HOW TO BE . . . A FAILED EXTRA IN AMERICA

A taxi driver put me up to the idea. 

I was in LA and he started telling me about how much money he was making on the side as a “background artist”, as “extras” are now called – or “supporting artist”, as seems to be the case in the UK. “Relatively superfluous to requirements” would be a more accurate description as far as I can see, but who am I to take away a minion’s moment in the sun (well, the shade out of the sun’s rays).

   

He said the first step was to sign up to a casting agency and so, now in possession of my Green Card, when I returned to New York I decided to do exactly that.

   

I won’t name the agency for reasons that will become apparent, but let’s call them Muppet Casting, only because the people in the waiting room mostly looked as if they had just walked off that show and were awaiting their next gig on Fraggle Rock.

   

Never have I seen such an assortment of shapes and sizes gathered in one room; I thought I had walked into a Hall of Mirrors. It’s not often I’m the slimmest, youngest and, dare I say it, the most attractive person in the room (in fact, never), but I was nailing this. One woman was so enormous, she lost her clipboard in the folds of her stomach; there were at least three serial killers (the real kind, not the actor possibilities); and one woman was stuffing so many crisps into her mouth, if she were auditioning for a Walker’s commercial the director would live in fear of losing the product by the end of the shoot. 

Then there were the stupid people, who hadn’t brought any ID with them, despite having been specifically told to do so and were quickly shown the door.

   

The form-filling was incredibly tedious and very complicated, not to mention long. At the end of this torture, officiated over by a woman who could not have been less enthusiastic had she been playing a corpse, it was time for the photos. That took forever, too. I swear I had two birthdays during the course of the afternoon. Then, before you can do any work, you have to complete the online anti-harassment course – and there’s no escaping it. At least it paid $15.

In essence: don’t make unwanted advances; don’t persist on pursuing someone when they’ve made it clear they don’t want you; and don’t grope anyone. 

That would pretty much wipe out the Nineties for me.

   

Now, this is how the system works. You get a text asking for your availability and you answer YES or NO. My first job – “woman in blue coat” came through pretty quickly, but I missed out on it.

   

What was wrong with me, I wondered? Did they think blue was not my colour? Maybe the coat was too big? Maybe I was too fat for it. I had already dismissed my chances of being a “concentration camp survivor” I saw advertised online; I was overweight by about five stone. 

I pondered applying anyway, arguing that if I had survived, maybe I’d managed to wolf down a few hearty Big Macs, but thought that if groping was politically incorrect, trying to wangle my way into a Holocaust production by devious means was definitely a no-go area.

   

And so, to the next job. It was a major show on Netflix (I can’t say which one because I am bound by confidentiality) and they were looking for people for a crowd scene. My YES resulted in a positive response and my booking was confirmed the day before shooting.

   

Then the problems started. I would not receive the details until after 9pm, when I had to click on the link and key in the code I had been given (and they also tell you to check in again in the morning, should anything have changed). 

A voice at the other end rattled off a number of addresses – 5^th Avenue, East 102^nd (that’s practically Canada, for those of you who don’t know Manhattan streets), 92^nd . . . there were instructions for gates, groups, individuals. I listened to it a dozen times and was still none the wiser, so had to call the “urgent” number to confirm my details.

   

My call time was 6.48am on East 102^nd Street. I live on West 45^th Street. WEST. I never go to the East side unless there is free beer. Here, I was told, there was going to be no refreshment whatsoever; it was a “walkaway lunch” for which I would have to bring money or my own grub. 

I presume that’s because I’m non-Union, because I know that SAG-AFTRA (Screen Actors Guild-American Federation of Television and Radio Artists) extras (I’m still going to stick to the shorthand term) put on at least ten pounds a day on every shoot. Last week, there was a violent fight at a food truck on set and the police were called.

   

But really, NO LUNCH? Apart from free food, there is no other upside to the job. It’s a nine-hour day for minimum wage, on which you are taxed at source, you have to pay your costs of getting there and back, and for what? To mingle amongst the muppets.

   

I told them I wouldn’t be able to make it after all as I could never make the venue by 6.48am. She tried to negotiate.

“I’ll tell them you’ll be late.”

 “Ok, how about 8.15?”

 “Could you do 7.15?”

 “This really isn’t going to work for me. I’m so sorry.”

   

She got really huffy with me. 

“Well make sure you DON’T turn up tomorrow.”

“I WON’T!”

   

My Background to the Future career has not begun well; I’m just not ready for my non-close-up. Heck, I was Top Extra in Kenneth Branagh’s Frankenstein (you can read about that in the blog How to Be in Commercials in America, by the way); this already felt like a real comedown. 

Don’t they know who I am?

HOW TO BE . . . IN COMMERCIALS IN AMERICA

“Hi, Jacqueline,” the message began. 

“A Walgreens Commercial Pays $800 is looking to cast a role With your Specs. Call now XXX-XXX-XXXX.”

   

I have no idea when or where I signed up to do commercials, but heck, $800 sounded a pretty good rate. I have a Walgreens card, so I must like something about them. How hard can it be to go into the store, fill a shopping trolley and walk out again? I’ve done a lot more for a lot less. Human chess piece, scullery maid, and I was even an extra in Kenneth Branagh’s Frankenstein. 

None of this experience has enabled me to get through the doors of Central Casting in the States, where my attempts to sign up for work as an extra have been doomed because there are never any spaces available to complete the process in person.

   

I was, by the way, Top Extra in Frankenstein. Originally cast as a grieving widow in the warm church, I was demoted to one of a hundred starving peasants in the freezing January cold outside when they saw how short I was (no one under five foot five is allowed to suffer a bereavement, it seems. That’s the movies for you). Ken (who had kindly arranged the whole thing for a feature I was writing) saw me lurking among the other peasants and moved me to the front row, resulting in 99 seething peasants behind me and later having to eat my lunch alone, ostracised from the madding (literally) crowd. 

Hating the stain the make-up department had put on my teeth intended to make them look rotten, I’d been to the toilet and wiped it off. I featured three times in the movie and also in the front row in the publicity material - the only peasant boasting a perfect set of white porcelain veneers. 

   

The commercial sounded a little more glamorous, although there were things that were already worrying me about the Walgreens message: not least, why they felt the need to unnecessarily capitalise Commercial, Pays, With and your Specs. And was that Specs as in specifications, or Specs as in spectacles? Should I mention all these concerns to them before discussing what my role would be? I thought it best to put my grammar pedantry on the back burner and, having mentally spent the $800, called them.

   

The young man (I could tell he was young - and anyway, everyone is 12 these days) seemed very thrilled at my having made contact. The only problem was, I had no idea how he had my details. “Do you remember signing up to XX?” he asked. I did not. 

I’ve signed up to a lot of things here, so much so that I live in fear of the FBI breaking down my door and finding me wearing no clothes watching Law and Order: SVU (not that going commando is a prerequisite for watching the show; it’s just how I roll on occasion). Sometimes, I think I worry too much.

   

Anyway, having established that I had no idea who he or his agency was, Calum (I at least established his name, but have changed it to protect his innocence), could barely contain his excitement at touching base. “You’re SIXTY?” he squealed, reading out bits from a form I had no memory of filling in. “That’s amazing!” Then the conversation went like this.

   

“Why is it amazing?”

“Well, you sound as if you have so much energy.”

“I do.”

“You’re not ill?”

“No.”

“You’re not retired?”

“No.”

“Are you thinking of retiring?”

“No.”

“That’s amazing.”

“Why?”

“You really don’t sound 60.”

“Tell me what you think a 60 year old should sound like.”

“Um, well, er, I’ve been talking to a lot of people from 50 to 67 - 67 is the oldest - and you just sound very different.”

“How old are you?”

“I’m 22.” Dear lord, he’s barely out of the womb. 

   

Having established that I was not infirm, heading for the scrapheap of life or, in Calum’s mind, possibly the grave, I enquired about the commercial.

   

“The Walgreens commercial is looking for a confused older customer . . . ” 

   

HANG ON A MINUTE! Maybe it was too soon to be asking about my character’s motivation, but for a rather generous $800, my mental state might have to be deteriorating at quite a rate. Was I just confused because I couldn’t find the aisle where the Corn Flakes were, or did I have amnesia following a car crash (being way too old, obviously, to be behind the wheel of a car)? These were important questions.

   

“Calum - I’m sorry, I have to stop you there. Why am I confused?”

   

Bless him, he had no idea. “I don’t know. Walgreens just said they wanted a confused older person.”

   

“Why would Walgreens assume that a 60 year old out shopping would be confused? And if they are assuming that, they should at least tell you the level of confusion I have to convey. Am I mentally ill?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know.”

“Okay, let’s talk numbers.”

   

Calum sounded relieved to be back on the right track. It was possibly three days’ work for the $800 and . . . 

   

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to stop you there again. The contract would have to go through my agent.”

“You have an agent? That’s amazing!” (Why is everything “amazing” to 12 year olds these days?). 

I actually don’t have an agent, manager, or any other kind of representation at the moment (any takers, please?), but if I’m going to make a living from wandering the aisles of Walgreens being chased by men in white coats brandishing strait-jackets, I think I’m going to need one.   

   

“Of course. I’ve done several of my own TV series.” (Ok, now I was being mean).

“Really? That’s amazing!”

“Calum, I’m going to go now. This really isn’t going anywhere.”

   

I know that instead of chasing minor roles as a background artist or a demented old lady playing Grand Prix with supermarket trolleys, I should just be getting on with my writing. But it’s been a tough year, filled with death, personal injury and relocation, and I’m finding it hard to get motivated again. On the plus side, my local Walgreens is doing three for the price of two on certain cosmetics this week. I just can’t find the store. Too confused.