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Tuesday, November 16, 1999

7 a.m. -- The morning sun just breaking over the fields as I crossed the crest of the hill on a road near Brattonsville. The tents were the first sign of human habitation seen since leaving Brattonsville. Camping tents, bigger tents set up in a wooded grove like a Boy Scout jamboree. I pulled into the parking lot that looked like any fairground: trampled grass, bare bronze patches of earth, trailers, tents, the general feeling of temporary habitation.

I was directed to a large tent designated for extras. On the way, an incongruouius note: a man on horseback picked his way through the parking lot. A man in Continential Army regalia in the saddle. In the shifting fog and my fog at getting up at an impossible hour, this could be imagined to be a nexus point among different worlds.

And it was a shifting place in the space-time continuum: between the 1770s and 1990s, Hollywood and the South, a big business enterprise that will cost a minimum of $100 million and, if rumors were believed, to balloon up beyond $150 million and that same enterprise that's being carried out by thousands of people that will leave nothing more permanent than several miles of celluloid and the memories of those who come into contact with it.

Inside the spacious blue and white tent were long wooden tables. Plywood planking on the floor which wobbled whenever anyone walked by. At one end, a fan blasted out heat that was ineffective beyond six feet, while costumed British redcoats sat at the tables, talking, drinking coffee, eating the breakfast on offer. A fife player and drummer rehearsed softly. Those who were not in full lobsterback costume (red coats, crossed white belts, boots, tricorn hats, long rifles slung over shoulders or resting on tables) were dressed in rough frontier clothing, a mish-mash of shirts, pants, shawls, hats. They outnumber us, the newbie extras, still in our street clothes, our pockets holding the six colored tickets with our name and number which regulate our place in the metamorphisis from civilians into actors.

These tickets are large colorful pieces of cardboard, held together with a safety pin. Purple for wardrobe accessories, red for weapons, light green for hair, tan for wardrobe, dark green for props and blue for make-up.

It is cold inside the tent. Although before and after my week on the set, the weather would be moderate -- even at night, I could go outside without a coat -- this week winter is definitiely here. The warmth from the car heater is long since gone, and my hands and fingers are growing numb. I'm glad at the last minute I threw on a sweater.

We had filled out a form that would be sent to the payroll company at the end of the day, after we had gathered our tickets while we may. For a maximum of 14 hours work, we will be paided $125; an extra $15 if smoke will be used on the set (this happened one day, and as soon as I left the set, I started coughing heavy and regularly. I spent most of the night at work with a smoker's hack.

From there, the extras perform a sort of stations of the Cross, handing our ticket in and getting something in return.

A British solder walks by with headphones on, a tape player buried in his costume.

In small groups the soldiers to be are peeled away and sent to the wardrobe tent next door. Outside is aweapons rack. This is a feature outside all the tents. Inside, under a billowly cloudy of cream canvas, an air of hardworking professionalism prevails, overseen by a system designed to move as many people in and out as quickly as possible. I'm taken in hand and measured and offered clothing to try. The uniform of a Continental Army regular is basic: long woolen socks that are softer than expected, white pants, much stained, a loose shirt with balloon sleeves, a white vest, equally stained, a blue coat with red lining that, embarrassingly for I don't have the stomach for it, angles away from the midriff, and tricorn hat. The shirt fits, but the collar is tight, and as I'm to wear a cloth stock (which my wardrobe fitter told me was made of leather and used to deflect sabre cuts), a larger one must be found. M. Is gone for quite some time. Would my career as an extra be destroyed because of too much high living? I had applied for the corp and was told that I was not the right size for it (meaning I was too short for my weight, or too fat for my height). I sit on the wooden bench, half-dressed, getting steadily colder and more worried.

Then, M. comes back with more clothes to try. After several tries, a shirt and hat large enough are found. The racks and racks of clothes provide some privacy, but no one stays undressed for long, and even the women who work in the wardrobe tent have long since gotten over any modesty. After six years of marriage, so have I. Fully dressed, a photo is taken of me to immortalize my role in the production.

While waiting to leave, I notice a call sheet for the day. Actors, their screen name, the scenes they're in for the day, and where they're staying. Mel's name is not on the list, but his character, Benjamin Martin, is. The name beside it: Mitch Cumstein. The name will change each day.

More stations, more stuff: the dark green ticket brings me my props: cartridge case (made in Pakistan I'm told), canvas haversack that would hide my camera, notebook and spare food and water, and bayonet holder.

The hair and makeup tent is even warmer than the wardrobe tent. It is occupied at one end by the wig department, and four rows of ten makeup stations occupy the other end. The atmosphere was light, even racous. A radio blared the latest dance hits. Very unusual at 7:30 in the morning, until you know that these people had been here since 4 a.m. To them, it's nearing lunchtime.

The hair ticket brings me a black wig -- its label says it's human hair from China -- that would be applied to my scalp using four techniques over four days, using rubber bands, hairpins and sticky tape. I look terrible in a full wig, and have to jam my tricorn onto my head. On the last day, it would reveal its true role as a half-wig, miraculously anchored to the middle of my head, and the leading hair on my scalp pulled out and brushed back to mingle with the wig. Finally, I look the part.

At my feet drift two small dogs. I'm told one was named Mel, the other, Roland.

My hands and face were expertly grimed, sometimes several times over as one makeup artist would look at the creation, and decide that it was either too heavy or too light. Artificial grime is forced under my fingernails, and liquid dirt daubed onto my hands and neck, giving the impression that I had been in the field far longer than most. In the mirror, I look like a very well-fed Rebel, but once the grime is applied, I finally start looking a little dangerous, if only to myself.

As I push myself through the process, I pick up a few tidbits of life in the production. Like any large group of men with weapons handy, conflicts are inevitable. The re-enactors and the corp boys, especially, do not like each other. A wardrobe worker shouts out that any new person who does not hang their clothes properly will dress with the re-enactors. The sign on a large portapottie say it's for handicapped only, with someone adding "or re-enactors" to it. Talking to a group of corp boys, at lunch time, I learn of more personal dislikes. To them, the re-enactors are whiners and complainers. They want to see the movie asa documentary. They'd direct it if they could. Many of them have left the production, fed up with the demands of movie-making, or with the schedule that moved the main battle to this week, long after their vacation time had run out. On the screen, no one will know of these conflicts, but now . . .

There is a larger problem with the production: they're running out of extras to man the guns. During the week I was there, units from the high school junior ROTC are brought out. After leaving, they called me back twice, trying to get me to work.

At the back of an 18-wheeler, I tried to turn in my ticket to receive a weapon. But I came so late that there were none to be handed out. They've run out of muskets, and when the re-enactors left, they took their weapons with them. I am, it turns out, to be a spear-carrier without a spear.

Absurdities pile onto absurdities. I spot Redcoats in line waiting to be loaded onto the back of an 18-wheeler, to be driven to the battlefield. I am loaded onto a more conventional van with others Continentials, once each of us has had our freshly laundered clothes dusted.

The Darby Acres farm is a beautiful place to hold a battle, and the place is organized with an eye toward neatness and orderliness. At the center is a high hill on which stands two impressive multi-story ruins. Amid a pile of rubble stand two walls that, upon closer inspection, turn out to be a combination of brick, plywood and other temporary materials. I'm told that the landowner could either have the production company remove them, or leave them be, but that it would be better if they were torn down. They won't stand long anyhow.

More importantly, there's not a sign of modern life to be seen: no telephone poles, no barbed wire, no cell phone towers.

From this vantage point, one could see the tents of the British and Colonial lines. Between them, on both sides, the land slopes down and back up. We arrive by the rubble, and while we could see signs of activity here and there, I couldn't tell where the filming actually takes place.

From somewhere down one of the hills came the word "Rolling!" amplified by a bullhorn. Our guide shushes us. We hear other, unamplified words, and then an explosion of black powder smoke appeared downslope on the British side of the field. Clouds of black smoke rise up and spread over the field, followed by two more clouds of black smoke which mushroomed into the sky. Some more popping of muskets could be heard, then silence. "Annnnnnnd cut."

The skirmish over, we were marched down a road, and there before us sprawled the battle. Two long rows of red and blue-clad men are facing off. The blue line is closest to us against a split-rail fence. We join the line at the farthest edge away from the cameras, and we fall under the command of Duncan, our platoon leader. Although in uniform, and armed with a sponson (a dagger mounted on a pole), an assistant director is armed with a bullhorn and thus outranks him. He occasionally countermand's Duncan's orders, particularly about marching, leading to confusion in the ranks.

One way or another, we're moved back into the field beyond the fenceline, away from the British. Their ranks look fearsome. They're several rows deep, whereas we, a collection of Continential Army and local milita, are only two rows deep. Our line is longer than theres, but that's because of a piece of filmmaking magic that will grow the rest of the British Army on the computer. We are, in effect, fighting ghosts, which seems appropriate for soldiers whose weapons are non-existant as well.

Anyway, according to the scene, we are supposed to march up to the fence line, cross through (the rails having been conveniently moved before the cameras roll) and take up our position along a dirt road. The Redcoats are to march down the slope and stop about 50 yards from us. We're to exchange two volleys before the militia, led by Mel Gibson, flees up the slope. We Continentials are to stand our ground, where presumably we'll be slaughtered. Some of us know in advance that they'll die. The AD came by to tell them so.

As reluctant patriot, Mel Gibson's character is supposed to issue the order setting the whole battle into motion. We wait, fidget, talk about the shooting. Horses have passed through where we've been marching, and everyone is reluctant to step in the stuff.

The cameras are put in place, and whatever it is that film crews do have been done. But where is Mel?

As if on command, he appears, walking down the dirt road toward his place near the cameras. He is frowning. Concentrating on his role? Suffering from a hangover? Passing in front of us alone, he is impossible to miss. But there is also no calling out, nor does he acknowledge our existence. He seems in his own world.

The walk seems to take forever, but soon enough he's in his place and the shooting proceeds. The faint voice of Mel could be heard, shouting "Forward!" and we're off. The British fire. The man in front of me falls. As we were generally instructed, I step into line, forgetting for the moment that I didn't have a rifle. Caught between just standing there and feeling tempted to raise my arm and shout "Bang!" I prudently step back. Not that it mattered; we're so far from the camera I could have mooned the British for all it would matter. After a few volleys, the scene ends with the militia flying up the hill toward the ruins. The British, all concentrated on the camera's side of the battlefield, pay no attention to us at all. As far as excitement goes, it ranks somewhere alongside waiting for a bus, but it's a pleasant, sunny day, and there are worse ways of earning a paycheck.

Between shots, we break for water and snacks, and after another take or two, we break for lunch. This turns out to be not much of a day at all. After lunch, the British soldiers are shipped back to the field for more shooting, while the Continential Army regulars are released for the day. It seems the camera needs to focus on them, and we're not needed. I'm at work on time, surprising everyone with my newly shorn face, and it seems that this job could be a bit of a doddle. But my call for tomorrow is 4 a.m.

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All material is ©2000 Bill Peschel unless otherwise noted.