I think we’re supposed to cower again soon. The cowering we did earlier was just a rehearsal apparently. ‘Life is not a rehearsal’ – Sarah’s got that on a bit of sticky yellow paper by her desk. I’m so glad she sent me on this assignment. It’s almost made me forget that James Mitchel hasn’t returned my phone call, and probably never will. Even Eamon’s proposal seems like a distant dilemma. Maybe if I can cower with enough conviction a Hollywood producer will spot me and whisk me off to Beverly Hills.
I must try to get some quotes from Clara, the woman who seems to be in charge of us extras. She’s so busy; I haven’t seen her stand still all morning. She’s rushing around this set like a blue-arsed fly with a walkie-talkie. She’s taking care of small but crucial details, such as making sure we aren’t holding coke cans during filming.
We’re to take off spectacles and brooches and earrings and cover any glinting buttons too. The camera picks up these things, apparently.
Today’s filming is being done in a small country village. They’re using real buildings only they’ve altered the exteriors to make them look the right period. They’ve done a brilliant job. You really would think you’d stepped back in time. The film is set in Ireland during the early part of this century. It’s a love story, but there are skirmishes in it too. In fact, I’m waiting to take part in one of the skirmishes right now. It happens when a man is addressing an outdoor meeting about Irish freedom. Shots ring out and the crowd – that’s me and about four hundred others – cower for a moment but don’t run away. I myself would have run away. I would have scuttled into the local bar before you could say ‘Steven Spielberg’ – but this moustache seems to have changed my character enormously. Maybe I should keep it.
The film’s love story starts straight after this outdoor meeting. One of the men in the crowd goes into the local hotel and meets a mysterious and very beautiful woman who’s taking refuge in an alcove off the reception area. They fall in love immediately – which, of course, is how it should be done. But after this happens the handsome man discovers that the woman’s father is a high-ranking officer in the British Army. This is a right pain in the arse because the handsome man is devoted to the Irish cause. Love does win out in the end, apparently, but not before they have caused themselves, and piles of other people, a considerable amount of heartache. Frankly, I wonder if they wouldn’t have been better off saying ‘so long’ when things got so complicated – but, of course, there wouldn’t be a film then, would there? I have a tendency to back away from difficult situations, but maybe you have to face them if you want your life to have some glory.
Goodness – is that Elsie over there? Liam’s girlfriend. She’s got a lovely velvet dress on and loads of make-up. Her hair looks as if it’s been styled too. Maybe she’s one of the extras they’re using in a close-up. They have to look just right. She’s with a man in a smart brown suit. She’s eating an ice-cream, and he’s sharing it. He’s taking long suggestive licks from her cornetto. They seem to know each other very well. Goodness, he’s nibbling her ear! He’s brushing a stray hair from her face, and now they’re kissing! Perhaps it’s a rehearsal. No. I doubt it very much. It seems entirely authentic. Poor Liam. She’s cheating on him. But then, of course, he cheated on her too. They obviously deserve each other.
The director is shouting into his megaphone again. He says he wants us to look scared when the shots ring out. We weren’t looking frightened enough before apparently. I’m sure I was. I’m good at being frightened. I’m not that great at uncertainty, and there’s a lot of it about.
What on earth can be holding things up? The director told us we were to look frightened and then he went off somewhere. People are starting to slouch around again and are looking for somewhere to sit. I simply must have a pee. I can’t wait any longer. I’ll dash into that pub and be back in a second.
Oh darn – there’s a queue. Still, they can’t have started filming yet. The crew all looked very engrossed in obscure matters a moment ago and Mel Nichols wasn’t even on the set. I better check my moustache is on right. Little details like this do matter. The camera could just turn in my direction. Some people must get singled out – even in a crowd.
But as I sit down on the toilet seat I hear a loud English voice shout ‘Action’ and I know my moustache and I are not going to be part of this Hollywood epic. I’ve missed it. Missed the final ‘take’. The one they must be using because now, as I pull up my scratchy tweed pants I hear the director shouting through his megaphone: ‘Perfect. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.’
I can’t believe it. It’s just not fair. I cowered more convincingly than any of the others. If only they’d waited for a moment I would have been back in time. But life doesn’t wait for you, does it? That’s what I’ve been learning lately. If you straggle too much you miss things. I’ve missed piles of things. It’s quite possible that I’m even going to miss love – the thing I want most of all. Because life isn’t like romantic movies. If I was Julia Robbins I probably wouldn’t even see Mel Nichols when he walks into the hotel where they’re supposed to meet. I’d probably be buttering a scone or something.
I push my way through the crowd in the pub, my eyes misting. Once I get outside I stand, blinking in the sudden sunlight, wondering what to do. I suppose I should go home. I’m good at that. But I have to hand this scratchy suit and other stuff back to wardrobe first. I’m so disappointed. My big day on a big film is all over and I’m not even in the thing. I’ll just have to face the fact that I’m not a Hollywood kind of person. I live a small life, and must adjust my dreams accordingly. There is a certain comfort in resignation, not just about this but other things too. Some of them swim in front of me now, almost taunting me for my stupidity: James Mitchel will never ever phone me. Beautiful letters do not arrive in my post. There is no Wonderful Man out there waiting to meet me. I will spend most of my honeymoon learning how to play golf.
I feel like throwing myself, wailing, to the ground, but I know I must practise stoicism. Most people ‘live lives of quiet desperation’ – that’s what Thoreau said. It’s true. I see Clara. She’s studying some notes on her clipboard. She looks very busy. Too busy to be interrupted by the likes of me. I can ring her for those quotes if necessary. I walk humbly by her, my resignation less scratchy now. Less painful. I’ll go home and give the herbaceous border a good weeding. Yes, that would be a sensible thing to do.
Then, just as I’ve almost reached wardrobe, I hear Clara calling, ‘You. You there. Come here for a moment.’ I turn around and see she’s pointing at me. I go back to her. What on earth can she want?
‘You missed the last scene, didn’t you?’ she says, looking at me sternly. ‘I saw you coming out of the pub. What were you doing in there?’
‘I went to the ladies.’
‘Couldn’t you have waited?’
‘Not really. I must have drunk about five cups of tea.’
‘Well, go easy on the tea for goodness sake,’ Clara smiles tolerantly. ‘We can’t have you running off like that the next time.’
‘What?’
‘We could use you in some of the next scenes since you weren’t in the last one.’
I feel a sudden jolt as life does one of its abrupt gear-changes. ‘What did you say?’ I peer at Clara as though at a very confusing script.
‘We can use you in some other scenes, but you’ll have to hurry.’
‘Hurry. Hurry where?’ This sudden transition from resignation to elation requires a kind of emotional athleticism I am not in training for. I couldn’t bear to be caught straggling again.
‘Where do I have to go? Where do they need me?’ I’m scouring the set for the director and crew.
‘In the hotel. But you’ll have to smarten up first. I’ll bring you to wardrobe.’ Clara strides off and I scurry after her. In fact, at one point I’m in front of her, and she has to tell me to slow down.
Though I’m excited, I’m surprised to find my feelings about this sudden turn of events a
re not entirely clear cut. My recent resignation had felt rather seductive in its certainty. Though it was sad, it did seem to offer some kind of lacklustre liberation. A severing of dreams. And now hope was back on the line again like an inconsistent lover – offering no certainties, just its sweetness. And no excuses as to why it took so long to return my many, many urgent calls. But, as I change into one of the long dresses with lace collars I so longed for earlier, I forget these variegated ruminations. The colour of the day is suddenly bright and beckoning, making hesitation not only stupid…but impossible.
There are only ten extras in this bit and we’re pretending to have afternoon tea. It’s so much nicer than being a peasant. I’ve got some make-up on and my hair has been put up in a bun. I can’t believe it! I’m part of the big scene in the hotel where Mel and Julia meet!
After the usual waiting around we get some instructions. ‘We need a reaction shot,’ says the director, then he explains that this involves us extras looking towards a window as the shots ring out outside. We’re to look shocked, even though the shots don’t really ring out because, of course, that happened earlier. We just have to pretend they do. I’m so excited. As he shouts ‘Action!’ I give a little gasp and widen my eyes. I clatter my teacup down on the table and put my hand to my face.
‘What’s your name?’ the director asks when we’ve done some rehearsals.
‘Alice Evans,’ I tell him eagerly. It’s happened! He’s singled me out. Maybe I’m going to have to stand up and shout ‘Help!’ or something. I’d be good at that.
‘Alice,’ he smiles at me patiently. ‘You can leave the teacup on the table. And clutch your bag instead of putting your hand to your face. It won’t look natural if it’s overdone.’
‘But I wasn’t overdoing it!’ I want to protest. Like all the best actresses I have given my ‘character’ some thought. I have to get right into things – it’s my nature. So I know, for example, that my ‘character’ is nervy and well-bred and called Jessica. She lives in a big house nearby and has a husband who’s away a lot. She paints watercolours of local plants and plays the pianoforte. She isn’t used to this kind of thing.
‘OK,’ I tell the director humbly, trying to keep a mutinous look from my face.
Once the ‘reaction’ scene is ‘in the can’ as we film people say, we’re used as background when Mel Nichols comes in. We don’t ogle at him, of course. We just chat away quietly and pick at our sandwiches. I hope to God that big sound boom over there doesn’t pick up the conversation I’m having with the woman opposite me. Though she’s wearing a bonnet she insists on talking about her recent trip to France via the Eurotunnel.
We’re background again as Mel and Julia Robbins emerge from their first meeting in the alcove. And then, as Mel leaves the hotel and Julia stares fondly after him, four of us afternoon tea ladies are told to rise in a leisurely manner from our seats, collect our belongings, and exit the hotel too.
The first time we do this hotel exit scene I’m gripping my handbag tightly, grimly determined to look relaxed. But after we’ve done it over and over again it begins to feel rather ludicrous. In fact, in the final take ‘Jessica’ seems to have lightened up considerably and is giggling. The director doesn’t seem to mind.
And that’s it. This bit of filming is over. It must be because the crew is moving to another part of the set. I’m wondering if I could sneak into another scene when a woman, who looks a bit like Maggie Smith, suggests we female extras head off for a drink together. Most of us agree to this immediately, probably because we do desperately need some way of slipping back gently into ordinary life.
There’s a pub with a lovely view just down the road apparently. After we’ve changed and I’ve left ‘Jessica’ behind with wardrobe, we walk there. Some of the women are veteran extras. They talk about being prostitutes and nuns and rabble and prim Victorian housewives.
‘He stayed in his trailer with his script and dog eating wine gums,’ one says of a rising star she has worked with. ‘Between takes he watched cable TV.’ I listen, fascinated. These are the details one Needs To Know.
Once we get to the pub someone says that there’s a river nearby which is great for a summer dip. We’re rather hot and sticky so, with much laughter and giggling, we decide to at least give it a look. We’re feeling rather wild and worldly – like a brat pack. If Brad Pitt turned up right now, we’d probably just say ‘Hi’.
We’ve been up since the wee small hours and now it’s a very warm and golden late afternoon. The kind of afternoon that seems to belong to memory, even while it’s happening. When we reach the river, having trekked across some fields, we see that it is fat and smooth, lazy and bright. It looks rather like the river Aaron and I used to play in when we were children. It meanders through the green meadows and is shaded here and there by trees. Cows look up curiously at us as we walk by them, looking for the special spot one of us knows.
We’re there. It’s beautiful. The river is wider here, almost a little lake. There’s some yellow sand at the edge. It looks like a tiny beach. There is the sound of bees and birds and the occasional glint of a dragonfly. The plop of a fish rising. I decide I’ll have a sedate little paddle. Then someone takes off their clothes leaving on their bra and pants, and the rest of us do too.
Everything seems so still, even in the midst of all this movement – of people splashing and shouting ‘Oh, my God – it’s cold.’ Yes, it is cold. Very cold. I decide to go back to the comfort of the grassy bank, but instead find myself splashing forwards, letting the river lift me. Then I shout and squeal and dig my toes deep into the sand. I sound as feckless and carefree as Elsie and Liam did when they were chasing each other with that garden hose. I am part of this playfulness. I am not just listening to it from the other side of a wall.
When we emerge from the river we take off our sopping undies. As we dry ourselves with our clothes we chatter about uncomplicated things. We name our favourite actors and actresses, though we can hardly name each other. It doesn’t matter. At times like this I know very few things do. We may never meet each other again. But we won’t forget this late afternoon, almost evening now. It bubbled up from somewhere inside us. It took us to this river. And now it’s time to leave. To move back towards the village and the pub. As we walk we wonder if anyone saw us in our undies, even though we were shaded by some trees. Somehow we don’t mind if they did. We don’t mind at all. Especially Mel Nichols.
Now I’m sitting outside the pub on a wooden bench. I have a glass of wine in my hand and am staring gratefully at the distant hills. All this afternoon I’ve been ‘living in the moment’ as my self-help books suggest. I’ve been part of a team. It felt so nice.
People sometimes compare working on a film to being part of a large family, and now I see why. There’s an intimacy about it. Though the practicalities of filming are vast and complicated, at least for a little while a lot of people are dreaming the same dream. Playing make-believe. Dressing up. The lady from wardrobe even allowed me to keep my moustache. I have it in my pocket.
Sitting here with a glass of wine in my hand, I can understand why actors get hooked on being other people. There’s a liberation to it. A letting go. We have so many different sides to us. Even when I’m sitting dourly at my desk there must be a part of me that’s waiting to squeal and shout playfully. That’s waiting to dig her toes deep into the sand and then plunge forwards – letting the river lift her. I think this is the part of me that doesn’t want to marry Eamon. She has been telling me this most urgently. She has been whispering it for some time.
‘Wait for love, Alice,’ she says to me.
‘That’s what I’ve been doing,’ I reply rather impatiently. ‘I’ve waited and waited, and now I’m getting tired of it.’
‘Ah, but what kind of love have you been waiting for, Alice?’ she persists. ‘Is it the one you need?’
‘Oh, please don’t bring up semantics,’ I scold. ‘Life’s quite complicated enough as it is.’
And what’s more she hasn’t any knickers on.
Chapter 19
I really enjoyed writing that article about being an extra. It was such fun. We’ve got some lovely photographs to go with it. The film publicity people have sent them on.
I’m so looking forward to seeing the film when it’s finished. I’ll bring a posse of friends to the cinema and I’ll sit on the edge of my seat waiting for the hotel scene. ‘That’s me!’ I’ll whisper, and they’ll scour the screen dutifully. I hope they show the bit where I clutched my bag when the shots rang out. I winced and gasped a bit too. It was done with considerable feeling.
‘Did you get Mel Nichols’s autograph for me?’ Annie is now asking eagerly. We’re sitting in my garden. It’s a sunny Sunday afternoon.
‘No, I’m afraid I didn’t,’ I sigh, realizing that Annie would have got his autograph if she’d been on that film set. She would have marched right up to him. She’s so much more daring than I am. ‘He was very busy,’ I explain. ‘But I did get quite close to him at one point and watched him for a while.’
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