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.