Tag: Liv Tyler

I submit to play an upstate New York townie for The Leftovers, then in its first season. The shoot is in Nyack, New York, about fifty minutes north of the city. Rockland County, where Nyack is located, is often used to portray rural America. It’s just not feasible to transport the entire production to the sticks.

I hear back from casting in minutes. They want me, or rather they’re willing to hire me because I’m willing to “self-report” to Nyack, no production courtesy ride required. When casting calls, I inquire about the possibilities of a courtesy ride, and the young woman tells me that she’ll get back to me. Right.

Ultimately, I accept the assignment and agree to self-report. I have a friend near Nyack. I’ll make it work, somehow. After I endure a restless night on my friend’s couch, he drops me off at holding, a parochial school cafeteria, at 11:30 the next morning. Production wrapped very late the night before, and I spent much of the evening calling casting’s maddening recording, attempting to retrieve my reporting time. I finally got it in the wee hours of the morning.

Here’s the thing about extras: we’re the very last to know. And in truth, many extras will never know. We’re merely clueless vessels, lost puppies filling up space, and, yes, collecting a check. Personally, I don’t know where I’m going with this extra stuff, but I’m doing it.

Wardrobe insists that I remove my black sweatshirt, which has a tiny Carhartt logo on it. Labels of any kind are a strict no-no. I forgot it was there. I don’t want to remove the sweatshirt, so I remove the label. In retrospect, I should’ve requested black tape to cover it.

As I wait on one of the cafeteria benches, one of the PAs asks me for my number.

SIXTY-NINE.

Extras are assigned and referred to by number. Your number is your name. Sure, it’s somewhat dehumanizing, but it works.

Anyway, something’s up.

Minutes later, a crew member who seems important informs me that I’m going to be used for an additional scene. When I ask an approachable PA about this, she tells me that I have “a look that they’re looking for.” According to legend, that’s how it all started for Brad Pitt. Supposedly, a young Brad was plucked from the bowels of background, and, well, the rest is history.

“What kind of look do I have?” I want to pester.

Or maybe, I don’t want to know. I don’t.

In the additional scene, I’ll be playing a gas station attendant. As I sit on the bench, my mind does cartwheels. Unfortunately, this is before I got my iPhone, so I’m alone with my anxious, impatient self. Will Justin Theroux be in my scene? Liv Tyler? Will I have a line or two? If that happens, I’ll become a “day player” and be paid $900, plus residuals. Will I be asked to play a gas station attendant in future episodes? Or will I be the gas station attendant that gets killed during a holdup?

A few hours later, the hundred-plus herd of extras is ordered to set: a church meeting room. As we funnel in, a female extra praises Alec Baldwin for how overwhelmingly friendly he was to background on a previous shoot. Alec Baldwin! Even when he’s not here, he’s here.

In the packed church, most of us have seats. Others stand. Justin plays the police chief, who’s enforcing a curfew because some townies have been mysteriously killed. In the script, the townies are outraged over the curfew. Personally, a curfew seems perfectly reasonable. Folks are getting killed. Stay home.

After each pro-curfew statement, the director, a mature, affable woman, directs us, the townies, to mumble and grumble dissent. In industry speak, we’re executing “omni,” which is acting in unison. Just to be clear, we’re not uttering actual lines. We’re merely mumbling and grumbling. No, none of us will get paid $900 plus residuals for this. We go through the scene ad nauseam during which Justin makes a dramatic speech. He’s compelling; however, he looks awfully thin. Frankly, the man looks like he needs a good steak or two and sides. Apparently, his gaunt physique makes him very appealing for television audiences. Television loves thin. There are exceptions, of course, but for the most part, television hates flab.

Throughout the scene, we either mumble and grumble or utter something affirmative such as “yeah” when a town member protests the curfew. I attempt to be in the moment—but can’t. I’m obsessing over my additional scene. No one notices. I’m background, and I’m doing it just fine. However, an extra sitting directly behind me is not. Instead of mumbling and grumbling, he’s echoing. When a mic’d-up day player, a town meeting attendee, complains loudly that “they robbed my house on Christmas!” the bad extra repeats “Christmas!”—take after take. Finally, a crew person orders the bad extra to cease echoing immediately. Gruffly, he explains to him that he’s being paid to not speak.

Four hours later, after the scene is shot from a multitude of angles, we’re dismissed. As we single file out of the church, Justin strolls past us in his cool Aviator shades, the ones he’s always photographed wearing, and steps into a waiting black vehicle. Unlike Alec Baldwin, he doesn’t acknowledge background, at least in this moment. But that sentiment doesn’t go both ways.

“Justin’s so handsome. He’s much better looking in person,” gushes a young female extra. “But he’s not my type.”

“I’m sure you’re not his type either,” I want to snap.

At the time, Justin was Mr. Aniston.

As my town meeting extra brethren check out to go home via their courtesy ride, another fresh batch of background checks in and hunkers down in the cafeteria. I’m not allowed to depart, of course, because I have that additional scene—the one that very well could save me. As far as the workday, it’s halftime.

The fresh extras, who are playing cult members, are easy to identify because they’re dressed in all white. I’d applied for this core background role but didn’t have the required white attire. Meanwhile, a heaping, gorgeous buffet is laid out, which I happen to be seated next to. I’m famished. I exhausted myself calling casting’s recording. I tentatively approach the buffet before deciding to just go for it. Just as I’m about to tong some greens, I’m ordered to halt. “Background?!” the catering man orders in a stern, condescending tone.

Suddenly, I’m an insect.

I drop the tongs in the greens. I almost feel as if I should raise my hands in surrender. I could’ve played a captured German in Saving Private Ryan.

“Ah, yeah,” I stammer. Being identified as mere scenery shook me. Since I was chosen for the role of gas station attendant, I thought that my status had been elevated. I was wrong. Again.

“You gotta wait for the crew to eat first,” barks the catering dude.

When I saw the plentiful buffet, I completely forgot that nonunion extras are the very last to indulge. The production crew—everyone from the technical people to the principal actors to the stand-ins—dine first, then union background, and then, finally, nonunion background. I slink back to my seat. As the crew eats, I sit alone and mumble and grumble to myself. The cult members—who have been working on the production for several days—have their niche. The PAs sit with PAs. The teamsters are with the teamsters. And so on and so on. No, there are no other anxious gas station attendants.

I am Leftover 69.

When the cult members form a line at the buffet, I’m out of the gate like Secretariat, and I cut in front of them. I’ve been here all day. I will eat first! Indeed, I’m entitled.

After dinner, the cult members and I are bused to another holding location, “satellite holding,” which is closer to set. It’s an empty room in an Italian restaurant. When the cult extras are called to set—a real gas station—I depart to the bus with them. I’m uninvited but perhaps the director will decide on the fly that she needs me. If you want an opportunity, you must be in the right place. And, yes, the scene does take place at a gas station, and, of course, I’m the attendant. But before I can board, the PA, who told me I had “a look,” orders me off the bus and to wait in the restaurant.

No, she’s not treating me like the next Brad Pitt in any shape or form.

Finally, I’m informed that I’ll be in the final shot of the night. Production refers to this as the Martini Shot because the very next shot will be out of a glass. Cute.

Unless I get an actual line, my paycheck isn’t going to be much more than that of the townie nonunion extras who were bused out hours earlier and got paid for ten hours. I return to the room and plop myself at a table that’s vacant except for a basket of untouched onion rolls—which I somehow manage to not devour. Thus far, that’s my biggest accomplishment of the day.

There’s another guy with me, a veteran union extra. Pacino is in the final scene with me. Of course, this is not his real name, but he has a faint resemblance to the legendary actor. He’ll be driving his car at my gas station. It’s a decent payday for Pacino. As union background, he makes about twice my hourly rate, and he gets overtime after eight hours as opposed to ten for nonunion. Plus, he’s getting a pay bump for the use of his car, as well as mileage. I would’ve joined the union yesterday, but you can’t just sign up. You need to pay a few thousand bucks to get in, plus dues. Also—and this is perhaps the toughest part—you need to be granted three waivers. How’s that accomplished? A nonunion individual needs to be hired as a union hire on three separate occasions. A television show’s first twenty-five background hires must be union. For film, it’s about seventy-five. If production fills one of those union spots with a nonunion person, for whatever reason, that nonunion hire earns a waiver. At this point, I have zero waivers. Anyway, Pacino tells me that I shouldn’t expect a line because production would be fined for using a nonunion extra for such purposes. As he checks his email, I pester him with questions until I pass out on the floor.

Just before 11 p.m., I’m awakened by a mobile sea of white—the cult members. It’s time. I’ll finally learn my fate. Pacino drives me to the gas station set, where I’m greeted enthusiastically.

“Jonny!” the second-second greets me enthusiastically.

“What happened to 69?” I want to reply.

He’s a handsome man—think Redford—with a full head of dirty-blond hair. I’m taken aback by his enthusiastic, personal welcome after being referred to as 69 throughout the day. Just maybe I’ll get an opportunity to do something, like fill up someone’s tank or perhaps even ask, “Fill her up?” I can dream, damn it.

Redford interrupts my fantasies and casually informs me that production may use me.

Come again?! After all this, you may use me? I’m annoyed.

Following this revelation, I just want the day to be done. Unfortunately, the gas station has a conspicuous “Self-Serve” sign. No, I won’t be making an appearance in this scene, not even as background. That’s fine. My tank is empty anyway.

As they shoot my scene, I wait in the station’s convenience store and listen to a makeup lady complain about some of the seemingly endless days on Orange Is the New Black. She has to rise at 3 a.m. to be at set at 5 a.m. I also converse with the gas station owner, the real gas station owner. This station has a futuristic exterior and has been featured on several shows.

Minutes later, we wrap. I hitch a ride back with Pacino to the cafeteria. As I sign out, I ask the PA, the one who said I had “a look,” about getting a ride back to the city in one of production’s vans. Earlier, a few PAs assured me that this wouldn’t be a problem.

“I thought you were taking care of your transportation,” she replies, flustered.

“They told me that I could get a courtesy ride,” I whine.

My friend’s couch is a viable backup, but I need home.

“We asked you to stay late because you were arranging your own transportation,” she explains.

“What happened to my look!?” I want to snarl like Billy Bob in Bad Santa.

Ironic: the unused gas station attendant may not be granted a courtesy ride. Later, I learn that most, if not all, productions do not want crew to ride with background. It’s as if we’re contagious.

“We’ll get you in a van,” she finally relents.

After midnight, I step into a packed van. No one utters a word during the ride. When the van lands on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, someone grumbles. Fitting.

Jon Hart’s Unfortunately, I was available is available on Amazon and wherever books are sold.