Extras, Extras! Part 2: It Could Always Be Worse

The 1st rule of background work: 
whenever possible, sit; you could be standing for a long, long time

2^nd rule of background work: 
no matter what happened, it’s always your fault

3^rd rule of background work: 
the waiting is the hardest part; bring something to read, something to do, and/or someone to talk to

4^th rule of background work: 
it could always be worse

Worse than melting out in the July midday Sahara-like sun for hour after hour, in full period costume, hair and make-up, unable to sit or seek shelter in the shade?

Worse than being dressed for spring in November, buffeted by an icy rain and a relentless winter wind?  Or, for several long 14-hr. consecutive overnights, having to stand on the street or on rooftops in a driving rain wearing highly absorbent winter city attire - wool coats, hats and scarves - but no umbrellas?

Worse than coming up out of the subway at 4:45am onto the dark, fog-shrouded pre-dawn streets of Chinatown, unsure which direction to go to get to Suffolk Street on the Lower East Side, with not a soul to ask save one or two shadowy, dodgy-looking figures in the distance?  And for 15 minutes, completely disoriented, you wind up walking south when you should be heading north?

Worse than shooting hours on end, 12, 14, 16 hour days which start well before sunrise and bleed into late night, or long and sleepless overnights that throw off your body clock for days? 

Worse than being completely unrecognizable in a cape and mask under which you can barely breath, witnessing a scene that gives you nightmares for a week?  (Don’t even ask.)

Worse that being outfitted in flawless make-up, a gorgeous floor-length shimmering white gown and Audrey Hepburn updo, only to learn that you are to play a victim of a terrorist attack, and your flawless make-up, shimmering white gown and Audrey Hepburn updo are to be covered with black soot and fake blood, which you will wear for 15 hours as you run out of a theatre and into a sub-zero temperatures over and over again?  Worse than having to peel up the dress, sticky with fake blood, then peel down your pantyhose every time you need to pee?  Which is quite frequent during 15 hours running in and out of the cold? 

Worse than waiting patiently, silently, perfectly in position while the crew tweaks the lights, camera, screens, etc., for take after take because the star 1. is having a hair emergency, 2. keeps messing up his lines, 3. won’t stop texting or talking on her cell phone, 4. blames the background for throwing him off, 5. or is having a psychotic tantrum and refuses to hit his/her marks …

But I’m not complaining.

As the enthusiastic subset of extras will gladly remind you, thousands and thousands of “actors” fill the data bases of Central, Grant Wilfly, Coner and other extras casting agents, and one should feel privileged to have been chosen out of so many to fill so few spots.  (These are the people who come in from the suburbs and will pay more in gas/tolls/parking or train fare than they will earn.)  There, art thou happy.

After 10 hours (8 for union members) minus lunchtime, you start to earn overtime!  There, art thou happy.  Some days only last 3 or 4 hours total.  There, art thou happy.

The city and its environs once again become your oyster:  One day you’re up in Harlem near the beautiful City College campus and Alexander Hamilton’s house; walking amongst the cool cats on the Lower East Side, or the glam crowd on the streets of Soho, the Meatpacking District and West Village; taking the Tram over to Roosevelt Island; watching the sunset over the Hudson in down in Battery Park or up in Tarrytown at the historic Sleepy Hollow Country Club; over in Greenpoint, which still feels like a slice of Eastern Europe, for a fitting; shooting at Bowling Green, blocks from Zuccotti Park, as Occupy Wall Street protesters parade by; listening to a live orchestra play Beethovan’s 9^th at Alice Tully Hall in Lincoln Center; walking across Grand Central at noon, dressed like Jackie-O from pillbox hat to matching pumps; passing the Hasidim in their Sabbath best and hipsters in their skinny jeans, both bearded and clad in black, walking over the Williamsburg Bridge; at Battery Park, taking a water taxi in New York Harbor to the Statue of Liberty listening to an unorthodox travelogue by a quirky historian at sunrise, or watching the technicolor lightshow at sunset; discovering 5 Pointz, an outdoor street museum of urban art in Long Island City; or right in your own ‘hood, steps from home in Central Park or on Columbus Avenue.  There, art thou happy.

Trapped in tight quarters for hours on end, through multiple wardrobe changes (note:  men are far more likely to drop trou and disrobe down to their tighty-whities in holding), surrounded by a cast of colorful characters, you never know who you’ll meet in holding and on set.  Every shoot seems to attract a cluster of archetypes, from the harmlessly kooky to the truly scary to the mostly normal to the surprisingly sublime.  With every shoot you’ll encounter some new faces as well as other repeat offenders like yourself:  Lots of young dancers and musical theater performers between projects, seniors with nothing but time, the under and unemployed from myriad professions who need the money, the snotty and entitled who have forgotten they too are doing background work (hello!), the so-excited-to-be-in-a-movie star-struck, the fame-seeking wanna-bees who seize every opportunity to insert their mug in the shot …  

Staying open and friendly to whomever you find yourself next to while waiting or shooting has its rewards.  Up to a point.  You quickly learn to avoid the angry (highly vocal complainers who find fault with everything); to be kind – but not too kind – to the slightly-weird (who befriend you for life and never leave your side if you show them too much attention; if he offers to give you a foot massage or do your laundry, step away); to politely excuse yourself from conversations that drift into politics and/or religion.  Lots of talk about the business, work opportunities, lunch, union vs. non-union, sex, the weather, where to find crafts services (snacks!), movies and tv shows, actors, family, real life off the set … And then, there are the moments in holding or between takes when, like on a long flight, you truly connect with another soul sitting or standing beside you; you talk of art, right work, literature, travel, The Daily Show, hopes, dreams, world peace, life, death, love.  There, art thou happy.

And la piece de la resistance:  You may indeed be picked from the multitude to perform a special task (I really enjoyed playing a medical examiner inspecting a dead body) and/or interact with the star, which means camera time and perhaps a union waiver.  There, art thou happy.  (Even if your special role requires you to be grossly overweight, shackled, stripped down to your underwear and violently force-fed delicacies by skinny, scantily-clad models in a “Garden of Earthly Delights” hellscape a la Hieronymus Bosch.  I’ve seen it; it happens.)

Fortunately, I’ve aged out of many of the stupider, more reductive roles, especially female-specific ones.  No longer any question about playing a hooker, stripper, hot drunk chick in a bar, hipster, all-night rave partier.  Thank God.  I just declined appearing in SVU’s “slut walk” protest scene, “ironically” attired in a bra, short shorts, fishnets and high heels or combat boots.  Really?  Please – at this stage, no nudity or toplessness or overt sexiness, thank you.  A resounding "no" to all that ...  Fortunately, I now get more calls to play moms, businesswomen, lawyers, doctors, upscale pedestrians, Soho types, tony partygoers, reporters; I just appeared as a television newscaster in a big film coming out in 2013.  There, art thou happy.  (Coming up next, I guess, will be hospital patients hooked up to machines, and shuffling, drooling nursing home residents.  Well, at least I can sit or lie down ...)

So here I am, many years later, once again performing some of the least-intellectually-demanding-while-most-physically/psychologically-grueling work I’ve ever done.  Work I’d sworn off for life.  This time, however, remarkably, it feels different.  Could it be that the previously strict division between union and non-union has softened, become less enforced and severe? That it’s become less a chore and an embarrassment, and more of an amusement, a WTF experience?  That, though conditions for non-union remain as exploitative as ever, I feel less exploited, that the mindless and menial feels less degrading, and just kind of silly?  That because I now have no agenda, no great expectations - I no longer see it as a stepping stone to union membership or better gigs or getting “discovered” - it’s just a job?  A dumb job, from which I can extract the murderous and the marvelous, the stupid as well as the sublime? Just like any job.  Sometimes boring, sometimes enriching, sometimes satisfying, sometimes infuriating, sometimes fun.  Transcendent, if I so choose. 

The work hasn’t really changed.  I have.

Other fringe benefits include shaking hands with Morgan Freeman … smiling at Mark Ruffalo … talking to Edie Falco at crafty … talking in French to Melanie Laurent ... posing for a photo with Tom Selleck … Terry O’Quinn asking how you are … watching Vanessa Williams joke with her make-up artist … wishing you had the nerve to tell Bobby Cannavale he lives on your block … seeing the complex, time sensitive, high-stakes magic of movie/television production up close and personal.

But after double-digit hours on the set waiting, changing clothes numerous times, talking, reading and ultimately working, I don't want to post photos of the experience on Facebook.  I really want to go home, shower, and crawl into bed.

© 2012  Tess Quadrozzi,  A-Muse-In-Manhattan