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 regional magazine.
But Buddha wasn’t done with me yet. The scene was being filmed in a small park within sight of the state capitol, and I was persona non grata. "This is a closed set," the unit publicist told me when I showed up in my sincere suit with an expired press pass on my 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, a blasphemous American temptress who serves forbidden liquor played by Ms. Hawn. Worse yet, Ms. Hawn is Jewish. Not only that, but Ms. Hawn is a practicing Buddhist. That made her a triple infidel in the eyes of the Prophet Mohammed's nutcase 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 an iron 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 hand 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 myself.
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 screenwriter who scripted 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 coffee klatches for Walter Mondale supporters. 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 was very 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 State Department snitch in that stupid blue suit. I imagine she mentally gave me the finger.
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 their sincere suits accessorized 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.
-o-
Comments, critiques, threats:
No matter which stories you tell, your lovely, easy going voice shines. -- Mimi
Thank you, Mimi. It took me a long time to learn to write for the reader's inner ear instead of trying to commit literature in deathess prose. Or deadening prose. MB
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....you never fail to make me smile, make me think, entertain me - Zoey
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I really enjoyed that. -- Trog
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Or actually give me the finger this time. -- MB
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Thanks for sending, Mike, I enjoyed it! -- Bob
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I landed a major book deal with film interest. Man got mugged in Washington State 10 years ago-- became a savant from the brain injury. You can't make it up :) -- Maureen
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I enjoyed your article on movie extras. My daughter, 29, and her husband recently moved to L.A. to seek their fortune in the entertainment industry. She managed to get a job as a waitress and a temporary, part-time job acting as a wife in distress on the radio. I would like her to succeed as a writer or actress, but at this point would be very relieved if she and her husband had health insurance. -- Ken
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I loved it, Mike. I wish you'd write more. -- Linda
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Oh hell. You're back. Why don't you get a day job, you hack? -- ZipLePrune
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Another wonderful read! -- Juli
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I greatly enjoyed your recollections about Goldie, but I must correct one fact: Buck Henry did not direct The Graduate, Mike Nichols did. Buck, however, was the official screenwriter on the movie -- Condor
Correction made. Thanks! -- MB
