Date: June 2010
Job: The Cup
Location: Flemington Race Course
I recently spent spent two days shooting a film about the Melbourne Cup, manoeuvring into the front row of the crowd at the mounting yard and strategically positioning myself in the grandstand in direct relation to the camera and the leads. I have become quite adept at ‘being seen’. I’ve also become a superficial, self-absorbed, competitive attention seeker. I am truly ashamed.
Okay. Now, I’ll tell you how I got my face in The Age! Yes, that’s right! There’s an article with some photos of filming in progress, including Stephen Curry just before he got thrown off the substandard nag they have cast in the lead horse role. In fact many of the horses look mangy and second class. But back to me. There’s a large photo of the crowd in their Cup splendour (had to go shopping again) and I’m right in the front row behind the fake roses. Okay, my dad had trouble picking me out but it’s me alright and I look fabulous in my hat, if I do say so myself. Never mind that I was FREEZING. It’s mid winter (not the warm spring day it’s mean to be) and all the women’s heels are sinking into the water logged lawn. Oh, those poor young things in their strappy dresses and strappy shoes and bare legs! The day pretty much goes like this: ‘Coats off!’, wait shivering until we hear ‘Background!’, then smile, chat, applaud, sip fake champagne then, ‘Cut!’, hastily throw coats back on. As the shoot progresses and the women realise no-one can see their feet they exchange their super stilettos for ug boots, which adds an interesting touch to their ensembles.
There are about three hundred of us and the queues at arrival, lunch and leaving are a pain (I earn an extra twenty dollars standing in line for an hour waiting to sign out, though). Once again the camaraderie helps while the day away and I pick up lots of useful tips on the industry. I meet a theatre critic, a would-be film maker and lots of would-be actors as well some people off the street. One of these is Peter, who looks like a fair dinkum punter in his tweed trilby and moustache. Turns out he is. He was helping a mate paint the logos on the mounting yard lawn the day before and he and his young offsider were ‘spotted’. We couple up from time to time. He’s a retired principal so we have a bit in common but in schools the word ‘extra’ has a much more negative connotation, let me tell you! Then there’s the young girl who never stops telling everyone how much she knows about horses (this goes on for two days) and a short, elderly Italian woman who pushes into the front of the crowd when filming and tries to push in front of me in the coffee queue but I stand my ground. She seems to think she’s an endearing, eccentric character. She’s not. Peter and I watch with amusement as the short, elderly Italian woman and a short, elderly Russian woman have an argument. The Russian has also committed the extra mortal sin (that’s ‘extra’ mortal, not extra-mortal) by asking Stephen Curry to sign an autograph and pose for a photo. Tsk, tsk.
After lunch on the second day we all change into black and white for ‘Darby Day’. Filming continues til dark when they bring in lights and a large reflective screen. I head home worn out from the early starts and long days of standing around!
Showing posts with label movie. Show all posts
Showing posts with label movie. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Swinging in the 70's
Date: May 2010
Job: Eye of the Storm
Location: City
Seven weeks after the ad I do a film set in the 1970s so costume and make-up are provided, which is kind of fun. At the unit base I dress in a tent (no, I don’t wear a tent, that was late 70s, this is early 70s) and later I’m called into another tent to have my hair and make-up done. Of course the stars, like Geoffrey Rush, have a caravan. Sigh. One day.
Eventually a mini bus ferries us to the location, a posh Italian restaurant a few blocks away. We extras sit out on the street chatting, a habit we've all developed to pass the time. Should I be offended that they’ve married me to a grey-haired man in his late 50s when I’m… much younger? Not to worry, he’s a handsome, articulate man, and a good conversationalist. Once inside I am a little disappointed to find we are placed in a booth right at the back of the restaurant. Then they have the audacity to take my husband away and give me another! We find out later my second husband’s modern crew cut is the reason for his demotion from a table near the leads to one right up the back with me. There are lots of riotous jokes about wife swapping. Hubby #2 and I are left to our own devices as we realise, despite what the agitated AD tells us, we are not even in shot. The huge, and I mean huge, vase of flowers between us and the camera is a dead give away. So much for ‘being seen.’ And the trouble they went to dress me in this lovely orange knitted suit with gold trim and matching gold handbag and shoes and jewellery, not to mention my flicked back hair! So we sit there with our plates of cold pasta and glasses of grape juice playing ‘Pass the pepper. Which pepper? Oh, that pepper.’ (I’ll have to show you one day. Hours of fun.) and exchanging personal trivia in hushed tones.
Later I am given some herb cigarettes to smoke and my spouse and I work out a routine involving lighting my smoke with a candle, as we are thrilled to find his face and the back of my head will be blurs in the distance! Moving up in the world. The trouble is the cigarettes will not butt out and I have to keep replacing them and after several takes I realise I’ve smoked a whole pack. And I don’t even smoke! I try to hold the cigarette elegantly like I’ve seen in movies when it was considered cool, but I end up spilling ash everywhere. By the time we are finished there is a plate of pasta smothered in pepper, a mountain of cigarette butts in the ash tray and a table cloth mysteriously littered with grey filth and candle wax.
At lunch the extras are the last to eat, as industry propriety decrees, and I struggle to find things that satisfy. Against my better judgement, I eat a corn cob and have bits stuck in my teeth for the rest of the afternoon. Not that it matters. I could smear tomato sauce all over my face and it wouldn’t be seen.
During an afternoon break I see ‘The Rush’ sitting alone and decide to say hello. After all, we met just a few weeks before, at which time he chatted amiably with my daughter. I ask whether he remembers. He does. Then I stupidly tell him he looks tired. ‘Oh, we’ve been filming here today.’ ‘I know,’ I answer, ‘I’m one of the extras.’ I don't usually dress like this, you know.
The wardrobe people arrive and give us new outfits. We are re-arranged at the other end of the restaurant so that the camera can film the same scene from a different angle. I end up with an elderly gentleman. This time I’m facing the camera and actually within view of the leads! (Glad I didn’t go with the tomato sauce idea after all.) An AD tells me I’m a PA out to lunch with my boss. His ‘wife’ is now sitting at another table. More jokes about naughty goings on. ‘The boss’ and I chat between takes but when they yell ‘background!’ he will not make eye contact and, given we are miming, it’s impossible to co-ordinate our ‘talking’ and ‘listening’. So I give up and do my own thing.
It’s well after 7 pm by the time we get out of there. I whip off my costume and head off to a private screening of the docudrama I was in (see The Trial and Error, June), which is coincidentally showing at a nearby restaurant. I am wearing my 70s hair and make up but it’s not til much later that I realise I am also wearing a gold necklace that I have inadvertently stolen from wardrobe. Pity it wasn't the suit. That would have been something.
Job: Eye of the Storm
Location: City
Seven weeks after the ad I do a film set in the 1970s so costume and make-up are provided, which is kind of fun. At the unit base I dress in a tent (no, I don’t wear a tent, that was late 70s, this is early 70s) and later I’m called into another tent to have my hair and make-up done. Of course the stars, like Geoffrey Rush, have a caravan. Sigh. One day.
Eventually a mini bus ferries us to the location, a posh Italian restaurant a few blocks away. We extras sit out on the street chatting, a habit we've all developed to pass the time. Should I be offended that they’ve married me to a grey-haired man in his late 50s when I’m… much younger? Not to worry, he’s a handsome, articulate man, and a good conversationalist. Once inside I am a little disappointed to find we are placed in a booth right at the back of the restaurant. Then they have the audacity to take my husband away and give me another! We find out later my second husband’s modern crew cut is the reason for his demotion from a table near the leads to one right up the back with me. There are lots of riotous jokes about wife swapping. Hubby #2 and I are left to our own devices as we realise, despite what the agitated AD tells us, we are not even in shot. The huge, and I mean huge, vase of flowers between us and the camera is a dead give away. So much for ‘being seen.’ And the trouble they went to dress me in this lovely orange knitted suit with gold trim and matching gold handbag and shoes and jewellery, not to mention my flicked back hair! So we sit there with our plates of cold pasta and glasses of grape juice playing ‘Pass the pepper. Which pepper? Oh, that pepper.’ (I’ll have to show you one day. Hours of fun.) and exchanging personal trivia in hushed tones.
Later I am given some herb cigarettes to smoke and my spouse and I work out a routine involving lighting my smoke with a candle, as we are thrilled to find his face and the back of my head will be blurs in the distance! Moving up in the world. The trouble is the cigarettes will not butt out and I have to keep replacing them and after several takes I realise I’ve smoked a whole pack. And I don’t even smoke! I try to hold the cigarette elegantly like I’ve seen in movies when it was considered cool, but I end up spilling ash everywhere. By the time we are finished there is a plate of pasta smothered in pepper, a mountain of cigarette butts in the ash tray and a table cloth mysteriously littered with grey filth and candle wax.
At lunch the extras are the last to eat, as industry propriety decrees, and I struggle to find things that satisfy. Against my better judgement, I eat a corn cob and have bits stuck in my teeth for the rest of the afternoon. Not that it matters. I could smear tomato sauce all over my face and it wouldn’t be seen.
During an afternoon break I see ‘The Rush’ sitting alone and decide to say hello. After all, we met just a few weeks before, at which time he chatted amiably with my daughter. I ask whether he remembers. He does. Then I stupidly tell him he looks tired. ‘Oh, we’ve been filming here today.’ ‘I know,’ I answer, ‘I’m one of the extras.’ I don't usually dress like this, you know.
The wardrobe people arrive and give us new outfits. We are re-arranged at the other end of the restaurant so that the camera can film the same scene from a different angle. I end up with an elderly gentleman. This time I’m facing the camera and actually within view of the leads! (Glad I didn’t go with the tomato sauce idea after all.) An AD tells me I’m a PA out to lunch with my boss. His ‘wife’ is now sitting at another table. More jokes about naughty goings on. ‘The boss’ and I chat between takes but when they yell ‘background!’ he will not make eye contact and, given we are miming, it’s impossible to co-ordinate our ‘talking’ and ‘listening’. So I give up and do my own thing.
It’s well after 7 pm by the time we get out of there. I whip off my costume and head off to a private screening of the docudrama I was in (see The Trial and Error, June), which is coincidentally showing at a nearby restaurant. I am wearing my 70s hair and make up but it’s not til much later that I realise I am also wearing a gold necklace that I have inadvertently stolen from wardrobe. Pity it wasn't the suit. That would have been something.
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