I recently auditioned for a part as an extra, in an action movie about a 'good
guy' hero type and a 'bad guy' villain type, who end up in a conflict situation, with a 'desirable' female type caught between
them.
That particular story has been selling, at the box office, since the first
damsel in distress was tied to the railway tracks and rescued at the last minute, by the dashing hero. It seems there's an
audience, out there, that just want a car chase and a shoot out and doesn't mind if the plot and characters are entirely predicable.
We live in a world of stereotypes-business types, punk types, rich types,
poor types. Whole schools of marketing are devoted to categorizing and motivating buyers based on their appearance. We're
no longer individuals. We're all a type.
The cops in Toronto were recently chastised for profiling people from visible
minority groups. While it's always wrong to typecast people because of the way they look, there are lots of precedents in
our culture, that encourage people to take mental short cuts, when assessing each other.
TV and movies are full of people who look like they should be a certain kind
of person. Sexy blondes are dumb, bikers are tough, cute guys are gay, suits are successful.
There are actually script writing programs that lay out story lines that allow
the writer to plug some of his own embellishments into a template. Add a few details and something for the extras to do and
you're ready to scare up some funding.
Because the stories are sometimes so predictable, people in the casting department
fall into the mind set of finding the best typecast extras, for the cookie cuter characters, that the script calls for. Usually
the reason you get the part is because you have a certain look.
One movie I was in I played a war refugee because I'd been sick with a cold
all that month and looked haggard and thin. All the well-fed healthy looking people were in the mob of townspeople, who came
out to harass us.
The next day they were looking for someone to play an immigration officer
and I was the only one the suit fit. I shaved off my beard, put on a little cheek rouge and presto, I was a new type.
One time, in Kingston, I stood outside all day in the blistering sun until
a casting person came out and picked out all the hairy guys with tattoos and ushered them in. I heard later they were looking
for inmates for a prison scene. How could I compete with that look, in Kingston?
By now I know how the drill works. The last thing the casting people are looking
for in an extra is acting ability, so I've learned to keep my mouth shut and my talent to myself.
It's like triage at a train wreck. At the beginning of the selection process
there is someone from casting, with a clipboard, who looks you over, gives you a number card and sends you to wait with all
the others of 'your type'. If you don't have a look they need, it's, "Thanks, please play again."
This last movie the 'clipboard type' sent me to sit in a room with a bunch
of other guys. Now because of the nature of the job, being an extra tends to be pretty competitive.
On the set, the more gung-ho extras try to work their way to the front of
a group scene or try to stand as close to the stars as possible, so they'll be in the shot. There is often some pretty hilarious
elbowing and tripping that goes on, if you get a few particularly aggressive camera hogs in a shot together.
There are always lots of people trying out, and usually only a few parts to
fill. So this last film, we were all sitting in this room trying not to let on we were sizing each other up. But I could tell
we were all thinking the same thing. What type are they looking for and how can I be more like what they want?
It gets pretty hilarious when you know they're looking for gay waiters or
patrons in a cop bar. Everyone is subtly morphing into what will bring them their half-second of fame on the silver screen.
For some, the big thrill is going to the theater, when the picture comes to
town. You sit in the dark with friends and family as the story unwinds, waiting for them to recognize you playing the drag
queen in a strip club.
So what type was I in the last picture? The casting people just might have
gotten me right this time.
Watch closely during the car chase that ends in a spectacular crash. As flames
erupt and the sound of sirens approach from the distance, the gathering crowd of morbidly curious onlookers press in around
the carnage.
Among the curious is the familiar face of the hard-boiled crime reporter,
furiously scribbling notes and snapping pictures for the early morning edition.