D'Alene or Under the Freeway, We be Havin' a Ball

Many years ago, when you and I were just little tots, the giant beast called Hollywood began to spread its tentacles around the globe. At that time, because of cheap labor, (we’ll get into that later), tax breaks and inexpensive locations (sound familiar)? These waters had carried the dismembered bodies of Nero, Caligula and countless others in past millennia. Now they were to be used as a garbage dump for banana peels and Kudo wrappers. Multitudes of still displaced persons from World War 2 flocked to the Cinecetta Studios for work as extras on bloated Hollyood productions such as ‘Spartacus,' 'The Robe' and scads of other less memorable productions - remember the 'Hercules' series? The vastunemployed of post-war Rome had at last found a way to earn to earn a meager living. Expatriate Americans, wandering gypsies, escaped felons-everyone got into the act, and for several years these lively, excitable people stood in the sun in a stupor while Charleston Heston or someone very like him, flubbed his lines over and over again until someone mercifully called "lunch".

Who remembers or cares now which extra fell under the wheels of that chariot, or failed to bob up after a swim in the Tiber. As Heston whipped his horses into a frenzy, who might have taken note of the horror and excruciating pain on the face of the peasant whose face had just been ground in the dust? The look of agony was probably real, and there may have appeared in the local paper-buried in the want ads, a little tiny notice bordered in black, describing the unfortunate death of Paolo Versace, an extra I 'Ben Hur.' We can only conjecture the number of ignominious deaths suffered by nameless, long forgotten extras who gave their all to produce gasps of shock from audiences the world over, sitting in darkened theaters stuffing themselves with popcorn. "Look at the blood gushing out of that guy! Gee, how could they fake that?".............they hadn’t.

Some thirty or more years later in a little town in Northern Idaho called Wallace-amid scenic beauty and a lousy economy, the brave and hearty townsfolk struggled to survive against staggering odds. The mines, once the major source of revenue-had closed years ago, and little fledgling businesses were opening their doors and then closing them with the regularity of a cuckoo clock, when suddenly there appeared a little ad reporting that Hollywood was looking for extras to work in a multi-million dollar production to be filmed, at least partly-in Wallace! Older Wallacites of course were unimpressed as years before they had achieved recognition as extras in the movie, ‘Heaven’s Gate’, which had the dubious honor of being the most costly flop in Hollywood history, (until Dustin Hoffman and Warren Beatty snatched the honor away from ‘Heaven’s Gate’ with their ill fated ‘Ishtar’). As much as these former extras might feel superior to us, we unemployed and generally idle (or semi-retired as I prefer to describe myself), were thrilled. Our chance of fame had come-that ship was on the horizon! Who could imagine what 250 odd Hollywood moguls and mogulettes might do when they descended on Wallace. Surely some of us would be selected for small roles! Learning that the plot involved a volcano, many of us practiced writhing on the floor, with faces contorted, presumably dying of an overdose of volcanic ash.

The day of the auditions arrived and an incredible number of local residents showed up at Wallace High for indoctrination. People who had been listed as missing for years emerged from the topography. Long lost aunts and cousins flooded the place. There were lots of joyful, (and tearful) re-unions. There was hardly a dry eye in the house when a sturdy young woman swept on to the Miners’ Hall stage and introduced herself as ‘Tami’, with a big smile and a flourish. She also presented her sidekick ‘Leah’, an unassuming young woman with eyes modestly cast downward. I can’t remember all of the text of Tami’s speech, but I do recall there were lots of smiles and laughs as Tami described something of her background as casting director in 'Waterworld'. Being submerged in the ocean for three solid months was one of the more striking images she called forth. We all rollicked along with Tami until it came to "the no-no’s". Tami’s face darkened and stern lines appeared on her face as she told us what ‘not’ to do. The ‘nots’ went on for some time-not to be late, not to take time off (except for emergencies). Not to take pictures. Not to ask for autographs or speak to the ‘stars’ unless spoken to first. Not to take a beer break at local watering holes, (more of that later). After the recitation of the ‘nots’, Tami’s sunny disposition re-appeared and she was once again the Games Mistress. "We are going to have fun!" she chortled as we all lined up to have polaroids taken of our eager faces.

Tami’s mercurial disposition notwithstanding, we all went home with stars in our eyes-and sat on pins and needles when we weren’t working out to eliminate that flab the camera was sure to pinpoint. Had we been selected or ‘passed over’-for many are cattle-called, but few are chosen, as it says in the Good Book of Central Casting.

It seems like an eternity later that I received my first notification by telephone. Tami’s melodious voice greeted me with “hi, this is Tami with Dante’s Peak, would you like to be one of our core people? It had happened...out of a slew of would be extras, my name had been called--and, to be a ‘core’ person yet. I babbled “yes, yes of course. I felt my heart pounding as my blood pressure hit a new high causing my skin to tingle and my ears to ring ominously. Tamni slowly and deliberately led me through the procedure. Report to wardrobe at 10am Monday with lots of bright and lots of dull clothes. As simple as that? Wardrobe was the office next to the Sierra Mine Tour I was informed, a place known to me, so why worry. I wasted no time in calling my friends who had auditioned with me-plunging several of them into suicidal depressions when they realized they hadn’t been chosen. Many searched the mirror looking for some fatal flaw in their complexions or tried to remember what they had put on their applications that might have caused a thumbs down. While these pitiful creatures wallowed in self-hatred, I tried to come up with reasons certain of us were chosen over others and my conclusion was this: When filling out the availability part of the form, the un-chosen had indicated they had lives to lead or obligations of some type, we chosen however had shamelessly written that we were available anytime, any place for any purpose, day or night. Throwing dignity and self-respect to the winds (not to mention families, jobs, etc.) we had sold ourselves body and soul for a paltry $5.00 an hour. Were we all doomed?

DAY ONE-WE LEARN IT’S NOT ALL ROSES & CHOCOLATES ON PLANET HOLLYWOOD

Our first call was for some ungodly hour in the morning-the sky was dark and foreboding as we gathered in the parking lot adjacent to the Osburn Middle School. Cars, vans, trucks and other vehicles were lined up as far as the eye could see-like waves in the ocean-a vast army of extras were being assembled-one could almost hear the clarion notes of bugles as phalanx after phalanx of extras moved restlessly like a sea of wheat. Metaphors and similes were piling up as we ascended into buses that would take us to our destination in the pale light of morning. Our destination? Under the freeway in Wallace where huge tents had been erected to house the thousands of milling ‘background artists’. Inside one of the tents, in the middle of several tables set end to end, Tami presided, flanked by her assistants. We had all been divided into groups-corresponding to the alphabet-A and B stood for male and female core people. C was for children. After that no one knew who was what-D through K could have meant anything-D for daring? E for enigmatic? Anybody’s guess. Tami and her crew were more businesslike than affable now. Many carried some form of bullhorn that reverberated as to make them virtually inaudible as they barked instructions to the unheeding hordes trudging around in the chill dawn trying to get warm. Coffee, tea and other blandishments were being offered in another enormous tent. The chewy bagels and cream cheese could have come from a Beverly Hills Deli, they were that good. With tummies full of gooey doughnuts and bagels things seemed brighter to us as we awaited our eagerly anticipated departure to the..Festival Scene!

And what a polyglot group we were. What a cross section of Americana! Every imaginable type was represented. Several people I recognized as leading citizens of the community were there, some dressed in very bizarre clothing-perhaps they just took off work for a few days to experience the novelty of working on a film, I mused. The studio had thoughtfully provided us with dressing rooms for both men and women, cunningly set over rocks, dirt and gravel, they provided a real challenge in changing shoes, pants and socks, especially since there were only three chairs for about 100 men and boys. It was amusing to see all of us hopping on one foot and then the other like demented rabbits, trying to change. A sort of partition had been provided between the men’ and womens’dressing rooms-to allow a little bantering back and forth-and perhaps a quick peek, I suppose. It was still quite cold now that we were in shorts for the festival scenes, it must have seemed like a good time to have us wait for two or three hours. Some of the younger and more agile climbed up the freeway embankment to take advantage of the sunny patches that could be found there. Extras portraying early settlers in long dark skirts and trousers smiled at the rest of us as we shivered in our summer duds. Their time would come later as the blazing sun would nearly suffocate them on the podium-but more of that later.

After we were sufficiently chilled, the unintelligible bellowing on the bullhorns began. Assistant directors started unscrambling us, trying to assemble us by groups, in a language only they knew. One phrase that sounded like ‘picture card people’ was requested. That was a mystery to most of us, but certain extras seemed to know what it meant and gathered in one spot. Other phrases surfaced. ‘Active people’ were requested. We all looked at each other. "What the hell does that mean", we said. Not knowing what to do we stood around waiting for ‘passive people’ to be called. They never were. Over the period of the next few hours we were all herded along the railroad tracks-like refugees from war-torn Europe-into downtown Wallace, which by then had been transformed into a charming little tree lined village in the throes of a carnival of some sort. Some of us late arrivals were placed on the outside of the crowd around the podium, which held several featured actors, plus our friends who looked like turn of the century immigrants or Quakers. Several people had been given props to hold-popcorn boxes, Pepsi containers etc. One extra promptly ate her prop corndog. "It was just automatic", she explained as she was marched back to the stand and forced to buy another one. "I did notice it was kind of green around the edges," she commented. The sun was blistering now and the extras on the podium were noticeably wilting as the afternoon wore one. The actors repeated their lines dozens of times as the extras moved to their assigned positions. It went on endlessly-some extras could be seen heading up the street to the 1313 club or some other oasis. Some lay down on the sidewalk. Most of us suffered through however, but there was a marked diminishing of enthusiasm as the long afternoon continued. Eventually broken, defeated and disoriented, we were allowed to head back to the tents. No surprise that the next day many weaker souls failed to show up. One woman, I’m told, after enduring two or three hours on the podium, said: "My bladder can’t take this", and never returned. Unfortunately her red dress stood out, so they had to re-shoot or something.

Many brave hearts returned though, and continued to return. Production managed to have a different starting time each day we were called-sometimes in the early morning-sometimes late in the afternoon-there was no way to anticipate when you had to muster or where. Alternating heat and cold, being referred to by numbers, ignoring us for hours and then suddenly herding us together. Marching us back and forth for often no discernible reason-praising us and then denouncing us. Feeding us extravagantly and then starving us. It all seemed to fit into place. Wasn’t this the way Marines were trained to obey without question? isn’t this the way prisoners are brain-washed? Were they trying to reduce us to mindless automatons-unquestioning robots? We all tried so hard to please, but to no avail. One day as we were all lined up to be signed out, Tami arose majestically from her table her face distorted with rage. "You people" she stormed, "who are supposed to be my ‘core’, my elite group-the best of all the extras-are not listening to me at all. When you are here, you are working,! When you are at home flipping through the television channels, you are not working!" She continued her scathing remarks. A fellow extra sobbed, "but she said there were no stupid questions!". I comforted her as best I could. "now there, little one, I said. This is the way of Hollywood, it is said in the scrolls that Otto Preminger reduced his actors to tears in order to reach down to their most vulnerable selves to bring out the best performance possible. She’s only tearing us down to build us up again on a firmer foundation!". The little extra swallowed her sobs and said quietly. "Thanks, Mike, I needed that". She thrust out her little chin and bravely faced the outraged casting director.

RUN, RUN, RUN, THE SKY IS FALLING! OR ASHES, ASHES, ALL FALL DOWN

After all the fun at the festival was over, the real reason for our continued presence became known. The old and the young, the lame and the halt, and everything in between were going to be involved in endless sprints, hither and yon, to and fro, up and down, over and under, through and around, into and out of, east side, west side and all around the town. Sometimes we would be clutching valises-sometimes not. Often we would be sprinkled with ashes before we were thrown into the galloping throng. The ‘active core’, a group of psyched-up stampeders were often turned loose first-in fierce competition and at dizzying speed the hurled themselves in our midst, knocking over the slower runners like ten-pins. One unfortunate fellow, a gentleman of advanced years told us he had just undergone a $30,000 double hip replacement. "I can’t take this anymore", he panted as he hobbled down the nearest alley-hiding until the thundering herd had safely passed by. Others took refuge in cars driven by other extras, huddling down in the back seat to avoid being spotted by the A.D.’s (Assistant Directors). The A.D.’s were stationed at strategic spots, equipped with walkie-talkies and headphones the spoke only to each other and seemed oblivious to anyone else. I approached one on the corner with what I thought was a cogent question deserving of an answer. As I asked my question, she stared directly through me, her pupils dilating and glazing over-her lips slightly parted she seemed transfixed by what she was hearing through her headphones-like Joan of Arc listening to Sts. Michael and Margaret describe how to lay siege to Orleans. My catholic friend began to recite the rosary, when the A.D. suddenly snapped to-and proceeded to direct us to run across the street, onto the lawn and into the bushes. That was the last time we tried to communicate .The female lead of the movie, was, on the other hand, friendly, open, even garrulous. One extra was fanning herself with a newspaper, when the lady movie star kindly blew in her face to cool her. Unfortunately she did more. "Oh dear," she said, "I seem to have spit on you", she quickly mopped it up with a napkin. Other extras told me she often bummed cigarettes-but that’s hard to believe.

Occasionally, the A.D.’s would create a family group for us to run with. I was given a wife and a twelve year old son. My son kept sprinting ahead of me then returning to exhort me to run faster.

I had to tell him to save himself and leave me to trot along at my own pace. Later that afternoon he came to hit me up for money, claiming that as his ‘dad’ I should foot his expenses for pop and candy. We made an out-of-court settlement. We continued running for the next couple of weeks, sometimes toward the volcano, sometimes away from it. During the heat of the day, the catering service would distribute water, cautioning us "not to dehydrate", or candy bars and such-to keep our blood sugar levels up, I suppose.

ADVENTURES IN EATING-FROM THE RIDICULOUS TO THE REALLY GOOD!

There was always a question as to whether we would be fed or not. Almost invariably we would have the bagels, fruit and chips routine, but as the hours got more unpredictable, so did the meals. There was some sort of rule that if we were working for six hours we must be fed, or paid $10.00 per hour for each hour not fed (or something like that). In the big tents the food was of the wholesome, filling variety. How they managed to make everything taste the same was a real culinary feat. The mashed potatoes tasted like the ersatz meat loaf that was indistinguishable from the salad, which tasted just like the desert. None of us complained though, as it was free after all, so we all tucked in large quantities like good trenchermen. The really exciting eating would come when, probably due to some bad scheduling, some of us were called to the set when there was no alternative catering for extras, and we were allowed in Valhalla-to dine with the Gods, no less. Chefs were behind every table, whipping up Shrimp Diabolo, or Lobster Thermidor or marinara this or that. Filet Mignons broiled away on the barbie next to Duck a L’Orange and salmon steaks., followed by a selection of desserts fit for a Czar. After these heady experiences with the Great Chefs of Europe, the tent food with its bland -one size fits all flavor was even more disappointing, but charging back and forth on the streets of Wallace for hours on end gives one a good appetite-as we all discovered...

THE BRIDGE ROBERTO-DESTROY THE BRIDGE!

Not since ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls’ has there been such a big fuss about a bridge. Instead of running back and forth, this time we would be driving forward and backward for hours until the chill of dawn when we would be released from our Sisyphus like task. (He was the one condemned to roll a huge boulder up a hill, to have it roll down again-eternally). At dusk and at dawn we would drive forward, and then all would back up either on the bridge or under the bridge. At one point a stunt car careening off the bridge into the river, caused a pole of some sort to fall onto an extra’s car. He was quickly and quietly re-reimbursed for damages. One extra pointed out that bridge weight limit was 14 tons-our combined cars and trucks far exceeded that weight-it seemed to us, and we didn’t like the cracks that were appearing in the concrete. Sometimes we would be blocks away from the portable outhouses and some lady drivers could be seen leaving their cars, shinnying over the fence and disappearing into the foliage. The long-awaited blowing up of the make-believe gas station finally took place with a huge fireball lighting up the dawn sky at Albert’s on the river.

Our extra work now completed, we all parted with promises to meet again. Universal had pulled up their tents and silently stolen away. Only a few gutted buildings remained to be cleaned up, and Wallace could return to its easy pace, with malice toward none, and parking for all. Many of the extras were bitten by the bug and we eagerly exchanged information about a Robert Redford film being shot in Montana, another production set in Spokane, a three month shoot in the Barbados. "Get an agent" Tami had advised. I think some of us will. As I write this I’ve just received a phone call from an extra inviting me to a get-together in Spokane scheduled for next month where we can "exchange our photos of Linda and Pierce and each other." Who knows, it might be fun.

Mike Shaw- Kellogg

Copryright Mike Shaw 1996 - reprinted with permission.



Have a Scoop/Information about a New Film Project? Copyrights and trademarks for the film and related entertainment properties mentioned herein are held by their respective owners and are used with permission or solely for the promotional purposes of said properties.
All other text and images copyright © 1995-98 Corona Productions.
Last updated: Sunday, 12-Jul-1998 17:31:13 PDT.
webmaster@corona.bc.ca