I hate Valentine's Day. To me, there's a heck of a lot more joy in Memorial Day (and at least you get a day off). Since I hung out with Kristina last Valentine's Day, I figured I'd post this essay in honour(?) of that day.
"You're never gonna get laid until you stop reading comic books and going to movies."
I was sitting in a restaurant with my pal Kristina, sharing beverages and talking about life, when she dropped that bombshell on me. I had been bemoaning my lack of success with a certain female friend of hers, and always outspoken and seldom mincing words (even when it hurt), Kristina just laid it out there on the table. The main problem with my relationship woes could be found in my leisure time activities.
With these words, my mind reeled. Could it be true? Was it not a flaw in my body, face, mind, or personality, but in where I chose to hang out and what I loved to do? Could dropping those things be what it takes to have success?
And why do I dwell on this?
I love movies. I used to love comics just as much. I must admit that there are times, whether it's remembering them, talking about them, or reading them, when I love them like that again. There's a great fantasy element and sense of wonder in superhero comics that rarely shows itself in superhero movies or TV shows. Simply the smell of an old comic can take off fifteen or twenty years.
On the other hand . . . sex. That's, well, just a much bigger deal.
Movies for me are a huge deal, though, probably right up there with sex at the top of the list. Going to movies, renting movies, talking about movies, making fun of movies, writing about movies, looking forward to movies (good ones and bad), wanting to make movies . . . these are things that really fuel me.
So losing comics and movies is quite a price to pay. I know what you're thinking: dude, I'd cut off my banana in exchange for sex!
Well, first of all: ewww. Second of all, if you did, how would you have sex? You really must think these things through a little better.
There is little that can beat the thrill of going to a movie and being swept away to a new world of wonder, with characters that live and breathe, adventure, laughter, anger, romance, and triumph that beggars any we have actually managed to experience in our little spheres.
But I also know that one of those few things that can beat that thrill is the spark of real-life romance, the chemistry between two people, the sparkle in an eye, and touch of a hand (and, let's be honest, the sparkle on a tongue and the touch of a breast) . . . the horizon of new possibilities that opens up when that human connection is there. This is important to a person's existence, on a level that's more vital than the need to tell and hear stories.
Would I never read another comic book in return for sex? Would I burn my AMC Moviewatcher card and let the local multiplex forge on without me in exchange for someone to spend my nights with (kicking me when she rolls over and insisting I breathe toward the wall)? Would it be worth it?
And a bigger question is: what kind of girl are we talking about, who would ask that I trade away one or two of the few things that bring me joy in order to be with her? Like the fairy tale trades where you must give up your kingdom or family or voice to be with the one you love? But this is no fairy tale, and it says a great deal about the character of a person who can be so selfish as to demand their mate give up what makes him happy in order to make her so.
Kristina, in her blunt way, was trying to help me, I'm sure (though ultimately, she proved to be one of those people who prefers to step on fingers rather than pull someone to safety), and because of that, I have never been able to dismiss her words outright.
I was quite horrified at the thought of a sexless existence, but some of the people around me didn't feel that way. I spoke to an ex-roommate of mine about it, and he said that TITANIC was a weaker film because the characters of Rose and Jack have sex. He told me he thought it would be a much stronger romance if they never had sex. Though I agree that their tragic parting (whoops, spoiler) would become tragic had they never gotten it on, but I didn't understand the "stronger romance" part. I asked him. He said, "Well, they had something pure going, then they ruined it by taking their clothes off." I didn't know how to respond to that, especially considering he was a 32 year old virgin (just about the saddest thing I can think of).
Practically every one of my married friends (save one, gor bless 'im) has told me that sex is overrated, a very small part of a relationship, and that the world don't revolve around it.
I talked to Matthew, who was Kristina's friend before she was mine (and loves comics more than I ever could), about what she had said and he only shrugged. "But do you think that could be possible? That comic books and movies taint us toward women, driving them away the way garlic repels vampires?" "What if it does?" Matthew said, "Who cares?" Well, I cared. Sex is a big deal to me. Matthew said, "Yeah, I guess, but comics are a bigger deal." We had discussed this many a time, and Matthew's sex drive is that of a seventy year old Buddhist monk. Like the wise man once said, "Ahh, who needs girls? I’m ambidextrous."
I wish I could be like that, but I feel the loss, and I recognise the void in my life (for something that makes a lot of people miserable, but they'd never trade away). If anyone has some advice for me, I'm in the market.
I once saw a movie (no, it wasn't CHASING AMY misremembered) where a guy who was into Sci-Fi and comics and such meets a totally cool girl who loves comic books and movies and geek culture just as much as he does, and here's the thing . . . she doesn't look like something that's been living in the New York City sewers, killing and eating homeless people for the past dozen years. I saw the movie, but it was a stupid one, and so unrealistic, it made that turd THE CORE look like a Ken Burns documentary. You just made that story up, there ain't no girl like that.
So, on this girlfriendless Valentine's Day, Kristina's proclamation comes back to me, a little stronger than it usually does. Do I compromise what I love--in essence, who I am--to find a new love, a new me? Or, if I did, would I find myself just as alone, just as unloved, but in a world even emptier than the one I used to have, with my celluloid and three-colour fantasies?
I don't have the answer. Just the question.
Rish Socrates Outfield
February 14, 2006
"I've got a Dungeon Master's Guide,
I've got a 12-sided die;
I've got Kitty Pryde,
And Nightcrawler too;
Waiting there for me, Yes I do.
In the garage, I feel safe;
No one laughs about my ways.
In the garage, where I belong;
No one hears me sing this song."
Weezer
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Friday, February 10, 2006
February 10, 2006
"We're your dreamgirls, boys, we'll make you happy;
We're your dreamgirls, boys, we'll always care."
This happy refrain (I really have no idea what those words mean) has been repeated again and again on the set of DREAMGIRLS, directed by Bill Condon. I'm at L.A. Center Studios in Downtown, a small, but still nice studio, where they shoot the TV programme "Numbers," among other stuff.
I'm on DREAMGIRLS for three days, and it's been darn easy work (I mean, compared to marching in a uniform or wearing shorts when it's forty degrees, not compared to flipping burgers or wearing a suit to an office).
Dressed in Sixties formal(ish) wardrobe, we're in a nightclub set draped in sparkly blue, watching the singers perform. I guess DREAMGIRLS was a Broadway show about the rise of the Supremes, but I hadn't heard of it before now. It stars Jamie Foxx, Eddie Murphy, and Beyonce Knowles in the Diana Ross-esque role. Today and yesterday's scene has been the three singers (Beyonce, Anika Noni Rose, and Jennifer Hudson) in long white gowns, dancing about as the song plays. Yesterday, I sat in holding, watching videos and stuffing my face for ten hours, and only got on set for the last shot of the night ("The Martini"). The singers performed for three takes and then we went home.
Today, though I was either lucky or unlucky, depending on your attitude, by being used from the get-go.
There are three levels of tables and I'm in the second (table 14B for you scoring at home), right in front of the stage. There are eight of us at the table, and they seem like a friendly sort. I have to admit that, watching Beyonce sing and smile, I started to imagine that she was singing to me, looking at me. The woman has charm. Big and dopey me, I fuzziness came over me like when I saw THE LITTLE MERMAID for the first time ("Where is that music coming from? What is this feeling in my chest? What is happening to me?"). Also, after every take, Ms. Knowles adjusted her bustline entirely without any self-consciousness.
This has been fun, really, and though I have no interest in the Supremes, I'll probably go see the movie.
If you know me at all, you know I keep to myself--almost as antisocial as Ebeneezer Scrooge or tyranist--and yesterday, I spent pretty much the whole day in my own company, finishing Golding's "Lord of the Flies," and watching DVDs on my sister's player. But today, especially since I've spent much of it on set, I endeavoured to be more sociable, spending time with Jonathan the Cartoonist, a girl I'd never met before who loves PRIDE & PREJUDICE more than life itself, John the Ladykiller, and chatting with the people at my table, all much more experienced than I am.
People, my sainted mother used to say, are so interesting, and you'll find good ones wherever you go. It was cool, everybody has horror stories to tell in this business, since almost everyone starts at the bottom and works their way to the second rung. Really trying to be outgoing, I asked the group what their best experience doing extra work was, as well as their worst, and if anyone had ever worked with Harrison Ford. The woman next to me was especially loquacious, telling about being on "Baywatch" and almost being set on fire for a reenactment show. The woman across from me was very nice, talking about the headaches of working on THAT THING YOU DO and WATERWORLD. The man between them, a balding, round New Yorker, was quite funny, and had been doing extra work for two years. He told me about being a regular on "Karen Sisco" and bumping heads with a surly craft service person, who teamed up with a haircut person to get him fired (mere days before the show was ultimately canceled anyway). I talked about working on FLAGS OF OUR FATHERS last fall, a real high point for me.
I have shared with you a few stories of my experiences--not all of them interesting, I recognise--but these folks had fascinating tales. Since we were together on set for most of the day, we got to know one another pretty well, but it wasn't until I brought in this notebook that the true personality of the woman next to me revealed itself.*
"What is that? A journal?" she asked. Usually, when people ask this, I explain that I am a writer and put stories in it, or sometimes write what show I'm on, or that it's a letter to the Corpse Bride inquiring if she has any sisters, but this woman was asking in a derisive way, so I owned it. "Yep," I said, "but if you find it rude for me to write in it, we can keep talking." We spoke some more--she used to work for TV Guide, the woman across from me was a photo double on CARNOSAUR and had to dye her hair blonde, and the round man had once killed a Colorado child model just to watch her die. All things I have yet to experience.
Beyonce and company continued to perform, lip-syncing to playback, and doing clever period choreography. I saw this woman up close, and dang, girl, she's a handsome woman. Her awesome physical characteristics notwithstanding, I was amazed by how good-natured she was, take after take, and her ability to spin around, stepping over the microphone cord so it didn't trip her. Also, her smile and gaze out at us really did make me feel like it was me she was performing to. I remember Jason Lee in ALMOST FAMOUS saying, "I look for the one guy in the crowd who's not getting off and I make him get off." Ms. Knowles has a couple of advantages over Jason Lee, as far as I'm concerned.
"Hey," the woman next to me said, "What's your name?"
I told her.
"Last name?"
I told her.
"I don't want to see anything I've told you to appear in a magazine, do you understand?"
I didn't, so I asked her to repeat the question. "A magazine?" I asked, "Weren't you the one who worked for TV Guide?"
Strangely--and irritatingly, since she'd do it twice more through the night--she repeated herself without clarifying. "You are not to publish any of my stories. I don't want it to appear in a magazine. Yes or no?" It was so cold and businesslike, I think she would've had no compunctions with squeezing my huevitos in her fist until I answered.
Returning a bit of her hostility, I said, "First, I don't know what you're talking about, and second, no." There was tension in the air and I hate confrontations more than George McFly and Rex from TOY STORY combined, so I pretended to focus on the performance and only spoke to the others at the table for a while.
Later, the guy began to make fun of the craft service lady (she was a good little Nazi), and the woman next to me says, "You better watch what you say. Don't you know they're recording us right now?"
"What?"
"Didn't you know, they record everything the extras say. There's a guy at a soundboard listening to us right now."
I couldn't resist, I told her I have a paranoid friend who's a huge conspiracy theorist and I thought they'd really hit it off. She replied by telling us she was on a sitcom and made a suggestion to another extra and the producers heard it and incorporated it into the show. I didn't argue with her, but the round man did, and she would not be swayed.
Later, however, he made a little joke (a very little one) and she got immediately furious, saying, "I don't like people putting words in my mouth."
He said, "It was a joke, relax."
To which, she replied, "I don't like people putting words in my mouth."
"Okay," he said, "Okay."
To which, she said, "I don't like people putting words in my mouth."
The man couldn't take any more, and said, "You know, the only person with a problem here is you. First you jump on the kid for writing in a notebook, now me for what was clearly a joke. We all have to work here, so just shut the fuck up and sit quietly." The dude came to my defence, and even cursed at the woman for me. I was really impressed by that, especially since it's common knowledge that I was born without a spine. Amazing I can walk around, really.
A few minutes later, we were sent back to holding, where I wanted to talk to the guy. Instead, the woman came up to me--presumably to stab me to death before I could tell you this tale--and growled, "I don't know what was wrong with Vincent. I just don't like people putting words in my mouth."
Afterward, I did run into the man later and he unloaded a cartful of profanity about it, calling her as loony as a toon, and said, "You can print whatever you want, kid. If she didn't want it known she got her eyebrows singed off at a mock Great White concert, she should've kept her mouth shut. Once it hits the air, it's public domain." While I don't know if that's the case, I don't feel at all bad for the other boxer. If she hadn't freaked out like she did, I wouldn't have even mentioned her, let alone wasted a whole notebook page on it.
Day two was a pretty short day--I think I got home around eleven p.m.--and was hardly exhausting. Indeed, the hardest thing about extra work is often just the waiting in line to get your voucher, waiting in line to get your wardrobe, waiting in line to change your clothes, waiting in line to eat, waiting in line to change again when we're wrapped, waiting in line to return your wardrobe and get your voucher back, waiting in line to get signed out, and waiting in line to get on the shuttle to take you back to your car.
I've got one more day--the big call--next week, where I've got a great, tacky Seventies tuxedo on. I don't know that anything will happen of note that day, but if it does, maybe I'll say something about it.
Until then, I remain,
Rish "Dreamboy" Outfield
*I don't know why my Spider Sense didn't warn me about her (the alien symbiote must have nullified it), but the woman was as wacky as Drew Barrymore at a pet store.
We're your dreamgirls, boys, we'll always care."
This happy refrain (I really have no idea what those words mean) has been repeated again and again on the set of DREAMGIRLS, directed by Bill Condon. I'm at L.A. Center Studios in Downtown, a small, but still nice studio, where they shoot the TV programme "Numbers," among other stuff.
I'm on DREAMGIRLS for three days, and it's been darn easy work (I mean, compared to marching in a uniform or wearing shorts when it's forty degrees, not compared to flipping burgers or wearing a suit to an office).
Dressed in Sixties formal(ish) wardrobe, we're in a nightclub set draped in sparkly blue, watching the singers perform. I guess DREAMGIRLS was a Broadway show about the rise of the Supremes, but I hadn't heard of it before now. It stars Jamie Foxx, Eddie Murphy, and Beyonce Knowles in the Diana Ross-esque role. Today and yesterday's scene has been the three singers (Beyonce, Anika Noni Rose, and Jennifer Hudson) in long white gowns, dancing about as the song plays. Yesterday, I sat in holding, watching videos and stuffing my face for ten hours, and only got on set for the last shot of the night ("The Martini"). The singers performed for three takes and then we went home.
Today, though I was either lucky or unlucky, depending on your attitude, by being used from the get-go.
There are three levels of tables and I'm in the second (table 14B for you scoring at home), right in front of the stage. There are eight of us at the table, and they seem like a friendly sort. I have to admit that, watching Beyonce sing and smile, I started to imagine that she was singing to me, looking at me. The woman has charm. Big and dopey me, I fuzziness came over me like when I saw THE LITTLE MERMAID for the first time ("Where is that music coming from? What is this feeling in my chest? What is happening to me?"). Also, after every take, Ms. Knowles adjusted her bustline entirely without any self-consciousness.
This has been fun, really, and though I have no interest in the Supremes, I'll probably go see the movie.
If you know me at all, you know I keep to myself--almost as antisocial as Ebeneezer Scrooge or tyranist--and yesterday, I spent pretty much the whole day in my own company, finishing Golding's "Lord of the Flies," and watching DVDs on my sister's player. But today, especially since I've spent much of it on set, I endeavoured to be more sociable, spending time with Jonathan the Cartoonist, a girl I'd never met before who loves PRIDE & PREJUDICE more than life itself, John the Ladykiller, and chatting with the people at my table, all much more experienced than I am.
People, my sainted mother used to say, are so interesting, and you'll find good ones wherever you go. It was cool, everybody has horror stories to tell in this business, since almost everyone starts at the bottom and works their way to the second rung. Really trying to be outgoing, I asked the group what their best experience doing extra work was, as well as their worst, and if anyone had ever worked with Harrison Ford. The woman next to me was especially loquacious, telling about being on "Baywatch" and almost being set on fire for a reenactment show. The woman across from me was very nice, talking about the headaches of working on THAT THING YOU DO and WATERWORLD. The man between them, a balding, round New Yorker, was quite funny, and had been doing extra work for two years. He told me about being a regular on "Karen Sisco" and bumping heads with a surly craft service person, who teamed up with a haircut person to get him fired (mere days before the show was ultimately canceled anyway). I talked about working on FLAGS OF OUR FATHERS last fall, a real high point for me.
I have shared with you a few stories of my experiences--not all of them interesting, I recognise--but these folks had fascinating tales. Since we were together on set for most of the day, we got to know one another pretty well, but it wasn't until I brought in this notebook that the true personality of the woman next to me revealed itself.*
"What is that? A journal?" she asked. Usually, when people ask this, I explain that I am a writer and put stories in it, or sometimes write what show I'm on, or that it's a letter to the Corpse Bride inquiring if she has any sisters, but this woman was asking in a derisive way, so I owned it. "Yep," I said, "but if you find it rude for me to write in it, we can keep talking." We spoke some more--she used to work for TV Guide, the woman across from me was a photo double on CARNOSAUR and had to dye her hair blonde, and the round man had once killed a Colorado child model just to watch her die. All things I have yet to experience.
Beyonce and company continued to perform, lip-syncing to playback, and doing clever period choreography. I saw this woman up close, and dang, girl, she's a handsome woman. Her awesome physical characteristics notwithstanding, I was amazed by how good-natured she was, take after take, and her ability to spin around, stepping over the microphone cord so it didn't trip her. Also, her smile and gaze out at us really did make me feel like it was me she was performing to. I remember Jason Lee in ALMOST FAMOUS saying, "I look for the one guy in the crowd who's not getting off and I make him get off." Ms. Knowles has a couple of advantages over Jason Lee, as far as I'm concerned.
"Hey," the woman next to me said, "What's your name?"
I told her.
"Last name?"
I told her.
"I don't want to see anything I've told you to appear in a magazine, do you understand?"
I didn't, so I asked her to repeat the question. "A magazine?" I asked, "Weren't you the one who worked for TV Guide?"
Strangely--and irritatingly, since she'd do it twice more through the night--she repeated herself without clarifying. "You are not to publish any of my stories. I don't want it to appear in a magazine. Yes or no?" It was so cold and businesslike, I think she would've had no compunctions with squeezing my huevitos in her fist until I answered.
Returning a bit of her hostility, I said, "First, I don't know what you're talking about, and second, no." There was tension in the air and I hate confrontations more than George McFly and Rex from TOY STORY combined, so I pretended to focus on the performance and only spoke to the others at the table for a while.
Later, the guy began to make fun of the craft service lady (she was a good little Nazi), and the woman next to me says, "You better watch what you say. Don't you know they're recording us right now?"
"What?"
"Didn't you know, they record everything the extras say. There's a guy at a soundboard listening to us right now."
I couldn't resist, I told her I have a paranoid friend who's a huge conspiracy theorist and I thought they'd really hit it off. She replied by telling us she was on a sitcom and made a suggestion to another extra and the producers heard it and incorporated it into the show. I didn't argue with her, but the round man did, and she would not be swayed.
Later, however, he made a little joke (a very little one) and she got immediately furious, saying, "I don't like people putting words in my mouth."
He said, "It was a joke, relax."
To which, she replied, "I don't like people putting words in my mouth."
"Okay," he said, "Okay."
To which, she said, "I don't like people putting words in my mouth."
The man couldn't take any more, and said, "You know, the only person with a problem here is you. First you jump on the kid for writing in a notebook, now me for what was clearly a joke. We all have to work here, so just shut the fuck up and sit quietly." The dude came to my defence, and even cursed at the woman for me. I was really impressed by that, especially since it's common knowledge that I was born without a spine. Amazing I can walk around, really.
A few minutes later, we were sent back to holding, where I wanted to talk to the guy. Instead, the woman came up to me--presumably to stab me to death before I could tell you this tale--and growled, "I don't know what was wrong with Vincent. I just don't like people putting words in my mouth."
Afterward, I did run into the man later and he unloaded a cartful of profanity about it, calling her as loony as a toon, and said, "You can print whatever you want, kid. If she didn't want it known she got her eyebrows singed off at a mock Great White concert, she should've kept her mouth shut. Once it hits the air, it's public domain." While I don't know if that's the case, I don't feel at all bad for the other boxer. If she hadn't freaked out like she did, I wouldn't have even mentioned her, let alone wasted a whole notebook page on it.
Day two was a pretty short day--I think I got home around eleven p.m.--and was hardly exhausting. Indeed, the hardest thing about extra work is often just the waiting in line to get your voucher, waiting in line to get your wardrobe, waiting in line to change your clothes, waiting in line to eat, waiting in line to change again when we're wrapped, waiting in line to return your wardrobe and get your voucher back, waiting in line to get signed out, and waiting in line to get on the shuttle to take you back to your car.
I've got one more day--the big call--next week, where I've got a great, tacky Seventies tuxedo on. I don't know that anything will happen of note that day, but if it does, maybe I'll say something about it.
Until then, I remain,
Rish "Dreamboy" Outfield
*I don't know why my Spider Sense didn't warn me about her (the alien symbiote must have nullified it), but the woman was as wacky as Drew Barrymore at a pet store.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
House Rules
February 7th/8th, 2006
These past two days, I've been working "House M.D." again, which is probably my favourite show to work. They really put you through the paces on this one, and I've been switching between playing a visitor, a hospital administrator, and a patient (didn't have to wear the suit today, thank Buddha).
One of the things I like so much about the show is how uniquely unfriendly and misanthropic Gregory House is. While some of that has to be natural to his character, Hugh Laurie is always perfectly nice to be around. As I remarked before, Laurie on the set is as American as apple pie and frivolous lawsuits.
The 7th was a really long day, but they all are. We shot a scene where a religious nutjo--er, a very spiritual young man, decides to try and faith-heal the terminal cases at the hospital, all the while singing, "Go Tell It On the Mountain." We shot the scene from every conceivable angle (including the Steadicam being the faith healer, then switching over to being a cancer patient).
"House"'s holding is in the cafeteria room of the hospital set on Stage 15 at 20th Century Fox. It is fairly comfortable, except we must be silent, we can't have food in there (is that irony?), and can't sit in the booths. The Fox lot is my favourite of the studios (it's nice to see a three storey Darth Vader greet me each day, and I usually buy a "Firefly" boxed set every time I work there), and it's also the second nearest to my apartment.
This is a tight-knit group. Right now, I'm listening to a girl talk about her recent experience as Keira Knightley's photo double and sometime stand-in on PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN 2 and 3. She had many adventures on the production, getting very drunk and being unable to spend her per diem in Barbados or wherever it was.* THAT would be a gig, wouldn't it?
There's a guy on set--a regular extra--who has a peculiar hobby: he takes toys and action figures and modifies them to be knights and monsters and hybrids, using paint and glue and props and toothpicks and such. He brings a large case filled with paint and accessories and just works on them all day while the rest of us read or sleep or talk or fart around. He took one of those Prequels Clone Troopers and turned it into some kind of marauding barbarian with a battle axe. I could not be more impressed with this guy if he told me also worked on PIRATES 2 & 3 as Orlando Bloom's butt double.
On practically every TV show, there are regular extras--background players who return for every episode, constantly on the set or office or etc. They don't have to jockey for work, but are contacted by the production company to come back week after week. Probably the best example of a regular extra I can think of was the alien Morn on "Star Trek: Deep Space Nine," who became such a joke in the production that they gave him his own episode.
There are advantages and disadvantages to being a regular on a show, they say. The disadvantage is that it can get boring spending all day doing the same thing at the same place with many of the same people (you reading this who has a real job can surely attest to that). The advantages are myriad. Chief among them is that it's steady work--anywhere from one day a week (the "Criminal Minds" regulars get less work since there's so much location shooting) to five days a week (regulars on shows like "E.R." or "Lost" or "The Office," where it's usually all set in one place). Also, you get to know the cast and crew, and begin to feel that they are your friends and family. There's a better chance to get upgrades like residuals or dialogue that way (nearly every one of the "Scrubs" regulars said they'd gotten a line at one point or another), and of course, the sexual benefits are outstanding.
I have only been a regular on one show, Fox's "Boston Public," years ago. It really was an interesting, almost familial experience, going to that fake school every week and seeing many of the same "students" and "teachers." I got upgraded to a Stand-In one time, and on a couple of occasions, costar Anthony Heald had me read lines with him (he and I were reading Thomas Harris's "Hannibal" at the same time, and I delighted in telling him about reaching the reference to his late character from "Silence of the Lambs"). You do make friends on these sets, and I remember that one of the extras called me one night in a drunken stupour to tell me that I was a good guy and "I love you, man." I miss Aris.
I've mentioned that you see the same faces at many of these jobs, other extras booked through the same service, or of the same age group and/or look. One of these, a bookish, homely girl named Kelly, spent a little time with me, telling me about the advances of a tall, darkly handsome extra on the set who, despite Kelly's boasts that she is engaged, continued to flirt with her and at one point, bluntly asked if she wanted to make out sometime.
This was to her horror, apparently, but to me, it was a moment of admirable boldness. "He ASKED if you wanted to make out?" I wondered.
"Make out sometime," she clarified, "Can you believe it?"
Well, I couldn't, but the man had very thick Pierce Brosnan hair, so he was capable of anything. I asked, "Could that really work?" and she said, of course, that that level of confidence is greatly admired by the ladies, who are often sick of games and would prefer a direct proposition.
Then, said she, "You ought to try that sometime. You're good looking enough."
This surprised me to hear, since it's common knowledge that I was so ugly at birth that when the doctor slapped me, somebody called the ASPCA on him. Later, Kelly went on about the handsome extra's persistence, claiming that he grabbed her hand and then her butt. I found that increasingly hard to believe, especially since there was a girl on set who looked like Gwen Stacy. Maybe there's a certain attraction in a girl that spurns your advances, but I'm now wondering how much of her story is true.
I don't know how much longer I'll do this extras thing--sometime I'll explain the fun-filled hoops you have to jump through to join the Screen Actors Guild and how far I am from getting there--but I'd really like to be a regular on something again. I'd say my chances aren't good, but if there's any show that it might work out on, it would be this one.
I either mentioned it before, or thought about mentioning it before, but the assistant director used to get my name wrong. Today, the A.D., who I still think is the greatest A.D. in the business, kept calling me "John," even after he realised his mistake. Maybe I look like a John (the toilet kind?), I don't know.
I had asked for the next day off--I had an appointment at six--but when they asked me to return, I had to go for it. Before she died, my grandmother gave me some advice. "Listen to me," she said, "Never turn down an offer of food, work, or sex."
And I don't mean to, Mister Frodo, I don't mean to.
Rish Outfield, M.D.
*It was the Bahamas. Apparently, there's very little to do there on days off. Boo hoo.
These past two days, I've been working "House M.D." again, which is probably my favourite show to work. They really put you through the paces on this one, and I've been switching between playing a visitor, a hospital administrator, and a patient (didn't have to wear the suit today, thank Buddha).
One of the things I like so much about the show is how uniquely unfriendly and misanthropic Gregory House is. While some of that has to be natural to his character, Hugh Laurie is always perfectly nice to be around. As I remarked before, Laurie on the set is as American as apple pie and frivolous lawsuits.
The 7th was a really long day, but they all are. We shot a scene where a religious nutjo--er, a very spiritual young man, decides to try and faith-heal the terminal cases at the hospital, all the while singing, "Go Tell It On the Mountain." We shot the scene from every conceivable angle (including the Steadicam being the faith healer, then switching over to being a cancer patient).
"House"'s holding is in the cafeteria room of the hospital set on Stage 15 at 20th Century Fox. It is fairly comfortable, except we must be silent, we can't have food in there (is that irony?), and can't sit in the booths. The Fox lot is my favourite of the studios (it's nice to see a three storey Darth Vader greet me each day, and I usually buy a "Firefly" boxed set every time I work there), and it's also the second nearest to my apartment.
This is a tight-knit group. Right now, I'm listening to a girl talk about her recent experience as Keira Knightley's photo double and sometime stand-in on PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN 2 and 3. She had many adventures on the production, getting very drunk and being unable to spend her per diem in Barbados or wherever it was.* THAT would be a gig, wouldn't it?
There's a guy on set--a regular extra--who has a peculiar hobby: he takes toys and action figures and modifies them to be knights and monsters and hybrids, using paint and glue and props and toothpicks and such. He brings a large case filled with paint and accessories and just works on them all day while the rest of us read or sleep or talk or fart around. He took one of those Prequels Clone Troopers and turned it into some kind of marauding barbarian with a battle axe. I could not be more impressed with this guy if he told me also worked on PIRATES 2 & 3 as Orlando Bloom's butt double.
On practically every TV show, there are regular extras--background players who return for every episode, constantly on the set or office or etc. They don't have to jockey for work, but are contacted by the production company to come back week after week. Probably the best example of a regular extra I can think of was the alien Morn on "Star Trek: Deep Space Nine," who became such a joke in the production that they gave him his own episode.
There are advantages and disadvantages to being a regular on a show, they say. The disadvantage is that it can get boring spending all day doing the same thing at the same place with many of the same people (you reading this who has a real job can surely attest to that). The advantages are myriad. Chief among them is that it's steady work--anywhere from one day a week (the "Criminal Minds" regulars get less work since there's so much location shooting) to five days a week (regulars on shows like "E.R." or "Lost" or "The Office," where it's usually all set in one place). Also, you get to know the cast and crew, and begin to feel that they are your friends and family. There's a better chance to get upgrades like residuals or dialogue that way (nearly every one of the "Scrubs" regulars said they'd gotten a line at one point or another), and of course, the sexual benefits are outstanding.
I have only been a regular on one show, Fox's "Boston Public," years ago. It really was an interesting, almost familial experience, going to that fake school every week and seeing many of the same "students" and "teachers." I got upgraded to a Stand-In one time, and on a couple of occasions, costar Anthony Heald had me read lines with him (he and I were reading Thomas Harris's "Hannibal" at the same time, and I delighted in telling him about reaching the reference to his late character from "Silence of the Lambs"). You do make friends on these sets, and I remember that one of the extras called me one night in a drunken stupour to tell me that I was a good guy and "I love you, man." I miss Aris.
I've mentioned that you see the same faces at many of these jobs, other extras booked through the same service, or of the same age group and/or look. One of these, a bookish, homely girl named Kelly, spent a little time with me, telling me about the advances of a tall, darkly handsome extra on the set who, despite Kelly's boasts that she is engaged, continued to flirt with her and at one point, bluntly asked if she wanted to make out sometime.
This was to her horror, apparently, but to me, it was a moment of admirable boldness. "He ASKED if you wanted to make out?" I wondered.
"Make out sometime," she clarified, "Can you believe it?"
Well, I couldn't, but the man had very thick Pierce Brosnan hair, so he was capable of anything. I asked, "Could that really work?" and she said, of course, that that level of confidence is greatly admired by the ladies, who are often sick of games and would prefer a direct proposition.
Then, said she, "You ought to try that sometime. You're good looking enough."
This surprised me to hear, since it's common knowledge that I was so ugly at birth that when the doctor slapped me, somebody called the ASPCA on him. Later, Kelly went on about the handsome extra's persistence, claiming that he grabbed her hand and then her butt. I found that increasingly hard to believe, especially since there was a girl on set who looked like Gwen Stacy. Maybe there's a certain attraction in a girl that spurns your advances, but I'm now wondering how much of her story is true.
I don't know how much longer I'll do this extras thing--sometime I'll explain the fun-filled hoops you have to jump through to join the Screen Actors Guild and how far I am from getting there--but I'd really like to be a regular on something again. I'd say my chances aren't good, but if there's any show that it might work out on, it would be this one.
I either mentioned it before, or thought about mentioning it before, but the assistant director used to get my name wrong. Today, the A.D., who I still think is the greatest A.D. in the business, kept calling me "John," even after he realised his mistake. Maybe I look like a John (the toilet kind?), I don't know.
I had asked for the next day off--I had an appointment at six--but when they asked me to return, I had to go for it. Before she died, my grandmother gave me some advice. "Listen to me," she said, "Never turn down an offer of food, work, or sex."
And I don't mean to, Mister Frodo, I don't mean to.
Rish Outfield, M.D.
*It was the Bahamas. Apparently, there's very little to do there on days off. Boo hoo.
Monday, February 06, 2006
February 6th, 2006
I got up hours before the sun this morning to play a wedding guest on a new show called "Pepper Dennis." We were shooting up in Monrovia, a suburb so far north, I expected its inhabitants to say "aboot" and end their sentences with "eh." But nicely done, they actually paid us non-union slobs a bit of mileage for driving up there.
What kind of name is "Pepper Dennis" for a TV show? I'd consider it a bad name for a dalmation puppy, even.
The star of the show is the nine foot tall supermodel Rebecca Romijn. She's actually attractive in person, believe it or not. I had the impression, from seeing her work, that she was not a very strong actress, but she seemed pretty capable on today's shoot. It's always interesting to see these female TV and movie stars up close and compare them to the fantasy. Romijn passed the test, though, so again I'm disappointed with the orange feathers and blue scales they stuck on her in the X-MEN movies. But I'm digressing.
I love the f-word. I set down my hot chocolate to go on set, and when I got back, someone had spilled it all over my chair and book. I say "someone" spilled it because we didn't have 6.9 earthquake during shooting. Stuff like that reminds me why Jeff so hates people.
It seems to me that the only two things I ever mention in these reports are a) that the extras complained a lot about this or that; and b) that there were attractive women on set, but b), kids. They've got five bridesmaids--two with definitely fake breasts, two with real (I'm guessing), and one that could be real or could be fake depending on how kind you think God is--pretty much all babetastic.
One of them, a blonde, was Top Tier. She coulda actually taken my eyes off of Ms. Romijn.
I've been dressed up for my all my gigs over the last two weeks, wearing this darn suit six days in a row. Doing this, you start to think people are always attractive and nicely clothed in real life. Of course, nobody looks like that blonde bridesmaid in reality, only in animated Disney movies, may they rest in peace.
The lead actor in the show is Rider Strong*, the star of something called "Boy Meets World." As he walked by, I said, "You know, I think he was in CABIN FEVER." He stopped and said, "Yes, yes I was." I told him what a good flick that was and he thanked me, seeming happy to talk about it. I imagine it's like seeing William Katt and mentioning HOUSE or seeing Henry Winkler and talking about SCREAM, something other than what they are immediately associated with. At least I imagine that's the deal.
He seemed very friendly, though, the kind of guy I hope to replace tyranist with as my new best pal.
Probably ain't gonna happen, though.
Bob Gunton, co-star of the best movie of the entire Nineties, was playing Rebecca's father. I wanted to talk to him (though what I would've said, I don't know. Probably I'd have asked him if anyone had ever asked him to sign "I will thrust you down to the Sodomites" on something**), but didn't get the chance. He did bump into me during one take, though. Would be nice if that's the one they used.
I spent the day outdoors, with a warm sky and light breeze, carrying a fake wedding present across the backyard of this mansion called the Chateau Bradbury. We extras stood and did crosses with the sun on our shoulders and felt like free men. Hell, we could have been attending the reception of one of our own weddings.
The show also stars the lovely Brooke Burns, though oddly, they've given her dark hair in this. Sad. Her I didn't talk to.
The day was long, but not a lot of work. Just walking around, pantomiming conversation, carrying presents, and pretending to drink. At one point, I struck up a conversation with an older lady with the most charming English accent. I asked her if she was married and she spent the next fifteen minutes (no lie) telling me about how her first husband was cheating on her so she divorced him and her second husband died at age thirty-two in 1968, leaving her pregnant with her third child (but the British government has a widows fund that helped her family out), and how she'd never found anyone after that, but had good children, one of whom had come to America to study when she was sixteen, and liked it so much the whole family moved over here and how she was a nanny to celebrities for several years and now did background work to keep her occupied. Her name was Jean and I imagine I'll see her again one of these days; you nearly always do.
There weren't a lot of young people on today's call. Nor much to make this little report interesting. I'll think of something in the next couple of days, some lie to make it all sound glamourous and oh so sexy. Perhaps I can involve the blonde bridesmaid in my invention.
We'll see.
Rish Outfield-Stamos
*Now that's a porn actor's name if I've ever heard one.
**And if not, would he do so on my poster?
What kind of name is "Pepper Dennis" for a TV show? I'd consider it a bad name for a dalmation puppy, even.
The star of the show is the nine foot tall supermodel Rebecca Romijn. She's actually attractive in person, believe it or not. I had the impression, from seeing her work, that she was not a very strong actress, but she seemed pretty capable on today's shoot. It's always interesting to see these female TV and movie stars up close and compare them to the fantasy. Romijn passed the test, though, so again I'm disappointed with the orange feathers and blue scales they stuck on her in the X-MEN movies. But I'm digressing.
I love the f-word. I set down my hot chocolate to go on set, and when I got back, someone had spilled it all over my chair and book. I say "someone" spilled it because we didn't have 6.9 earthquake during shooting. Stuff like that reminds me why Jeff so hates people.
It seems to me that the only two things I ever mention in these reports are a) that the extras complained a lot about this or that; and b) that there were attractive women on set, but b), kids. They've got five bridesmaids--two with definitely fake breasts, two with real (I'm guessing), and one that could be real or could be fake depending on how kind you think God is--pretty much all babetastic.
One of them, a blonde, was Top Tier. She coulda actually taken my eyes off of Ms. Romijn.
I've been dressed up for my all my gigs over the last two weeks, wearing this darn suit six days in a row. Doing this, you start to think people are always attractive and nicely clothed in real life. Of course, nobody looks like that blonde bridesmaid in reality, only in animated Disney movies, may they rest in peace.
The lead actor in the show is Rider Strong*, the star of something called "Boy Meets World." As he walked by, I said, "You know, I think he was in CABIN FEVER." He stopped and said, "Yes, yes I was." I told him what a good flick that was and he thanked me, seeming happy to talk about it. I imagine it's like seeing William Katt and mentioning HOUSE or seeing Henry Winkler and talking about SCREAM, something other than what they are immediately associated with. At least I imagine that's the deal.
He seemed very friendly, though, the kind of guy I hope to replace tyranist with as my new best pal.
Probably ain't gonna happen, though.
Bob Gunton, co-star of the best movie of the entire Nineties, was playing Rebecca's father. I wanted to talk to him (though what I would've said, I don't know. Probably I'd have asked him if anyone had ever asked him to sign "I will thrust you down to the Sodomites" on something**), but didn't get the chance. He did bump into me during one take, though. Would be nice if that's the one they used.
I spent the day outdoors, with a warm sky and light breeze, carrying a fake wedding present across the backyard of this mansion called the Chateau Bradbury. We extras stood and did crosses with the sun on our shoulders and felt like free men. Hell, we could have been attending the reception of one of our own weddings.
The show also stars the lovely Brooke Burns, though oddly, they've given her dark hair in this. Sad. Her I didn't talk to.
The day was long, but not a lot of work. Just walking around, pantomiming conversation, carrying presents, and pretending to drink. At one point, I struck up a conversation with an older lady with the most charming English accent. I asked her if she was married and she spent the next fifteen minutes (no lie) telling me about how her first husband was cheating on her so she divorced him and her second husband died at age thirty-two in 1968, leaving her pregnant with her third child (but the British government has a widows fund that helped her family out), and how she'd never found anyone after that, but had good children, one of whom had come to America to study when she was sixteen, and liked it so much the whole family moved over here and how she was a nanny to celebrities for several years and now did background work to keep her occupied. Her name was Jean and I imagine I'll see her again one of these days; you nearly always do.
There weren't a lot of young people on today's call. Nor much to make this little report interesting. I'll think of something in the next couple of days, some lie to make it all sound glamourous and oh so sexy. Perhaps I can involve the blonde bridesmaid in my invention.
We'll see.
Rish Outfield-Stamos
*Now that's a porn actor's name if I've ever heard one.
**And if not, would he do so on my poster?
Saturday, February 04, 2006
February 3rd, 2006
Weird. Much to my surprise, I found a check waiting for me today, paying me for the day's work I missed when Steve Carrell got the clap. That kind of thing is to be expected for union workers, but it's certainly the first time it happened to me. Very nice. It almost makes up for the waste that was last Wednesday. Almost.
I wrote in my magic notebook about my last couple of days, my work on "The Office" today, and my generous plunge into depression. But now I don't know if I want to post it here. Too honest a glimpse, I fear.
Ah well.
Right now, I'm at the Universal Sheritan Hotel lobby, supposedly working on "The Office." It's a giant call, with more people than they could ever want to use. Yesterday, I was watching a WWII documentary and Hitler was giving a speech to what looked like a million people. There was an undulating mass of cheering, screaming, saluting Germans, and I honestly had never seen anything like it. It was like a public restroom in Bejing or something.
I've never watched "The Office," only because my bastage friend tyranist hated the British version. I am trying to keep my excitement levels down, hoping I can plunge into a pit of self-hating despair so deep that it will take my life. Hormone imbalance, hereditary depression, or outright loserdom, each time these dark clouds gather, I wonder if it'll be the last time. But I always bounce back, eventually. Too bad, though, I'm really doing no one any good at all.
Blah, blah, blah (post edited for content).
The shoot was pretty easy (though most of them are). We were attending a sales conference, where one of the characters, Dwight Schrute, was getting a salesman of the year award. When it was time for him to give his speech, he freezes, and his boss gets up in his place. He vamps, very unsuccessfully, talking about Excellence and humor and customers. And then Schrute gets up and begins quoting a Mousellini speech, substituting "salesman" and "workplace" for "fascist" and "battlefield." It gets a tremendous reaction--we are cheering, thinking he's great, and are completely unaware that anything unusual is happening.
This guy Rainn Wilson, who plays Dwight Schrute, had to work a lot harder than Steve Carrell, but I'm not sure if that's because Carrell is more talented/funnier, or if Wilson just had a more difficult role.
At first, the scene was funny. Then they changed it around--or the actor ad-libbed a lot--and it was the opposite of funny. Then we did it a few more times, the way it was scripted, and it actually got funny again. That doesn't often happen.
The man next to me was geekier than . . . well, my Uncle Dave who bit the heads of chickens, rats, and small children for the circus. He complained a lot about the scene and claimed the show was on cable and no one would ever see it. He told me he didn't recognise the actors and when I told him Carrell was the FORTY-YEAR-OLD VIRGIN, he said, "THAT'S the 40 year old virgin?" with so much disdain, that I said, "What, did he steal your title?"
A moment later, the geeky guy laughed and said, "I just got that. That's pretty funny."
I had a test screening pass to see something that night, but we didn't get out in time. I went home and . . . I have no memories after that.
Rish "Mister Happy" Outfield
I wrote in my magic notebook about my last couple of days, my work on "The Office" today, and my generous plunge into depression. But now I don't know if I want to post it here. Too honest a glimpse, I fear.
Ah well.
Right now, I'm at the Universal Sheritan Hotel lobby, supposedly working on "The Office." It's a giant call, with more people than they could ever want to use. Yesterday, I was watching a WWII documentary and Hitler was giving a speech to what looked like a million people. There was an undulating mass of cheering, screaming, saluting Germans, and I honestly had never seen anything like it. It was like a public restroom in Bejing or something.
I've never watched "The Office," only because my bastage friend tyranist hated the British version. I am trying to keep my excitement levels down, hoping I can plunge into a pit of self-hating despair so deep that it will take my life. Hormone imbalance, hereditary depression, or outright loserdom, each time these dark clouds gather, I wonder if it'll be the last time. But I always bounce back, eventually. Too bad, though, I'm really doing no one any good at all.
Blah, blah, blah (post edited for content).
The shoot was pretty easy (though most of them are). We were attending a sales conference, where one of the characters, Dwight Schrute, was getting a salesman of the year award. When it was time for him to give his speech, he freezes, and his boss gets up in his place. He vamps, very unsuccessfully, talking about Excellence and humor and customers. And then Schrute gets up and begins quoting a Mousellini speech, substituting "salesman" and "workplace" for "fascist" and "battlefield." It gets a tremendous reaction--we are cheering, thinking he's great, and are completely unaware that anything unusual is happening.
This guy Rainn Wilson, who plays Dwight Schrute, had to work a lot harder than Steve Carrell, but I'm not sure if that's because Carrell is more talented/funnier, or if Wilson just had a more difficult role.
At first, the scene was funny. Then they changed it around--or the actor ad-libbed a lot--and it was the opposite of funny. Then we did it a few more times, the way it was scripted, and it actually got funny again. That doesn't often happen.
The man next to me was geekier than . . . well, my Uncle Dave who bit the heads of chickens, rats, and small children for the circus. He complained a lot about the scene and claimed the show was on cable and no one would ever see it. He told me he didn't recognise the actors and when I told him Carrell was the FORTY-YEAR-OLD VIRGIN, he said, "THAT'S the 40 year old virgin?" with so much disdain, that I said, "What, did he steal your title?"
A moment later, the geeky guy laughed and said, "I just got that. That's pretty funny."
I had a test screening pass to see something that night, but we didn't get out in time. I went home and . . . I have no memories after that.
Rish "Mister Happy" Outfield
Monday, January 30, 2006
Dork Streets
Jan. 29, 2006
I got called yesterday afternoon to see if I would work on a movie called DARK STREETS this morning. I thought there was a fifty percent chance it was a horror movie, judging by the title, so I agreed. Actually, I'm not in a financial position to turn down work, so even if it was called BRIGHT STREETS OF SODOM, I would've taken the job. Beggars can only be choosers if they're in the union.
Well, it was a 1930's period piece and we shot in a downtown nightclub called the Tower only three or four doors down from the Orpheum where I worked on Friday. I wore the same damn suit I wore on Monday and Tuesday ("Criminal Minds"), Thursday (CHRONICLES), and Friday (SPIDER-MAN). Once again, there was smoking on the set, so that, combined with my sweat, has to make the suit smell like a damp gym sock filled with string cheese. It's my only suit, though. What can I do?
Compared to SPIDER-MAN, of course this was a low-budget shoot, but there were still forty extras, a dozen dancers, Bijou Phillips, and enough of a crew that there were always at least five people sitting around doing nothing. That's something I've never understood, but is all part of show business, I suppose.
The crew was very cool, though, with a lot of young guys with entertaining t-shirts (one said "Department of Redundancy Department," which got less funny as the night progressed, and another said "I AM NOT A GEEK. I am a Level 12 Paladin."), and wacky hair.
Quite the opposite of CHRONICLES, where they told me not to put anything in my hair and brush it out so it looked somewhat mop-like, they greased my hair down with some waxy pomade, and I was quite taken with the effect. They bent my shirt collars up and gave me a cravat (is that the word?).* We were just nightclub patrons, enjoying a performance, and they even gave me a cool walking stick with a round brass head. It wasn't hard work either (I've been lucky this week), but it sure was a long day--longer even than the twelve hour days I had on Thursday and Friday.
I don't want to call Bijou Phillips a diva, but she does have to replace Tim Allen as the most difficult star I've seen on a set. When I first heard her shouting in her sqeaky, unnaturally babylike voice, I thought, "This has to be the most demanding child actor I've ever heard of. Is that Dakota Fanning down there?"
I don't have time to go into it right now (it's almost three in the morning, just getting home from the shoot), but I do want to share this:
Right before Bijou shouted, "I hate every one of you!" a couple extras and I were chatting our time away, introducing ourselves, etc. One of the guys said his name was Eric, and a lady asked if he spelled it with a C or a K at the end. He said with a C, and always found the K spelling to be strange. He then told us he once met an Eric who spelled his name with a Q. "Why would you do that to your kid?" the lady asked. "Right," said I, "It's almost like naming your child Bijou or something." "Exactly," the lady said, "What the hell does Bijou mean anyway?" "Oh, it's French for 'mov--'" I started to say, but another girl interrupted me. Deadly serious, she said, "It's French for 'bitch.'"
Jan. 30, 2006
Today was better. True, we went until three instead of two, but we started hours later. Either due to luck or my own physical deformities, I hardly worked at all tonight, and nearly finished my book. When I did work, it was more of the same nightclub stuff as yesterday.
One of the Thirties ladies I was partnered with mentioned that a male friend of hers had also worked SPIDER-MAN on Friday, and that it was an awful experience. I was curious, having so enjoyed myself, and asked what was awful about it. She said he told her they had to sit for hours, listening to a sappy, lovey-dovey song and watching Kirsten Dunst make doe eyes at Tobey Maguire. I don't know if I was out of line, but I suggested her friend had a little dick. She laughed, but did not disagree.
I don't know if I've ever detailed the daily life of an extra (and I won't do it here if I haven't), but after one has gotten their pay voucher (and had their name crossed off the list), the first place we go is holding. After that, it's off to Wardrobe, then Hair & Makeup (sometimes different departments, usually the same). All Wardrobe gave me both days was a tie (the same one), and makeup did paint me lightly. As I said yesterday, on CHRONICLES, they told me in December not to cut my hair or my sideburns, so when I finished with that this weekend, I quickly ran to the barber and had myself sheared. Today, though, I was taken to task for cutting my hair off by the Hair lady (who turned out to be the same woman who gave me my hair command for CHRONICLES). She told me I should always leave enough hair so the departments could do stuff to it (whether brush it out or comb it down or trim it or add to it), and that I now had "the haircut of a five year old boy." For some reason it bothered me.** I had felt good about my hair for one whole day.
Gabriel Mann is one of the stars of the film, playing the nightclub owner, and he'd gotten his sister a role (which mostly consisted of standing around in a cocktail dress). The other star, Elias Koteas (who's in the upcoming SKINWALKERS, the werewolf movie Stan Winston was so excited about), was in some kind of strange leather armour yesterday (mayhaps the film is not set in 1939 after all). Both of them were friendly guys, especially Mann, who I guess I've seen in a couple of flicks and didn't know it.
The holding they kept us in was the balcony of the theatre. It was pitch black, and it was uncomfortable, so while I mostly slept and marked up an old screenplay yesterday, today I listened to the radio and crept to the (lighted) stairs to read my book. It was still semi-difficult to see, and I would wake up the next morning with an annoying crink in my back. But I'm trying not to complain.
Music-wise, it was a slow, soulful, sad number tonight . . . what I believe is commonly known as a torchsong. And it was not sung by Phillips. We were told to be transfixed by the music, and after several hours, I wondered if maybe we looked zombified rather than captivated.
Regardless, that is now over. I suppose I should go to bed.
Rish Bijou Outfield
*The clothing was fine, but several of the girls had to have their tattoos painted over. Guess there weren't a lot of whoremarks in the 1930s.
**Maybe it's because, if you've ever seen me naked, you know I have a lot in common with a five year old boy.
I got called yesterday afternoon to see if I would work on a movie called DARK STREETS this morning. I thought there was a fifty percent chance it was a horror movie, judging by the title, so I agreed. Actually, I'm not in a financial position to turn down work, so even if it was called BRIGHT STREETS OF SODOM, I would've taken the job. Beggars can only be choosers if they're in the union.
Well, it was a 1930's period piece and we shot in a downtown nightclub called the Tower only three or four doors down from the Orpheum where I worked on Friday. I wore the same damn suit I wore on Monday and Tuesday ("Criminal Minds"), Thursday (CHRONICLES), and Friday (SPIDER-MAN). Once again, there was smoking on the set, so that, combined with my sweat, has to make the suit smell like a damp gym sock filled with string cheese. It's my only suit, though. What can I do?
Compared to SPIDER-MAN, of course this was a low-budget shoot, but there were still forty extras, a dozen dancers, Bijou Phillips, and enough of a crew that there were always at least five people sitting around doing nothing. That's something I've never understood, but is all part of show business, I suppose.
The crew was very cool, though, with a lot of young guys with entertaining t-shirts (one said "Department of Redundancy Department," which got less funny as the night progressed, and another said "I AM NOT A GEEK. I am a Level 12 Paladin."), and wacky hair.
Quite the opposite of CHRONICLES, where they told me not to put anything in my hair and brush it out so it looked somewhat mop-like, they greased my hair down with some waxy pomade, and I was quite taken with the effect. They bent my shirt collars up and gave me a cravat (is that the word?).* We were just nightclub patrons, enjoying a performance, and they even gave me a cool walking stick with a round brass head. It wasn't hard work either (I've been lucky this week), but it sure was a long day--longer even than the twelve hour days I had on Thursday and Friday.
I don't want to call Bijou Phillips a diva, but she does have to replace Tim Allen as the most difficult star I've seen on a set. When I first heard her shouting in her sqeaky, unnaturally babylike voice, I thought, "This has to be the most demanding child actor I've ever heard of. Is that Dakota Fanning down there?"
I don't have time to go into it right now (it's almost three in the morning, just getting home from the shoot), but I do want to share this:
Right before Bijou shouted, "I hate every one of you!" a couple extras and I were chatting our time away, introducing ourselves, etc. One of the guys said his name was Eric, and a lady asked if he spelled it with a C or a K at the end. He said with a C, and always found the K spelling to be strange. He then told us he once met an Eric who spelled his name with a Q. "Why would you do that to your kid?" the lady asked. "Right," said I, "It's almost like naming your child Bijou or something." "Exactly," the lady said, "What the hell does Bijou mean anyway?" "Oh, it's French for 'mov--'" I started to say, but another girl interrupted me. Deadly serious, she said, "It's French for 'bitch.'"
Jan. 30, 2006
Today was better. True, we went until three instead of two, but we started hours later. Either due to luck or my own physical deformities, I hardly worked at all tonight, and nearly finished my book. When I did work, it was more of the same nightclub stuff as yesterday.
One of the Thirties ladies I was partnered with mentioned that a male friend of hers had also worked SPIDER-MAN on Friday, and that it was an awful experience. I was curious, having so enjoyed myself, and asked what was awful about it. She said he told her they had to sit for hours, listening to a sappy, lovey-dovey song and watching Kirsten Dunst make doe eyes at Tobey Maguire. I don't know if I was out of line, but I suggested her friend had a little dick. She laughed, but did not disagree.
I don't know if I've ever detailed the daily life of an extra (and I won't do it here if I haven't), but after one has gotten their pay voucher (and had their name crossed off the list), the first place we go is holding. After that, it's off to Wardrobe, then Hair & Makeup (sometimes different departments, usually the same). All Wardrobe gave me both days was a tie (the same one), and makeup did paint me lightly. As I said yesterday, on CHRONICLES, they told me in December not to cut my hair or my sideburns, so when I finished with that this weekend, I quickly ran to the barber and had myself sheared. Today, though, I was taken to task for cutting my hair off by the Hair lady (who turned out to be the same woman who gave me my hair command for CHRONICLES). She told me I should always leave enough hair so the departments could do stuff to it (whether brush it out or comb it down or trim it or add to it), and that I now had "the haircut of a five year old boy." For some reason it bothered me.** I had felt good about my hair for one whole day.
Gabriel Mann is one of the stars of the film, playing the nightclub owner, and he'd gotten his sister a role (which mostly consisted of standing around in a cocktail dress). The other star, Elias Koteas (who's in the upcoming SKINWALKERS, the werewolf movie Stan Winston was so excited about), was in some kind of strange leather armour yesterday (mayhaps the film is not set in 1939 after all). Both of them were friendly guys, especially Mann, who I guess I've seen in a couple of flicks and didn't know it.
The holding they kept us in was the balcony of the theatre. It was pitch black, and it was uncomfortable, so while I mostly slept and marked up an old screenplay yesterday, today I listened to the radio and crept to the (lighted) stairs to read my book. It was still semi-difficult to see, and I would wake up the next morning with an annoying crink in my back. But I'm trying not to complain.
Music-wise, it was a slow, soulful, sad number tonight . . . what I believe is commonly known as a torchsong. And it was not sung by Phillips. We were told to be transfixed by the music, and after several hours, I wondered if maybe we looked zombified rather than captivated.
Regardless, that is now over. I suppose I should go to bed.
Rish Bijou Outfield
*The clothing was fine, but several of the girls had to have their tattoos painted over. Guess there weren't a lot of whoremarks in the 1930s.
**Maybe it's because, if you've ever seen me naked, you know I have a lot in common with a five year old boy.
Saturday, January 28, 2006
Spectacular Spider-fan
January 27th, 2006
Excelsior, true believers! Unca Rish is here with a semi-update about today's work.
Just lining up to check out on SPIDER-MAN 3. Except for one embarrassing and/or humiliating moment, which I may not elaborate on, this has been a nice day. I need to grow a thicker skin, really--
You know what? Today WAS a very nice day. That's better.
I love Spider-man. Since I was five years old, probably before you were even born, he's been my favourite superhero. I love the excellent, poignant work Stan Lee did way back in 1963 and how it continues to resonate with me today. And I have more Spidey comics than anyone I know (as opposite-of-impressive as that is*). I've adored him pretty much all my life.
I was such a fan that when I first moved to L.A., and had nary a piss to pot in, I worked on the first SPIDER-MAN for free. Then I was lucky enough to get to come back (and be paid) to be a high school student in the cafeteria scene (you know, where Peter catches the lunch tray and it gets all over Flash Thompson?). I've told many the story of how I felt the first time I saw Spidey in action that day (January 17th, 2001, it was), and once was moved to tears in telling a friend of how dear Gwen Stacy died.
I worked on the production the very first day of shooting SPIDER-MAN 3 back on November 5th, and here I am again. Honestly, I'm just glad to be a part of it.
Raimi was on the set again, still dressed in a suit and tie, while everyone else has jeans and t-shirts on, but though he dresses super-professional, he's a jokester and very entertaining to watch. He mocked Tobey Maguire a couple of times solely, it would seem, for the extras' amusement.
I found out a thing or two about the movie I didn't know, and I'm sort of hesitant to talk about it, since when I called my friend up, he wanted to hear absolutely no spoilers (our conversation ended up something like this: "I worked on SPIDER-MAN 3 today. It looks like it will be good. Kirsten Dunst is hot. So, what have you been up to?"). I have no heavy spoilers (except one, which I'll keep to myself), so will lightly talk about my day.
And yes, sad to say, Topher Grace is indeed playing Eddie Brock/Venom.
The scene we were shooting was at the beautiful Orpheum Theater in downtown Los Angeles (and how any building in Downtown can still be beautiful, I don't know), subbing for a big Broadway playhouse. It was much nicer than I'd expect it to be--after all, who really goes to plays anymore?--with lovely architecture and carvings on the ceiling and lighted chandeliers.
I was just an audience member, dressed in a suit (I brought my Spider-man tie, but they wouldn't let me wear it), sitting next to my buddy Mark. About half down below and three-fourths in the upper level were inflatable extras, with still over five hundred of us live ones spread throughout the theatre, moving according to where the camera was.
It's the opening night on Broadway of a sort of Irving Berlin Revue, and Mary Jane Watson sings the opening number, "They Say It's Wonderful." Peter Parker (looking like the same ole Tobey Maguire) arrives just before it starts and sits, oddly enough, on the front row (either he's moved up in the world since SPIDEY 2, or MJ got him those primo seats).
The curtains open and she's at the top of a black staircase with a sparkling electric starfield behind her and a fog machine below, dressed in an old-time (though almost too sexy to be worn in 2006) green silk gown. As she slowly walks down the stairs, singing, "I can't recall who said it, I know I never read it; I only know they tell me that love is grand," she gives Peter a little smile. Oh, and the heart melts.
Peter says something to the person next to him (the music cut out every time he said this line, to get a clean dialogue track), and continues to watch. Mary Jane finishes her number and we applaud. The camera sweeps across the audience and up in the balcony, where everyone is looking down at Mary Jane except for one person. He lowers his opera glasses and glares menacingly at Peter Parker. This is Harry Osborn's reveal in the film.
I came close to buying a digital camera on my day off on Wednesday, but decided against it when I found out I know nothing about cameras or their capability or what I'd be getting for my not-hard-earned-but-still-scarce dollar. Regardless, it's doubtful I would've had any Spidey stuff to show you had I bought the camera. They have been SERIOUSLY strict against taking pictures on the set, and warned against even bringing cellphones in, since most of them have photo capability now.**
They broke us several times to go back to our tent and wait while they shot other parts of the show. I dozed for about half an hour, and read my book. Right before lunch, I saw (Executive Producer) Avi Arad for a moment, and he was as friendly as ever. I asked him whether this was the opening scene of the film, and he, always closed-mouthed, said, "Somewhere around there." Later, from the sides, I found the dialogue was from page eight of the screenplay.
Kirsten Dunst, with her hair all up in a bun, was cute and personable, keeping herself amused while she did take after take of going up and down the staircase. It wasn't Dunst's voice on the guidetrack, but you could hear her singing along with it take after take, so it will at least look like she's really signing. It would be nice to hear give it a try with her own voice, but if they were doing that, it would probably already have been on the playback.
Tobey's stand-in looks just like him. People were speculating that it was his brother, but there's something so humiliating about that possibility that I discount it. James Franco I said hello to (even though we're not supposed to) and he looks the same as ever. I really like what they've done with his character, since I wouldn't even have thought to have him back in SPIDER-MAN 2.
The day was long, especially for those who showed up at five or five-thirty (in retrospect, I wish I'd have been one of them, since it's the end of the month and my bank account is not exactly full), but it was reallllllly easy work, even for us.
At the end of the night, when everybody--even the lowliest non-union extra like me--was making really good overtime, people were bitching and complaining to no end. Indeed, the people on the row behind me produced so much whine . . . it would've drowned Earnest and Julio Gallo.***
Sometimes it is tiring work to be an extra, especially--and this is somewhat hard to express, when after all, we are in show business, surrounded by the rich, handsome, and famous--since we are sometimes reminded that we are not people, not important pieces of the puzzle, but just human props, no more integral to the production than those inflatable ones who simply sit, noncomplaining, all day beside us.
To be honest, I could've sat there all night, hearing that song play and watching Kirsten Dunst go up and down those stairs. And not just because she was lovely, but because it was SPIDER-MAN 3.
Your Friendly Neighborhood Rish Outfield
*Which reminds me of something Kristina said back in the day. It freaked me out for almost a year. I think I'll write an essay about it . . . maybe for Valentine's Day.
**NEVERTHELESS, during one of the takes at the end of the day, a flash went off among the background, and the A.D.s freaked out about it, saying there would be hell to pay if it happened again. It didn't, but there is a picture out there that somebody took of Kirsten Dunst in the green gown . . . somewhere.
***Which I realise is a dated and unfunny joke, but I couldn't think of anything better. And believe me, I tried. I thought about drunkards, other winemakers, or celebrities that drank themselves to death, even of Jesus, but no inspiration came.
Excelsior, true believers! Unca Rish is here with a semi-update about today's work.
Just lining up to check out on SPIDER-MAN 3. Except for one embarrassing and/or humiliating moment, which I may not elaborate on, this has been a nice day. I need to grow a thicker skin, really--
You know what? Today WAS a very nice day. That's better.
I love Spider-man. Since I was five years old, probably before you were even born, he's been my favourite superhero. I love the excellent, poignant work Stan Lee did way back in 1963 and how it continues to resonate with me today. And I have more Spidey comics than anyone I know (as opposite-of-impressive as that is*). I've adored him pretty much all my life.
I was such a fan that when I first moved to L.A., and had nary a piss to pot in, I worked on the first SPIDER-MAN for free. Then I was lucky enough to get to come back (and be paid) to be a high school student in the cafeteria scene (you know, where Peter catches the lunch tray and it gets all over Flash Thompson?). I've told many the story of how I felt the first time I saw Spidey in action that day (January 17th, 2001, it was), and once was moved to tears in telling a friend of how dear Gwen Stacy died.
I worked on the production the very first day of shooting SPIDER-MAN 3 back on November 5th, and here I am again. Honestly, I'm just glad to be a part of it.
Raimi was on the set again, still dressed in a suit and tie, while everyone else has jeans and t-shirts on, but though he dresses super-professional, he's a jokester and very entertaining to watch. He mocked Tobey Maguire a couple of times solely, it would seem, for the extras' amusement.
I found out a thing or two about the movie I didn't know, and I'm sort of hesitant to talk about it, since when I called my friend up, he wanted to hear absolutely no spoilers (our conversation ended up something like this: "I worked on SPIDER-MAN 3 today. It looks like it will be good. Kirsten Dunst is hot. So, what have you been up to?"). I have no heavy spoilers (except one, which I'll keep to myself), so will lightly talk about my day.
And yes, sad to say, Topher Grace is indeed playing Eddie Brock/Venom.
The scene we were shooting was at the beautiful Orpheum Theater in downtown Los Angeles (and how any building in Downtown can still be beautiful, I don't know), subbing for a big Broadway playhouse. It was much nicer than I'd expect it to be--after all, who really goes to plays anymore?--with lovely architecture and carvings on the ceiling and lighted chandeliers.
I was just an audience member, dressed in a suit (I brought my Spider-man tie, but they wouldn't let me wear it), sitting next to my buddy Mark. About half down below and three-fourths in the upper level were inflatable extras, with still over five hundred of us live ones spread throughout the theatre, moving according to where the camera was.
It's the opening night on Broadway of a sort of Irving Berlin Revue, and Mary Jane Watson sings the opening number, "They Say It's Wonderful." Peter Parker (looking like the same ole Tobey Maguire) arrives just before it starts and sits, oddly enough, on the front row (either he's moved up in the world since SPIDEY 2, or MJ got him those primo seats).
The curtains open and she's at the top of a black staircase with a sparkling electric starfield behind her and a fog machine below, dressed in an old-time (though almost too sexy to be worn in 2006) green silk gown. As she slowly walks down the stairs, singing, "I can't recall who said it, I know I never read it; I only know they tell me that love is grand," she gives Peter a little smile. Oh, and the heart melts.
Peter says something to the person next to him (the music cut out every time he said this line, to get a clean dialogue track), and continues to watch. Mary Jane finishes her number and we applaud. The camera sweeps across the audience and up in the balcony, where everyone is looking down at Mary Jane except for one person. He lowers his opera glasses and glares menacingly at Peter Parker. This is Harry Osborn's reveal in the film.
I came close to buying a digital camera on my day off on Wednesday, but decided against it when I found out I know nothing about cameras or their capability or what I'd be getting for my not-hard-earned-but-still-scarce dollar. Regardless, it's doubtful I would've had any Spidey stuff to show you had I bought the camera. They have been SERIOUSLY strict against taking pictures on the set, and warned against even bringing cellphones in, since most of them have photo capability now.**
They broke us several times to go back to our tent and wait while they shot other parts of the show. I dozed for about half an hour, and read my book. Right before lunch, I saw (Executive Producer) Avi Arad for a moment, and he was as friendly as ever. I asked him whether this was the opening scene of the film, and he, always closed-mouthed, said, "Somewhere around there." Later, from the sides, I found the dialogue was from page eight of the screenplay.
Kirsten Dunst, with her hair all up in a bun, was cute and personable, keeping herself amused while she did take after take of going up and down the staircase. It wasn't Dunst's voice on the guidetrack, but you could hear her singing along with it take after take, so it will at least look like she's really signing. It would be nice to hear give it a try with her own voice, but if they were doing that, it would probably already have been on the playback.
Tobey's stand-in looks just like him. People were speculating that it was his brother, but there's something so humiliating about that possibility that I discount it. James Franco I said hello to (even though we're not supposed to) and he looks the same as ever. I really like what they've done with his character, since I wouldn't even have thought to have him back in SPIDER-MAN 2.
The day was long, especially for those who showed up at five or five-thirty (in retrospect, I wish I'd have been one of them, since it's the end of the month and my bank account is not exactly full), but it was reallllllly easy work, even for us.
At the end of the night, when everybody--even the lowliest non-union extra like me--was making really good overtime, people were bitching and complaining to no end. Indeed, the people on the row behind me produced so much whine . . . it would've drowned Earnest and Julio Gallo.***
Sometimes it is tiring work to be an extra, especially--and this is somewhat hard to express, when after all, we are in show business, surrounded by the rich, handsome, and famous--since we are sometimes reminded that we are not people, not important pieces of the puzzle, but just human props, no more integral to the production than those inflatable ones who simply sit, noncomplaining, all day beside us.
To be honest, I could've sat there all night, hearing that song play and watching Kirsten Dunst go up and down those stairs. And not just because she was lovely, but because it was SPIDER-MAN 3.
Your Friendly Neighborhood Rish Outfield
*Which reminds me of something Kristina said back in the day. It freaked me out for almost a year. I think I'll write an essay about it . . . maybe for Valentine's Day.
**NEVERTHELESS, during one of the takes at the end of the day, a flash went off among the background, and the A.D.s freaked out about it, saying there would be hell to pay if it happened again. It didn't, but there is a picture out there that somebody took of Kirsten Dunst in the green gown . . . somewhere.
***Which I realise is a dated and unfunny joke, but I couldn't think of anything better. And believe me, I tried. I thought about drunkards, other winemakers, or celebrities that drank themselves to death, even of Jesus, but no inspiration came.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
The Chronicles of Outfield
January 26, 2006
I haven't been writing much the last few days. I have a really good book and there hasn't been much of interest in the last few days. I worked on "The King of Queens" and it was fun, well-organised, with very good food, and I got to chat with Mr. Robert Goulet. That was at Sony, in the stage next to where they are shooting a second sequel to a certain web-slinging superhero film. I longed to be there.
Also, I did two days on "Criminal Minds" at their own little stage in Culver City. That too was well-organised and enjoyable. The A.D.s let us govern ourselves, and I spoke with one of the stars, Shemar Moore, who has to be THE most approachable actor I've encountered in my travels. Pretty much everyone there was cool. I saw actress A.J. Cook, who I've not liked in a couple of horror films, and decided that, given the chance, I would do her. Mandy Patinkin, who I really wanted to meet, I glimpsed for a brief moment, but was always busy, so no signed PRINCESS BRIDEs for this boy.
I was going to work on "The Office" yesterday, but Steve Carrell got sick and they canceled it (the episode, not the show). I told people he had the clap.
Today, I'm working on CHRONICLES, which according to the internet, they are retitling ZODIAC (a much better title). It's about the pursuit of the Zodiac Killer and is directed by David Fincher. I was supposed to have worked on it at the beginning of the month, and it didn't work out, so I feel I've been growing my sideburns out for nothing.
Today's scenes take place in 1971, at the opening of DIRTY HARRY in San Francisco (a special SFPD screening) and we're shooting it at the old Mann National Theater in Westwood. I'm writing this on a napkin. Here tonight are Dylan McDermot, Chloë Sevigny, ETERNAL SUNSHINE's Mark Ruffalo, and tyranist's object of heterosexual desire, Jake Gyllenhaal. We're shooting in the big, block-sized moviehouse that's showing BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN, which must be strange for Jake. They've changed it so it looks like 1971, with period colours and cars outside, posters for KLUTE and MCCABE & MRS. MILLER on the walls, and a fifteen foot cardboard cutout of Eastwood, but they've blackened out his face and the sign says "Harry Callahan is 'Dirty Harry'," where the actual posters say "Clint Eastwood is 'Dirty Harry.'" Guess it's a clearance issue.
The weirdest thing is that they're having people smoke in the theatre, which I found disgusting and never saw before. Only 1 out of 15 people has cigarettes, but since they're period, filterless smokes, they make a stench like that of Beezelebub's taint.
Did they really let people smoke at the movies in those days? Were there Non-Smoking sections and Smoking sections like on airplanes and at McDonaldses? Did only certain theatres allow smoking? I know the whole "Cigarettes are bad" thing is a relatively new phenomenon, but it's so revolting. I just can't imagine going to see THE SOUND OF MUSIC or GONE WITH THE WIND or SOYLENT GREEN and having someone puffing away in the row behind me. I know they're paying us extra for being around it--even the non-union maggots. For that I'm glad, but I may have to dry clean my suit to get the smell out.
A third of the theatre is us actual live extras, done up with sideburns or bad Seventies hair. The other third is inflatable people with wigs on. I haven't worked with them since FLAGS OF OUR FATHERS, so it was nice to see 'em again. They keep having us move to make the giant theatre appear full, and I was stupid enough to leave my notebook, novel, and radio at the holding camp, not knowing we'd not return until eleven or so. A long day to do nothing except sleep or watch the flickering lights that simulate a movie (and induce seizures, of course).
Once I was in front of the hottest babe there, then I was briefly next to an old man who was smoking, then right behind a kid chain-smoker, but he broke his ashtray and after he dropped ashes on the theatre floor he was told not to smoke. So I've been lucky. It's now six pm and they broke us for lunch, but before that I was in the same row as Jake Gyllenhaal, about five people away. I made a friend on the set of "The Sopranos" (he taught me how to play Spades and we've talked on a couple of sets since), and he sat three people away. He's a talented artist and is creating his own comic book called "Raspy the Hangman," a kind of effed-up Frosty parody. He lent me a pen to write this with. Friends are cool.
Aside from my dislike of ALIEN3, I really like David Fincher. I brought the DVD insert to FIGHT CLUB and tried to work up the courage to go ask him to sign it (some people are just easier to walk up to than others). First, I had to find out what he looked like. He was much older than I had guessed . . . or maybe only older-looking. We're all getting old, it would seem. Finally, I approached him during lunch and he signed my sleeve, "Why? David Fincher."
No clue.
Tomorrow I am excited to return to SPIDER-MAN 3. I hope to have many cool experiences on that set, like I did on the first one. I hope the Topher Grace Venom rumours are only that. I hope that they don't do anything untoward with my favourite dead comics character, Gwen Stacy (I love her). I hope the Pacific is as blue as it has been in my dreams. I'll be sure to give you a report as soon as I can.
At the end of the night, they shot a scene down in the lobby, and I was stuck in the theatre itself talking and playing Hangman with my new pal Jonathan. They finally called me and nine others downstairs and had us do crosses (where you pass in front of the camera--in the background or foreground--to create a sense of movement or busyness for a scene) right behind Ruffalo and Gyllenhaal. I crossed from one side of the lobby to right behind the "video village," which is the cutesy term for where the director sits to watch the goings-on on the monitor*. We did twelve takes that I counted, with director Fincher prompting the actors to change things up each time, whether saying their lines differently or ad-libbing new lines. But looking at the monitor's playback over Fincher's shoulder, I was witness to just how ugly a person I am. Dear Saint Agnes And The Burning Train, Paul Walker I am not! By the sixth take, I thought I looked like Steve Buscemi being hit in the face by a waffle iron. Three takes later, I suspected that my character was heading for a bell tower. By the eleventh take, I should've been walking through the London streets crying "I am not an animal!"
I'm here to make you feel better about yourself, kids.
They wrapped us soon after and I had to battle to get checked out promptly. I actually had a pretty good time and there was plenty of overtime, so except for my personal appearance, you'll get no complaints from me. Today.
Rish "Narcissus" Outfield
*See, yoo evin lern stufff bye reeding thiz enformitive blogg.
I haven't been writing much the last few days. I have a really good book and there hasn't been much of interest in the last few days. I worked on "The King of Queens" and it was fun, well-organised, with very good food, and I got to chat with Mr. Robert Goulet. That was at Sony, in the stage next to where they are shooting a second sequel to a certain web-slinging superhero film. I longed to be there.
Also, I did two days on "Criminal Minds" at their own little stage in Culver City. That too was well-organised and enjoyable. The A.D.s let us govern ourselves, and I spoke with one of the stars, Shemar Moore, who has to be THE most approachable actor I've encountered in my travels. Pretty much everyone there was cool. I saw actress A.J. Cook, who I've not liked in a couple of horror films, and decided that, given the chance, I would do her. Mandy Patinkin, who I really wanted to meet, I glimpsed for a brief moment, but was always busy, so no signed PRINCESS BRIDEs for this boy.
I was going to work on "The Office" yesterday, but Steve Carrell got sick and they canceled it (the episode, not the show). I told people he had the clap.
Today, I'm working on CHRONICLES, which according to the internet, they are retitling ZODIAC (a much better title). It's about the pursuit of the Zodiac Killer and is directed by David Fincher. I was supposed to have worked on it at the beginning of the month, and it didn't work out, so I feel I've been growing my sideburns out for nothing.
Today's scenes take place in 1971, at the opening of DIRTY HARRY in San Francisco (a special SFPD screening) and we're shooting it at the old Mann National Theater in Westwood. I'm writing this on a napkin. Here tonight are Dylan McDermot, Chloë Sevigny, ETERNAL SUNSHINE's Mark Ruffalo, and tyranist's object of heterosexual desire, Jake Gyllenhaal. We're shooting in the big, block-sized moviehouse that's showing BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN, which must be strange for Jake. They've changed it so it looks like 1971, with period colours and cars outside, posters for KLUTE and MCCABE & MRS. MILLER on the walls, and a fifteen foot cardboard cutout of Eastwood, but they've blackened out his face and the sign says "Harry Callahan is 'Dirty Harry'," where the actual posters say "Clint Eastwood is 'Dirty Harry.'" Guess it's a clearance issue.
The weirdest thing is that they're having people smoke in the theatre, which I found disgusting and never saw before. Only 1 out of 15 people has cigarettes, but since they're period, filterless smokes, they make a stench like that of Beezelebub's taint.
Did they really let people smoke at the movies in those days? Were there Non-Smoking sections and Smoking sections like on airplanes and at McDonaldses? Did only certain theatres allow smoking? I know the whole "Cigarettes are bad" thing is a relatively new phenomenon, but it's so revolting. I just can't imagine going to see THE SOUND OF MUSIC or GONE WITH THE WIND or SOYLENT GREEN and having someone puffing away in the row behind me. I know they're paying us extra for being around it--even the non-union maggots. For that I'm glad, but I may have to dry clean my suit to get the smell out.
A third of the theatre is us actual live extras, done up with sideburns or bad Seventies hair. The other third is inflatable people with wigs on. I haven't worked with them since FLAGS OF OUR FATHERS, so it was nice to see 'em again. They keep having us move to make the giant theatre appear full, and I was stupid enough to leave my notebook, novel, and radio at the holding camp, not knowing we'd not return until eleven or so. A long day to do nothing except sleep or watch the flickering lights that simulate a movie (and induce seizures, of course).
Once I was in front of the hottest babe there, then I was briefly next to an old man who was smoking, then right behind a kid chain-smoker, but he broke his ashtray and after he dropped ashes on the theatre floor he was told not to smoke. So I've been lucky. It's now six pm and they broke us for lunch, but before that I was in the same row as Jake Gyllenhaal, about five people away. I made a friend on the set of "The Sopranos" (he taught me how to play Spades and we've talked on a couple of sets since), and he sat three people away. He's a talented artist and is creating his own comic book called "Raspy the Hangman," a kind of effed-up Frosty parody. He lent me a pen to write this with. Friends are cool.
Aside from my dislike of ALIEN3, I really like David Fincher. I brought the DVD insert to FIGHT CLUB and tried to work up the courage to go ask him to sign it (some people are just easier to walk up to than others). First, I had to find out what he looked like. He was much older than I had guessed . . . or maybe only older-looking. We're all getting old, it would seem. Finally, I approached him during lunch and he signed my sleeve, "Why? David Fincher."
No clue.
Tomorrow I am excited to return to SPIDER-MAN 3. I hope to have many cool experiences on that set, like I did on the first one. I hope the Topher Grace Venom rumours are only that. I hope that they don't do anything untoward with my favourite dead comics character, Gwen Stacy (I love her). I hope the Pacific is as blue as it has been in my dreams. I'll be sure to give you a report as soon as I can.
At the end of the night, they shot a scene down in the lobby, and I was stuck in the theatre itself talking and playing Hangman with my new pal Jonathan. They finally called me and nine others downstairs and had us do crosses (where you pass in front of the camera--in the background or foreground--to create a sense of movement or busyness for a scene) right behind Ruffalo and Gyllenhaal. I crossed from one side of the lobby to right behind the "video village," which is the cutesy term for where the director sits to watch the goings-on on the monitor*. We did twelve takes that I counted, with director Fincher prompting the actors to change things up each time, whether saying their lines differently or ad-libbing new lines. But looking at the monitor's playback over Fincher's shoulder, I was witness to just how ugly a person I am. Dear Saint Agnes And The Burning Train, Paul Walker I am not! By the sixth take, I thought I looked like Steve Buscemi being hit in the face by a waffle iron. Three takes later, I suspected that my character was heading for a bell tower. By the eleventh take, I should've been walking through the London streets crying "I am not an animal!"
I'm here to make you feel better about yourself, kids.
They wrapped us soon after and I had to battle to get checked out promptly. I actually had a pretty good time and there was plenty of overtime, so except for my personal appearance, you'll get no complaints from me. Today.
Rish "Narcissus" Outfield
*See, yoo evin lern stufff bye reeding thiz enformitive blogg.
Saturday, January 21, 2006
Bo Knows Videos
January 21st, 2006
I worked my first music video today. I sort of hope it's my last.
Today I worked on a music video that was as inefficient as the day is long (and it was a very long day). They did pay in cash, however, which is better than a couple of the gigs where I have not been paid. Which reminds me, I guess I ought to call them again. It's always something. If it's not one thing, it's another . . .
I had sort of heard of Bo Bice in a nebulous, vague sort of way. I assumed he had won "American Idol" last year or the year before. Turns out he was a runner-up.
Regardless, it was his first music video too.
At first it was fun, since the huge crowd (300 plus people) thought it was going to be a short day.* The song wasn't bad, and Bo seemed friendly (sort of a Country-Rock guy, and totally gung ho to repeatedly pretend to sing his song in front of crowds of adoring fake fans). But as the hours stretched on and the sun came and went and still we sat there, people started getting grouchy and ready to leave. Most of the time we were shooting in an alley between two warehouses downtown in Los Angeles. First the alley was cold, then once the sun rose high enough, it became warm, and by the end of the night, it was back to cold again.
The track was called "The Real Thing," and was catchy enough I thought I would download it when I got home. Around noon, I was pretty much convinced it would be a hit song, and by one-thirty, I was SURE that Coca-Cola would use it as their new jingle someday soon.
Unfortunately, after hearing it again and again and again and again (about eleven times more times than the goram Foo Fighters song two days ago), I not only hope Coke doesn't use it, but I don't want to ever hear the song again, even if my gruesome face is all over the video.
The director was a young man, but if he wasn't, I'd be sure he was the same guy who did "West Wing" the other day. People were friendly, the girls were beautiful (I recognised many of them from "CSI:Miami," the Aleve commercial . . . and my own fantasies), and a lot of us really got into it, dancing around, jumping and waving our arms in the air, and eventually even singing along.
At one point, though, one of the guys leaned over and said, "Dude, this is totally that song by Avril Lavigne." Sure enough, the chorus of "Complicated" fit PERFECTLY over the chorus of "The Real Thing." Strange.
When we weren't shooting the video, we were all sitting in a coldish empty warehouse and around six o'clock, the water ran out in the honey wagon toilets out back. You can see why some people didn't count it among their favourite days of the year.
It was seriously inefficiently run, and terribly understaffed for how many of us there were. Also, because they were paying us in cash, the wait to get checked out stretched off into infinity. First they had us line up to hand in our paperwork, then they gave us numbers (I assumed, if they gave us numbers, they'd be checking us out in numerical order), then they ignored the numbers and wrapped people alphabetically. I have NO DOUBT there are people with last names that start with W or Y that are still in line to be checked out.
Because it was non-union shoot, we realised, the crew could keep us just as long as they wanted. They were paying no overtime, no meal penalties, no bumps, and because it was non-union shoot, we realised, the crew could keep us just as long as they wanted.
So, what seemed like a cushy, easy gig in the morning, ended up trying the patience of every man, woman, and in-between at night.
But I'll say it again: it still beats working.
Or wearing a leprechaun suit, come to think of it.
Rish Outfield
*They had told us we'd only be shooting until the sun went down, so while that's not a super short day, it's still a reasonable one.
I worked my first music video today. I sort of hope it's my last.
Today I worked on a music video that was as inefficient as the day is long (and it was a very long day). They did pay in cash, however, which is better than a couple of the gigs where I have not been paid. Which reminds me, I guess I ought to call them again. It's always something. If it's not one thing, it's another . . .
I had sort of heard of Bo Bice in a nebulous, vague sort of way. I assumed he had won "American Idol" last year or the year before. Turns out he was a runner-up.
Regardless, it was his first music video too.
At first it was fun, since the huge crowd (300 plus people) thought it was going to be a short day.* The song wasn't bad, and Bo seemed friendly (sort of a Country-Rock guy, and totally gung ho to repeatedly pretend to sing his song in front of crowds of adoring fake fans). But as the hours stretched on and the sun came and went and still we sat there, people started getting grouchy and ready to leave. Most of the time we were shooting in an alley between two warehouses downtown in Los Angeles. First the alley was cold, then once the sun rose high enough, it became warm, and by the end of the night, it was back to cold again.
The track was called "The Real Thing," and was catchy enough I thought I would download it when I got home. Around noon, I was pretty much convinced it would be a hit song, and by one-thirty, I was SURE that Coca-Cola would use it as their new jingle someday soon.
Unfortunately, after hearing it again and again and again and again (about eleven times more times than the goram Foo Fighters song two days ago), I not only hope Coke doesn't use it, but I don't want to ever hear the song again, even if my gruesome face is all over the video.
The director was a young man, but if he wasn't, I'd be sure he was the same guy who did "West Wing" the other day. People were friendly, the girls were beautiful (I recognised many of them from "CSI:Miami," the Aleve commercial . . . and my own fantasies), and a lot of us really got into it, dancing around, jumping and waving our arms in the air, and eventually even singing along.
At one point, though, one of the guys leaned over and said, "Dude, this is totally that song by Avril Lavigne." Sure enough, the chorus of "Complicated" fit PERFECTLY over the chorus of "The Real Thing." Strange.
When we weren't shooting the video, we were all sitting in a coldish empty warehouse and around six o'clock, the water ran out in the honey wagon toilets out back. You can see why some people didn't count it among their favourite days of the year.
It was seriously inefficiently run, and terribly understaffed for how many of us there were. Also, because they were paying us in cash, the wait to get checked out stretched off into infinity. First they had us line up to hand in our paperwork, then they gave us numbers (I assumed, if they gave us numbers, they'd be checking us out in numerical order), then they ignored the numbers and wrapped people alphabetically. I have NO DOUBT there are people with last names that start with W or Y that are still in line to be checked out.
Because it was non-union shoot, we realised, the crew could keep us just as long as they wanted. They were paying no overtime, no meal penalties, no bumps, and because it was non-union shoot, we realised, the crew could keep us just as long as they wanted.
So, what seemed like a cushy, easy gig in the morning, ended up trying the patience of every man, woman, and in-between at night.
But I'll say it again: it still beats working.
Or wearing a leprechaun suit, come to think of it.
Rish Outfield
*They had told us we'd only be shooting until the sun went down, so while that's not a super short day, it's still a reasonable one.
Friday, January 20, 2006
January 19th, 2006
I had a fitting in the morning, and it was so short (it practically took longer to park than to go through the whole process), that I called my agency to see if they had any more work for me.
A couple of hours later, they called to see if I would head to Valencia to work on "The West Wing." Valencia is to the north, way up past the L.A. County border. It was a Rush Call, which is where somebody didn't show up for a gig and they call someone to replace them at the last minute. Sometimes these pay extra (they say you can get union work that way), but I've never been that lucky. I may just have one of those faces.
They were shooting in an airplane hanger, where the Air Force One set is (I peeked into the huge set, though we weren't using it that day, and longed to work in it). There was a big convention hall set up with balloons and election decorations, along with many of us dressed to vote and celebrate (I got one of those goofy old-time white Styrofoam hats like barbershop quartets wear).
I mentioned when John Spencer died that I had worked with him before. His character, Leo McGarry, is running for Vice President alongside Matthew Santos (Jimmy Smits), and I had worked as a Santos staff member, a reporter, and a Santos supporter. I was the latter again, and this was the big election night episode. For drama's sake . . . spoilers ahead . . . they decided to have Spencer's character Leo McGarry die on election day.
Amid this somber scene, the band Foo Fighters is playing at the election results party. Janeane Garafolo interrupts the song, saying "Congressman Santos has a statement he wishes to make." He comes up and mentions Leo's passing and that, while it's sad, the election is more important than any one man. It was a long speech, and except for the thousand year old Fuyvish Finkel, nobody I've seen has a worse time remembering dialogue than Jimmy Smits. But he actually did alright.
At first, it was somewhat touching (though I thought it was more heartfelt when the A.D. came out and told us what the scene would be about and how it was a moving scene for the crew and they required our understanding). The director however, was infuriating, doing take after senseless take--of the entire scene mind you--until Smits actually did start to flub lines. It was really cold in the hanger--the coldest indoor set I've been on--and as the hours went on, people got grouchy and unhappy.
I like Jimmy Smits. I was a big fan of "L.A. Law" as a kid and absolutely loved one of the sketches he did when he hosted "Saturday Night Live" around that time (my pal Dennis and I never said the word "enchilada" the same after that). There was a middle-aged fat woman standing in front of me who had no idea who he was and we argued over whether he was a handsome man or not (she said she much preferred Antonio Banderas). When Smits came by, I grabbed at the woman and said, "Okay, here he is, I'll introduce you. You can let him know that he's not a good-lookin' guy." She seemed horrified, as if I were seriously going to do this thing. Ah well.
There were a lot of us--maybe seventy--and as the sun set and the scene went on, people might have lynched the director (some of the extras were getting angry even at the Foo Fighters for "playing" the same song over and over again.
We shot more later with Bradley Whitford and the blonde woman, and this too, took take after take after take. Not sitting in front of a monitor watching what the camera sees, we can only note when someone stumbles or forgets dialogue or gets distracted. I can only imagine what went wrong for the director to continually call for more takes (they were using a Steadicam, and I've been on countless sets with one that didn't require multiple takes).
Later, we did another whole scene with Whitford talking on the phone, and even I (having arrived hours after everyone else) was on double-time by then. It was past midnight when we were released, and luckily there was little traffic to keep me from my drafty little apartment.
Now that it's in the past, it doesn't seem so bad, I guess. There are hard days (like this one or on SPIDER-MAN 3) and there are easy days (like SANTA CLAUSE 3 or "Malcolm in the Middle"), so I suppose it balances out.
Rish Outfield
A couple of hours later, they called to see if I would head to Valencia to work on "The West Wing." Valencia is to the north, way up past the L.A. County border. It was a Rush Call, which is where somebody didn't show up for a gig and they call someone to replace them at the last minute. Sometimes these pay extra (they say you can get union work that way), but I've never been that lucky. I may just have one of those faces.
They were shooting in an airplane hanger, where the Air Force One set is (I peeked into the huge set, though we weren't using it that day, and longed to work in it). There was a big convention hall set up with balloons and election decorations, along with many of us dressed to vote and celebrate (I got one of those goofy old-time white Styrofoam hats like barbershop quartets wear).
I mentioned when John Spencer died that I had worked with him before. His character, Leo McGarry, is running for Vice President alongside Matthew Santos (Jimmy Smits), and I had worked as a Santos staff member, a reporter, and a Santos supporter. I was the latter again, and this was the big election night episode. For drama's sake . . . spoilers ahead . . . they decided to have Spencer's character Leo McGarry die on election day.
Amid this somber scene, the band Foo Fighters is playing at the election results party. Janeane Garafolo interrupts the song, saying "Congressman Santos has a statement he wishes to make." He comes up and mentions Leo's passing and that, while it's sad, the election is more important than any one man. It was a long speech, and except for the thousand year old Fuyvish Finkel, nobody I've seen has a worse time remembering dialogue than Jimmy Smits. But he actually did alright.
At first, it was somewhat touching (though I thought it was more heartfelt when the A.D. came out and told us what the scene would be about and how it was a moving scene for the crew and they required our understanding). The director however, was infuriating, doing take after senseless take--of the entire scene mind you--until Smits actually did start to flub lines. It was really cold in the hanger--the coldest indoor set I've been on--and as the hours went on, people got grouchy and unhappy.
I like Jimmy Smits. I was a big fan of "L.A. Law" as a kid and absolutely loved one of the sketches he did when he hosted "Saturday Night Live" around that time (my pal Dennis and I never said the word "enchilada" the same after that). There was a middle-aged fat woman standing in front of me who had no idea who he was and we argued over whether he was a handsome man or not (she said she much preferred Antonio Banderas). When Smits came by, I grabbed at the woman and said, "Okay, here he is, I'll introduce you. You can let him know that he's not a good-lookin' guy." She seemed horrified, as if I were seriously going to do this thing. Ah well.
There were a lot of us--maybe seventy--and as the sun set and the scene went on, people might have lynched the director (some of the extras were getting angry even at the Foo Fighters for "playing" the same song over and over again.
We shot more later with Bradley Whitford and the blonde woman, and this too, took take after take after take. Not sitting in front of a monitor watching what the camera sees, we can only note when someone stumbles or forgets dialogue or gets distracted. I can only imagine what went wrong for the director to continually call for more takes (they were using a Steadicam, and I've been on countless sets with one that didn't require multiple takes).
Later, we did another whole scene with Whitford talking on the phone, and even I (having arrived hours after everyone else) was on double-time by then. It was past midnight when we were released, and luckily there was little traffic to keep me from my drafty little apartment.
Now that it's in the past, it doesn't seem so bad, I guess. There are hard days (like this one or on SPIDER-MAN 3) and there are easy days (like SANTA CLAUSE 3 or "Malcolm in the Middle"), so I suppose it balances out.
Rish Outfield
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
January 17th, 2006
Worked on the dread “Gilmore Girls” today. I survived. Compared to Lucky the Leprechaun, playing a Bat Mitzvah attendee was a cakewalk.
It wasn’t that bad, actually. But to be fair, neither of the “Girls” were on set today.
Maybe I'll add more later, but today really wasn't all that interesting. If I may be so bold as to infer that my days are ever interesting at all.
Rish
It wasn’t that bad, actually. But to be fair, neither of the “Girls” were on set today.
Maybe I'll add more later, but today really wasn't all that interesting. If I may be so bold as to infer that my days are ever interesting at all.
Rish
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