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Article]
Thursday: November 18, 1999
Walking across the parking lot amid the last
of the Perseid's meteor shower. Disappointing show this year I later
understand, but two meteors streak across the sky as I'm walking to
the tent.
Makeup. I had showered last night, but you
wouldn't have known it by the time they were through with me. Powder
burns framed my face, grime embedded under my nails. Outside, the
dustmen grimed my white pants and newly washed leggings and took a
paintbrush coated with grim to my collar. There were no close-up scheduled
for me, but you wouldn't have known it.
Mel's name today on the cast sheet: Solomon
Grundy. On set one day, an AD referred to him as Guiseppe. Even the
most narcissistic actor grows tired of hearing his name every day.
I have my camera this time, taking pictures.
I'm not the only one by any means. I've seen two scrapbooks and three
cameras in my brief time here, and no one seems to mind. They will,
after my article is published.
A good portion of the morning was spent standing
in ranks. Teaching the prime and load sequence. I count 135 colonials,
with about 16 trained in shooting. High turnover in extras.
Battle of Cowpens. Like Elvis, I'll be everywhere.
Snatches of conversation:
"Borrow some of that jelly?"
He rubs some on his lips. The lender says,
"I used some of it on my butt."
First man pauses, thinks: "I should have
known it from the toilet paper."
He rubs more on his lips: "Man your lips
stink." Then he gives back the tube and presses the sides of
cheek toward his mouth and makes blowing noises, like a baby's asshole.
A triumphal gross out.
Half-speed rehearsal of militia coming down
the hill.
More commands to learn: "Shoulder arms."
"Make ready" "Take aim" "Fire" Load
and Prime"
During one take, Chris Cooper, the actor charged
with leading us, shouts "Lock and Load."
All in all, nothing much to write about this
day. Lots of closeups, so not much for us to do but stand in rows
and look good.
3:05 p.m. -- The character of the land is
different. The occasional cool breeze is the sole reminder of the
chilly morning. After lunch, we work on closeups of the advance. Chris
is by the flags. One camera focuses on him. Another is down the line.
We're to fire, fake reloading until he gives the word to deploy our
bayonets, then charge. Mel is at the base of the camera, feeding him
his line.
We practice deploying our rifles for the charge, shouting "huzzah!"
Men in the second row trying not to bash the men in the front row.
One take, I forgot to cock my rifle and I have to fake shooting and
reloading before the charge. Mel was quite taken with two of the flag
bearers, who looked like twins. Between takes, he pulls them out of
the line and poses with them, holding Doublemint gum taken from the
catering table. He collects the gum before sending them back to the
lines.
Thirty of the shooters are told off and set
aside for some work up on the hill.
The exercise and the heat are taking their
toll. My lips are chapped and the sun has melted my sunscreen despite
repeated applications.
The extras are a real mixed bag, and those who left are replaced by
many who leave. The age range, weapons experience are so wide. So's
the amount and type of grumbling: over food, pay amenities, other
actors, the director, the same kind of talk heard on the set of Edison's
"Great Train Robbery."
While we're waiting, Mel and the militia are
filmed running across the field. A lone British soldier attacks and
gets knocked flat by our hero. During one take, several things go
wrong, and the soldier, behaving too realistically, turns and runs.
Amazing to think that, cropped properly and dropped into the battle,
it won't look as dopey as it does here.
During one of the breaks, I talk with an extra
who probably holds a longevity record. He started shooting back in
mid-May, shooting weapons before a blue screen, used by the computer
people as part of their software special effects.
Late in the day, and the Continentials have
been exiled. We're sent across the stream and penned into one area.
The director may need us; or he may not. A particularly complicated
scene is being set up in which a slew of British soldiers charging
down the hill are blasted to bits. When the cameras roll, several
explosions can be seen. Huge columns of greasy black smoke rise up.
Men are falling down. Horses drop on command.
Talk among the colonials turn to backstage
stories, particularly about the blonde 28-year-old woman dubbed the
cast whore.' Fond of wearing skin-hugging t-shirts, her bottom juts
out so far it could be seen from across the field, she stands out
among the mostly male cast. A woman of no fixed job except to fetch
and carry. Her crimes are many and scarlet: exhibitionism, rudeness,
and favoritism being the worse of them. One extra described letting
Jason Issacs give her a close lesson in swordplay.
Word of the day: extras being described as
biological props.
As we stand in the road, several vans pass
by, and the discussion turns to drivers and craft services people,
mostly known as bastards. The drivers in particular tend to treat
anyone standing in the road as speed bumps. There seems to be a geographical
correlation between courtesy and the distance from the camera. The
closer you are, the more of an asshole you are.
One van stops, letting off some people, including
an old nun. Rumor has it that among the group was Robert Rodat, the
screenwriter.
An officer extra was given a temporary job
of moving cast was given a radio, giving him the chance to hear some
backstage machinations. Such as this conversation:
"Craft services?"
"Yeah?"
"You, uh, got any Dove Bars there?"
"Nope."
"Can you run into town and get some?
One of the actors who come out unless he got his Dove Bar."
Then there was the bit player who learned
that Mel's trailer was bigger than his, and wants a larger one before
he came out.
