The second extras assignment I got was for the show “Cold Case.” Fittingly, the thing I remember most about this experience was that it was freezing. It was also wet and muddy- sometimes dangerously so (lights and their power generators and cables don’t mix well with “wet”). How a Los Angeles set manages to seem freezing and wet to a native Colorado ski bunny is beyond me. I played a 1970′s-ish circus goer who witnesses an “accident” on the aerial silks (the show aired months ago, so if this is a spoiler, I’m sorry, but you need to catch up). I was married with kids. The pressures of the set split our happy family up, though. My husband and I separated. I lost custody halfway through. So did he. Sigh. I miss little… kid.
Not only was it freezing, but the costumes were ridiculously uncomfortable. I still don’t quite understand how women could wear polyester, pantyhose and high heels. Simultaneously.
Part of the props also included balloons. Anyone who has known me long enough or who regularly reads this blog understands that this is a pretty serious problem.
I am globophobic (afraid of balloons and yes, it is a real thing and yes, you can shut up). They make me tense up and act like an imbecile. I will leave a grocery store if I can hear them being blown up. When I see a balloon animal artist (or as I view them: terrorist) on my side of the street, I will make an effort to cross to the other side or feign sudden interest in whatever the storefront closest to me has to offer. The situation to the left, for example, in which my “daughter” is mercilessly beating me with a balloon flower, was torture. It’s a strange phobia and does not solicit the same sympathy as, say, a fear of heights or a fear of spiders. I usually just keep my mouth shut about it and hope I don’t reveal too much to the person walking with me. (note: I recently tried to overcome this fear by participating in/orchestrating a photo shoot. The results of this test are on my facebook page.)
Of course, “my kids” wanted balloons and balloon animals more than they wanted sugar (which on that set, was saying something). They also insisted on attacking both me and my camera with them. I wore a brave face throughout it all. Three balloons were detonated in front of me. People kept thrusting them into my hands. Honestly, I should get a freaking Oscar for the photo at the bottom of this post. Or an Emmy, this being television. Do they give out Emmy’s for stills?
Anyway, it was two days of either standing in the mud or sitting on metallic bleachers and being told to “shush” every three seconds. The popcorn was fake- actually, it was real, but ancient. I am SO glad none of the children eating it plus copious amounts of cotton candy were mine. Seriously. Whose idea was that? “We have a bunch of kids that we need to keep still between shoots on a circus-like set filled with clowns, balloons, and live snakes (I don’t think the snakes made the final cut). How do we keep them manageable? I know! Let’s give them stale salty popcorn and colored clouds of sugar!”
Turned out they had to cut many of my scenes because the guy in front of me was wearing earrings and they didn’t catch it until AFTER the last shot. The result? You can see approximately half of my head for less than a second. I vowed to never again do it, but then, I hit the jackpot of extras gigs…
After weeks of dialing and dialing, I got my first gig in November of 2009: Bar Patron on the NBC summer season sitcom “100 Questions” (note: this episode will air on Friday. I will try to update with a screencap if I can get one). Since this was going to be my first time on a big television set, I was really excited for the job. That is… until someone not only took the wind out of my sails, but shot a canon through the side of my enthusiasm ship by informing me that you haven’t really arrived on the extras scene unless you’re in a summer blockbuster and THEY call YOU. Dually noted.
From my new perspective on the bottom of the “T’ain’t-nothin’” Ocean, I prepared myself for my experience. I was told to come “hair-and-makeup-ready” (this industry is filled with terms spawned from bad English, more on that later), which required the purchase of makeup. I ended up spending about $50 to make my $8/hour. I took one stealthy picture of my costume in the bathroom because I was terrified of being sued or killed. I also respect the “No Spoilers” rule and the concept of “sensitive information,” so it’s not just a matter of self preservation. I’ve since learned that a picture of myself in a business suit does not count as “sensitive information.” In fact, how do you know this is not just a picture of me from some office job in 2002?
As a girl who once made television sets in her desk at school, it was surreal to finally be on the set and stare at all of the toys. It was all I imagined it to be and more! Lights, camera, lots of inaction mixed with frenzied moments of action, baseball caps, gaffing tape! There were only three walls and bleachers (complete with “Applause” light). A particularly fun Hollywood moment came when we were told that in the event of an earthquake, we should run to the nearest wall. The nearest REAL wall. The director was loud and had a British accent. Only he and the first AD were either allowed to laugh at the jokes or thought they were funny (I’m leaning toward the latter- note the earlier description of “NBC summer season sitcom”). And I’m pretty sure James Cameron was the second AD. Why not? I don’t think he had anything better to do at the time…
I met people who were happy to be there and revved up about the industry, and jaded, miserable folks who should probably seek out other careers. I found myself somewhere in between. “Content” would be the best way to put it. After all was said and done, though, I’d had enough fun that I decided to try to land another gig.
Ah, yes. It’s about time I got around to writing about this! It’s been, without a doubt, the activity my friends and family are most interested in hearing about. I had a bit of cash saved up before I moved out here, so I was able to play a little bit before “buckling down” and finding a “real job.” I decided to skip on down to Central Casting and sign on to be an extra- sorry, “background actor.”
That’s right; I just basically implied that being an extra is not a “real job.” Also, I used a semicolon. Read on THAT!
Granted, some people have managed to make it such, and I applaud their success (and wonder how much Top Ramen they must eat), but it is NOT for the faint of heart. Often times referred to as “dots” or “blurs,” extras are treated with absolutely zero respect. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t expect respect (soon to be a new hit song), but here I am referring to such an extreme lack of respect that you don’t even feel like a human being. The props are quite literally treated better than you are. As a non-union extra, you make $8 an hour to stand on your feet all day, often in uncomfortable attire, and to be shushed like a five year old every time you yawn, sneeze, or say “hi” to your fellow extras. But if it’s worth it to you to have a little bit of yourself attached to a project or to see that star you always wanted to meet, read on:
Here’s how it works: you go down to “Central” at the most inconvenient time on a weekday morning. You listen to their spiel. You stand in a long-ass line with dozens of other Hollywood hopefuls. You register with them (SSN, DLN, W-2, height, measurements, dress size, special talents, car type, “how far will you go,” the works). You stand in another long-ass line. You stand in front of a camera (about as sophisticated as the DMV) and get a picture taken. One. You do not get to see said picture. They hand you a packet of papers and give you a phone number to call. You call said phone number. Again. And again. MANY times per day. You listen to pre-recorded job postings and hope to hear one that sounds like something you match and that is something you might actually like to do. You listen to the WHOLE THING because often they only want your car, or your specific breed of dog, or they want you to jump into a swimming pool with all of your clothes on (repeatedly) or shave your head or be a professional soccer coach or a biker or stripper or something (yes, I’ve heard all of these) and they seem to want to put this critical information last. You call another number to talk to the agent that posted this call. This number will be busy. Always. (I guess a lot of people fit “non-union woman between the ages of 21 to 71.”) You call again and again and again (because you have nothing better to do) or you pay $75 a month to have someone else do it for you (keeping in mind that you will still only make $8/hour when they find you work). IF you get the gig, they will give you almost NO information about where it is or what you will be doing or how long it will take because again, you have nothing better to do and can put everything else on hold. If you don’t get the gig (after all of that), you spend the next several hours worrying that you sneezed or a bug landed on your face in that headshot you never got to see. They give you yet another number to call the night before your job. You call that number (note: get a phone plan with unlimited minutes). They pre-scold you for being late and/or not having everything you need. They tell you to bring your own clothes and often something you would never own and will need to buy (i.e. pantyhose). You try to sleep the night before because your call time is often early in the morning (6:15AM) or late at night (10PM), running until early in the morning. You fight traffic to get to set on time. You fail. You park as far away as possible from the set. You arrive and check in with the 2nd AD or a PA who will either ignore you or call you sweetheart. You go sit in “holding” which is often a tent with a bunch of metal folding chairs in it. You talk to some cool people and a couple of crazy folks. They tell you to be quiet. They tell you to go to costume, hair and makeup, all three of which will tell you to go away because no one is really going to see you and they don’t want to waste their time. You swallow sadness and immerse yourself in a good book. You get called to set. They tell you to be quiet. A lot. Even if the crew is making all of the noise, they will blame the “background talent” for the hammering. You do your thirty seconds of bad “casual conversation” pantomime. You feel good because you SWEAR the camera is, like, totally right on you the whole time! They feed you (usually). You finish your “day.” You go home and tell all of your family and friends to tune into whatever show at whatever time. A week later, you get a paycheck for approximately $80 for ten+ hours of work. Your episode airs or your film is released. Two people report possibly seeing the back of your head for half a second. One of them is your mother. It turns out that it was not your head, but you don’t tell anyone that. You swear you are never going to do it again. Two weeks later, you call the pre-recorded line and start the process all over again. This time you just know you’re going to get that SAG voucher!*
However, like all experiences, crappy or otherwise, being an extra expands my library of fun stories to tell, and I shall share them here- with pictures (where possible)! You know, someone should make a television show based on their experiences as an extra. It might be really funny! They could get awesome actors to guest star. Ooh, ooh! I’d love to see Ian McKellan do something on a show like that…
(*You need to get three vouchers before you can join the Screen Actor’s Guild, which is every non-union extra’s dream. Once you have your vouchers, you pay SAG a large sum of money and then you can actually begin making a more livable wage from doing “background” work.)
That’s my dog, Pixol. This picture was taken at LAX. She is sitting in her soft dog carrier (read: celebutante dog purse) after having made me chase her through the concourse, knowing neither “come” nor “stay.” What’s a Pixol, you ask? Why, a pixol is a three-dimensional pixel in Z-Brush. A Pixol is also my dog. Why Pixol and not Pixel? Because my dog has three legs. Ba-dum tish.
And what a good way to kick off my FAQ! Whenever I take my little one out for a walk in our Santa Monica neighborhood, we are bombarded with questions and comments concerning her handicapability. I decided to create this FAQ and direct people here to make our lives a little easier. In descending order of frequency:
MY DOG, AN FAQ
Q. Oh my God! He only has three legs!
A. This is not a question. It’s a (rude) statement. I already knew that. And he is a she. But thanks for pointing that out. You’re good at seeing stuff.
Q. What happened to its leg?
A. Wait… what? Where’s your… bad dog! Bad dog!! Let’s go back to the dog park…
Q. No, seriously, what happened to her leg?
A. Shark fight. You should see the other guy.
Q. Are you only going to give sarcastic answers to these questions?
A. Mostly. Actually, she was hit by a car and it had to be amputated. There. Don’t you think “shark fight” is way cooler?
Q. Was she “like that” when you got her?
A. Yes, I adopted her with a missing leg. And yes, “good for me” for taking her in. I am awesome and the angels smile upon me.
Q. Aww… well she gets along just fine, doesn’t she?
A. No, she doesn’t. It’s a daily struggle, and I’ll thank you not to bring it up again. Actually, yes. She doesn’t even seem to notice. She slips on the hardwood floor, but then so do I after a glass of wine. Of course, I only have two legs, so you be the judge of who is more coordinated…
Q. Are you ever going to get her a prosthetic?
A. If I ever feel that she needs one, absolutely. Or if I ever want her to be a pirate for Halloween. I will go as her parrot. It will be awesome.
Q. How long have you had her?
A. It’s funny how often people ask me this question. Is this a question asked of all dog owners or only the owners of dogs with missing legs?
Q. Does it ever bother her?
A. Not really. I mean, when she gets tired of walking she just flies. Like everyone.
Q. What’s her name mean? Why didn’t you name her Tripod or Hoppy or Stumpy or some other stupid thing? Heh heh.
A. I don’t know. Why didn’t your parents name you Rude or Baldy McAsks-a-lot-of-dumb-questions? Isn’t “Pixol” bad enough?
Q. Have you seen the dog with only two legs?
A. OMG Yes!! It’s the worlds cutest YouTube video and it made me cry liek a lawt. ^_^
Q. What kind of dog is she?
A. She’s a Chispangledoodle mix. And also part cat. Somehow.
So there you go. Everything you ever wanted to know about my dog. If you can think of any other questions, please feel free to ask them in the comments section.
You know that you are living in the land of celebrities when the local Whole Foods has a sign that says that you are not allowed to photograph people in the store. I’ve tried to train myself to notice the stars, but I only seem to notice them when someone is beside me and says, “hey, isn’t that so-and-so from such-and-such?” I also notice them on the set, if I happen to be working on their show or movie. Sometimes…
I have been mistaken for a celebrity on a few occasions and it has really piqued my curiosity. I’d like to know who people think I am so that I know how to sign the napkin and ask for my “famous person” discount. Regardless, it is kind of fun to play with it. One year at the Cannes film festival, I put on my celebrity disguise (black t-shirt and jeans with a black baseball cap and sunglasses… not that this departs greatly from my usual attire) and had my friend take pictures of me as I was walking down the street, acting indignant. That turned a few heads.
Still, even as a non-celebrity, it’s a bit strange to think that there are actually people watching you as you go about your business. Just to say they saw you, say, at the local Pinkberry after their yoga class… Ohai, Fran Kranz. You were awesome in Dollhouse, luvyakbai! It does make life in LA-LA land kind of fun, though. I hope I don’t tarnish the reputations of Jennifer Connelly, Jenna Fischer, Michelle Williams, Christina Ricci and other random celebrities whom I have been told (and don’t believe) I resemble by walking down Rodeo Drive with my fizzy hair while eating copious amounts of chocolate and enjoying the company of a guy none of those women is reportedly dating (I’m talking to you, shirt-wearing Matthew McConaughey lookalike).
And yes, I can confirm that so-and-so is hot, that such-and-such is probably going to be canceled and that celebrity-couple-portmanteau will probably be breaking into their own pronouns soon, especially with the arrival/adoption of the baby. No one really thought it would last, anyway.
Warning: this post contains spoilers no spoilers, actually. At least not to Lost. At least… not that I know…
So, I’m about ready to sink into a deep, dark depression. In case you have been living in a hole for six years or just refuse to partake in all things wholesome and good, I’ll get you up to speed.
There’s this little show called Lost. It was created by some guy named J.J. Abrams and then handed over to these guys named Carlton Cuse and Damon Lindelof. It’s about some folks who crash on an island and then some stuff happens over six seasons. Compelling protagonists. Complex antagonists. Mystery, intrigue, romance, drama, sci-fi and general mythology ensue and then it ends today.
That’s right.
It ends today.
In some ways, this makes me incredibly happy. I like endings. I don’t like shows that stretch out for years based only on ratings and then suddenly come to an abrupt end when the sponsor gives up on it.1,2 In other ways, it makes me incredibly sad. I’ve really become attached to these characters. Quite a few things have ended recently. No more Harry and Hermione. No more Starbuck and the cylons. 1No more Hiro and Claire Bennett. 2No more Flash Forward. And now, no more Jack and Kate. Sigh. Comic-Con had better deliver me something geeky to obsess over this year or I might have to leave my house more often (or at least when Fringe is not on).
Since it is all over the internets and has become something of a pop-culture meme, I offer here my own Top Ten Lost Series Finale Spoilers:
It’s all just a dream. Vincent’s dream.
John Locke is Keyser Soze.
The Island sees dead people, and it’s YOU who has been dead the whole time!
Turns out the whole thing is about Shannon, Boone, Nikki and Paolo.
The hatch was actually a worm hole that connected to the Large Hadron Collider. And they blew it up! Those maniacs! Damn them. God damn them all to hell.
Claire is Jack’s sister! His mother! His sister! His mother! She’s his sister AND his mother!!!
There is no Island, only Zuul!
Kate is actually a man. But it works out because Sawyer is actually a woman. So…
“Dharma” is the name of his sled. It’s also made of people. No, seriously. They wear jumpsuits and stuff.
It’s an alternate universe run by aliens who live in a black hole at the center of hell, can travel through time, have x-ray vision, and also everyone is dead and it’s all about the Bible or some junk, but it’s okay because it’s all just Hurley’s schizophrenic delusion.
Thanks for the ride, guys. I will forever carry my Dharma Initiative card in my wallet and the stories in my heart.
As a filmmaker, I like to keep an open mind. Anything is potential fodder for the screen, and the broader your experiences are, the deeper your pool of thoughts become. Not everything can be a movie, though. These thoughts end up on the cutting room floor. Sometimes, though, that's where the most interesting stuff can be found...
