"Movie Extra"—the words draw like honey, especially for small-town residents in the Sierra Foothills of California. In 1999, Placerville, known as Hang Town because of its dark past, was nestled to the side of Highway 50 heading east from Sacramento to Lake Tahoe. There isn’t a bevy of film crews visiting from The Valley so it’s big news when one heads to town. A call for extras from the county film commission works like flypaper in a mule stable.
Northern California’s late fall season offers perfect photographic light and weather. I bathed in the splendour of the morning when I arrived to volunteer as one of the faces in the crowd. I had to walk blocks from the extra’s parking area to my assignment, which required ambling over the rolling hills down to the reservoir at the shooting site to receive my ID number. To my left was the reservoir parking lot filled with scores of eager locals ready for action. In the middle were the camera operators, the director and cinematographer, as well as a handful of actors waiting near the tables of deli foods and drinks. To the right was the staging area, which surprisingly featured a helicopter readied for some likely important scenes. I had no idea what the Hollywood moguls might do with me, but I heard a rumor I’d been selected to participate after using my local influence to support the film commission. I later moseyed over to the crowd of starry-eyed citizens, about 50 or more of all ages (but none of colour. El Dorado County was still not a racially diverse environment in the 1990s).
I once worked as a producer of local broadcast public television shows in Sacramento and participated in a host of radio work including a national commercial voiceover for a drink called Coco Loco, so I had some experience touching the entertainment industry. I was curious to see how a set worked for a medium budgeted film. I was disappointed to discover that scene management was a lot like my long-past experience teaching elementary school: herding humans around, asking for repetition of a written lesson, followed by the endless waiting for the herd to produce what was called for in the lesson plan—in this case a reanimated script.
The hopeful horde stood at attention like trained dogs waiting for their masters to bid them come hither. I studied the professional actors and actresses preparing for their entries and performances as directed as they continued to study copies of their scripts before entering their marks. Some of them I recognized from their past roles. I stumbled into a faux pas during a break in the action as one of the top talents wandered to a picnic table for a sandwich. I approached to say how much I appreciated his performance in his early career starring in one of my favourite horror films based on the works of H.P. Lovecraft. I got the glare and his “just go away” hand movement. That was my introduction to the unwritten law of movie stars. As I was told later, actors are “never to engage with the locals.”
Ironically, when talking with a police dispatcher in the crowd, I found out that another well-known talent that arrived late to set was visited by local gendarmes the night before while in a drunken melee at a local watering hole. I made the mistake of standing too close to him as he walked past, stumbling to his single scene. His odour was reminiscent of a wino hellhole I’d encountered on an ambulance run in Houston. Somehow, the glitter of being an extra was wearing thin… until my number was called.
I was directed to be behind the “get away from my table” actor as he portrayed the local mayor. I was to act as one of a group of local officials conferring behind him during a tense moment. The irony was that I was a local official at the time, and so was the short extra next to me. I’m not sure, but I felt some discomfort from my companion, as I was a good half-foot taller than him and the star actor. We did as told, pretending we were talking to the other extras playing the parts of local authorities backing up the mayor, but not a sound was to come out of our mouths. Directors can’t have those extras’ voices identifiable in the background, not without a union card.
It was then I realized what the script was all about while listening to the fake mayor’s lines: a massive wildfire was threatening a California town. And God forbid, they were going to blow up a dam to create a flood and extinguish it. In real life, I’d had the red cloud of fire retardant dropped on my home by firefighting planes several times in the 1990s, with one fire stopped only in time by a neighbour who owned a bulldozer. This script was too close to home and the near misses I experienced. But worse, I was a seasoned professional in disaster management with a growing national reputation. Here I was, unknowingly, in a disaster movie, where the characters were going to perform a monstrous travesty. After the scene ended, I remember moving back to my seat among the others still locked in glazed stares. I watched the waiting crowd of extras sway back and forth, snake-like, following the stage manager holding the call numbers. They were hypnotized, eager for any moment in front of the cameras. But as for me, I was terrified.
I probably prayed with evil intent that day, before I left the movie site, knowing that I might be identifiable in the film. I hoped it would never be released, for many reasons. What I thought would be a fun afternoon turned into a nightmare as I realized tinsel town was going to promote disaster response insanity, as if destroying a dam was a real answer to a horrible threat all of us faced in the wildland interface. Somebody upstairs may have heard my pleas, as that movie never made it to the theatres and was only released on video in the days of VHS and Blockbuster stores.
Did I finally get a copy? Yes, I did, and there I was, highly visible in two quick passes of the crowd supporting the mayor, and in one final shot showing my thrill after the dam was destroyed. I thanked my lucky stars that none of my professional colleagues ever saw that moment before this disturbed extra gave his silent performance off-screen—a plea to the almighty for this film to be lost in a vault below the Hollywood sign.
"Movie Extra"—the words draw like honey, especially for small-town residents in the Sierra Foothills of California. In 1999, Placerville, known as Hang Town because of its dark past, was nestled to the side of Highway 50 heading east from Sacramento to Lake Tahoe. There isn’t a bevy of film crews visiting from The Valley so it’s big news when one heads to town. A call for extras from the county film commission works like flypaper in a mule stable.
Northern California’s late fall season offers perfect photographic light and weather. I bathed in the splendour of the morning when I arrived to volunteer as one of the faces in the crowd. I had to walk blocks from the extra’s parking area to my assignment, which required ambling over the rolling hills down to the reservoir at the shooting site to receive my ID number. To my left was the reservoir parking lot filled with scores of eager locals ready for action. In the middle were the camera operators, the director and cinematographer, as well as a handful of actors waiting near the tables of deli foods and drinks. To the right was the staging area, which surprisingly featured a helicopter readied for some likely important scenes. I had no idea what the Hollywood moguls might do with me, but I heard a rumor I’d been selected to participate after using my local influence to support the film commission. I later moseyed over to the crowd of starry-eyed citizens, about 50 or more of all ages (but none of colour. El Dorado County was still not a racially diverse environment in the 1990s).
I once worked as a producer of local broadcast public television shows in Sacramento and participated in a host of radio work including a national commercial voiceover for a drink called Coco Loco, so I had some experience touching the entertainment industry. I was curious to see how a set worked for a medium budgeted film. I was disappointed to discover that scene management was a lot like my long-past experience teaching elementary school: herding humans around, asking for repetition of a written lesson, followed by the endless waiting for the herd to produce what was called for in the lesson plan—in this case a reanimated script.
The hopeful horde stood at attention like trained dogs waiting for their masters to bid them come hither. I studied the professional actors and actresses preparing for their entries and performances as directed as they continued to study copies of their scripts before entering their marks. Some of them I recognized from their past roles. I stumbled into a faux pas during a break in the action as one of the top talents wandered to a picnic table for a sandwich. I approached to say how much I appreciated his performance in his early career starring in one of my favourite horror films based on the works of H.P. Lovecraft. I got the glare and his “just go away” hand movement. That was my introduction to the unwritten law of movie stars. As I was told later, actors are “never to engage with the locals.”
Ironically, when talking with a police dispatcher in the crowd, I found out that another well-known talent that arrived late to set was visited by local gendarmes the night before while in a drunken melee at a local watering hole. I made the mistake of standing too close to him as he walked past, stumbling to his single scene. His odour was reminiscent of a wino hellhole I’d encountered on an ambulance run in Houston. Somehow, the glitter of being an extra was wearing thin… until my number was called.
I was directed to be behind the “get away from my table” actor as he portrayed the local mayor. I was to act as one of a group of local officials conferring behind him during a tense moment. The irony was that I was a local official at the time, and so was the short extra next to me. I’m not sure, but I felt some discomfort from my companion, as I was a good half-foot taller than him and the star actor. We did as told, pretending we were talking to the other extras playing the parts of local authorities backing up the mayor, but not a sound was to come out of our mouths. Directors can’t have those extras’ voices identifiable in the background, not without a union card.
It was then I realized what the script was all about while listening to the fake mayor’s lines: a massive wildfire was threatening a California town. And God forbid, they were going to blow up a dam to create a flood and extinguish it. In real life, I’d had the red cloud of fire retardant dropped on my home by firefighting planes several times in the 1990s, with one fire stopped only in time by a neighbour who owned a bulldozer. This script was too close to home and the near misses I experienced. But worse, I was a seasoned professional in disaster management with a growing national reputation. Here I was, unknowingly, in a disaster movie, where the characters were going to perform a monstrous travesty. After the scene ended, I remember moving back to my seat among the others still locked in glazed stares. I watched the waiting crowd of extras sway back and forth, snake-like, following the stage manager holding the call numbers. They were hypnotized, eager for any moment in front of the cameras. But as for me, I was terrified.
I probably prayed with evil intent that day, before I left the movie site, knowing that I might be identifiable in the film. I hoped it would never be released, for many reasons. What I thought would be a fun afternoon turned into a nightmare as I realized tinsel town was going to promote disaster response insanity, as if destroying a dam was a real answer to a horrible threat all of us faced in the wildland interface. Somebody upstairs may have heard my pleas, as that movie never made it to the theatres and was only released on video in the days of VHS and Blockbuster stores.
Did I finally get a copy? Yes, I did, and there I was, highly visible in two quick passes of the crowd supporting the mayor, and in one final shot showing my thrill after the dam was destroyed. I thanked my lucky stars that none of my professional colleagues ever saw that moment before this disturbed extra gave his silent performance off-screen—a plea to the almighty for this film to be lost in a vault below the Hollywood sign.