big show out of looking around at the assembled crowd. “Doesn’t look very closed to me,” I said. “Anyway, I just want to talk to some local extras and be on my way.”
In other words, leave me alone and I won’t make waves. Not that I could, but this Hollywood gofer didn’t know that. Besides, I had Buddha in my corner. No way I was giving up this contest of wills, especially after being aced of $50 and a free lunch.
The publicist decided I wasn’t worth the trouble. She shrugged and walked away. Since she wasn’t making a fuss, the cop didn't make one either. He swaggered away, probably thinking all reporters should be required to wear shrouds, like medieval lepers, and clang little bells while shouting “Unclean! Unclean!” when venturing out among decent people. Most cops feel that way about reporters. Hell, I sometimes feel that way about reporters too.
The production company was quite a production in itself. Big windowless buses were parked up and down Ninth Street across from the capitol, along with 40’ trailers that served as dressing and conference rooms. One of the trailers contained a kennel housing two Afghan hounds that were needed for the scene. Extras, grips and technicians with earbud radios milled around, looking important. A man later identified as the director, Herbert Ross (Funny Girl, The Sunshine Boys), was stripped to the waist and doing pushups on the Capitol Mall lawn.
One guy wearing a baseball cap and who needed a shave was sitting on a plastic cooler reading a newspaper. The unshaven dude was not an actor, but I recognized him anyway. He was the screenwriter.
“So, this is what writers do when they’re not writing,” I said.
“We read,” Buck Henry said in an annoyed tone. Bad enough that he was stuck in this goddamn boring government town, but he had to put up with chatty locals in sincere suits as well. There oughta be a law.
No matter. While I was duly impressed with seeing the man who directed The Graduate, I was here to interview the Sacramento based talent, not yak it up with the Grand Panjandrums.
I singled out three of the locals. One was an attractive middle-aged woman in a peasant dress who sat in the shade reading a hardbound book, her long graying hair pulled back in a ponytail. I imagined she was a retired teacher who volunteered at a public library and organized neighborhood fundraisers for Walter Mondale. I asked her about that. She looked up from her book. “No,” she said, amused. “I’m involved with Little Theater. That’s how I heard about this.” She returned to her book. The other two extras were an off duty deputy sheriff and another man in a period of creative repose, like me. Neither were talkative. I guess they were getting in touch with their Inner Extras before the cameras rolled.
Then the star emerged from her trailer. The cast and crew jumped into action. The publicist hustled over to Ms. Hawn and pointed me out. Ms. Hawn gave me a look of critical appraisal, perhaps thinking I was a government snitch in that stupid blue suit. I snapped the above underexposed photo of her for my FBI/CIA/Tinfoil Hat conspiracy files. The smudge on the left is the back of Ms. Sylbert's head. I don’t know who the woman on the right is. I was told that Ms. Hawn later posed with the assembled fans who had Instamatics once that government fink in the pinstripe suit had left.
The scene required the use of three huge cameras and an array of arc lights despite the cloudless sunny day. A string of locally owned late model cars had been corralled and fitted with fake Virginia, Maryland and D.C. license plates to circle the mall during filming. Extras in sincere suits with briefcases walked purposefully to and fro.
Finished with his push-ups, Mr. Ross took control and called for action. The cars circled, the extras extraed, the Afghan hounds hounded. The dogs were released to run across the lawn with Ms. Hawn in pursuit. Her character was supposed to be taking care of them. Then she tripped and landed butt first on the grass, laughing. Cut and print. That was it. All that prep, all those cars, all those those extras, and all those free lunches for less than 10 seconds on the screen.
I went home and wrote up the story, which was accepted by a local magazine. Not only was the story accepted, but I was accepted too. The publisher hired me to be the managing editor. Unfortunately, the magazine went bankrupt the month I was hired. Even so, a credit is a credit and it opened the doors to other publications.
So, thank you, Ms. Hawn.
Still, I wish I could’ve gotten $50 and a free lunch.
Comments and Indictments:
Greetings...rather, G'day...from Balmain East, a community of Sydney, Australia. Toasted bread, filled the apt. with that smell, opened the door, and so am sitting here freezing! It's the strong black coffee I'm drinking that reminds me of you. Rained last night and the sky is gray this morning. Ninety U.S. cents to their dollar, and I thought Hawaii was expensive. Still, good things are happening here and there are oodles of great dogs. My kind of place. Tomorrow, we fly to Melbourne, where, I'm told, I'll be even colder. Swell. After another 5 days, up to Brisbane and possibly Gold Coast and back to Sydney for 31st departure. I'm glad Ms. Hawn looked at you. -- Thea
It was a frosty look.
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Thanks for the Memories! I was an extra in a movie called, The Delta Factor, with Yvette Mimieux and Christopher George (at least you got a good movie with good actors whose names you could pronounce). I was working in downtown Nashville, at an ad agency, and they were filming across the street at a place called Printer's Alley. Yes, it was as seedy as it sounded. I got paid about the same as you'd been offered to sit in a bar, drink as much warm coca cola as I could tolerate, and smoke (free) cigarettes, while the stars walked through the bar, took their seats, said 2 lines and walked out. Ergo, my discovery of the meaning, "Hurry up and wait." Our catered lunch was pork barbecue, outside, in 90 degree heat. I passed. I had pretty much dumped that whole experience. I'm taking the "thanks" part back. I like your memory better. -- Beaty
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I think she at least owes you lunch. -- Shag
I’ll have my people call her people.
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I agree with Shag- she DOES owe you lunch!!! Great story, Mike! -- Kerry
___________I enjoyed reading this. By the way..Does your "Sincere Suit" still fit? -- Pirate
No. Smarty.
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Dang, write me a vehicle! You're better than any of deez guyz! -- Amanda
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Love it... Liked "Protocol," too. You've led an interesting life, Mike... AND you're so unerringly entertaining when you tell us about it. Don't stop. -- Sum
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Enjoyed it, as always. Well done! -- Trog
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Wonderful as always -- Juli
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Ty for the story, Mike. I always love your stories. -- Fay
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While many of your stories are just the everyday things of the everyday man, some step off that path, to be sure, and all, Mike...all very much worth reading.Thanks for the nice read. -- Zoey
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You sure work cheap. -- Zip Le Prune
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Very good stuff...primo! -- Gambatay
