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I Was an Extra in Casino Royale
Part 6
Written by Guest Writer on 10 Sep, 2006
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Part 6
Before we start, let me mention something I probably should have said at the beginning of this thread—I’ve changed some of the names. My reasons are completely innocent—sometimes I simply could not remember the person’s name! For example, it’s a lot easier to write “Jane said,” instead of, “the Assistant Wardrobe person said.”
In other cases I’ve changed the name simply because I don’t want to cause anyone any grief. Everyone (without exception) treated me very well—and sometimes, they would “bend the rules” a little for this Yank in unfamiliar territory. I know I’m probably being paranoid, but don’t want anyone to have to worry about answering awkward questions, in case a union shop foreman reads this…I’m ninety-nine percent sure that there would be no problem…but there’s always that one percent! Anyway, on with the show.
My third day of shooting was much like the second, with a major exception: After getting dressed, the Gangsters and their Girlfriends were never called to shoot. We lounged about all day, like fighter pilots in the Battle of Britain waiting for a scramble.
Every once in a while Jiri or another Production Assistant would walk by, and conversation would dwindle as people turned and waited for the word. But instead of selecting our group, they’d pluck one or two of the others (the lowly “Casino Guests”) and disappear for an hour or two, after which the fortunate extra would return, telling his or her friends about the scene they’d just been in.
The day passed slowly. I’d taken along the book A Beautiful Mind about the famous mathematician John Nash, and was steadily plowing through it. It was tough going—I’m not mathematically inclined, and it required close attention and occasional re-reading to come to grips with the theorems and proofs described, or the author’s description of game theory, Nash’s contribution to mathematics which eventually won him the Nobel Prize. It was a great book to pass the time, since it required so much focus.
The weather was still bad. It rained often, short showers just long enough to get everything wet, forcing the crew to squeegee water of the cars and sweep away puddles from the shooting area.
Occasionally I’d get up and go outside for a smoke, or just to see what was going on. Surprisingly, the hotel was still open to the public, and as I wandered about I’d see bemused guests walking carefully around cables and other filmmaking paraphernalia on their way into town to eat or go shopping. I was standing near the coffee jugs when a middle-aged couple walked by, accompanied by an older woman. My ears perked up when I heard them speaking English with an American accent. Eavesdropping, I learned they’d arrived the night before, and were unaware of the reason behind all of the controlled chaos around them.
“What do you think’s going on?” asked the younger woman, in an irritated voice.
“They must be renovating,” said the man.
“I wish our travel agent had told us,” said the older woman, whom I decided was probably a mother-in-law.
I spoke up. “They’re filming a movie,” I said.
They turned to me, surprised. “Really? Are you in it? Where are you from?”
“Yes, I’m an extra,” I said. “I’m from Arizona, but I’ve been living here for several months.”
“Wow,” said the man. “We’re from Wisconsin. Milwaukee.”
“A long way from home,” I said.
“Sure is.”
The mother-in-law spoke up. “What’s the movie?” she asked.
“It’s called Casino Royale. It’s the new James Bond movie.”
Their annoyance disappeared immediately, replaced by eager fascination.
“REALLY?”
“Yes, really.” I smiled.
“I read something about that,” the guy said. “There’s a new James Bond, right?”
“Yes, his name is Daniel Craig.”
There was a pause. Apparently Layer Cake hadn’t made the local multiplex in Milwaukee. “Hmm,” said the wife. “I don’t think I know him.”
The mother-in-law said, “I’ve never seen a James Bond movie.”
The husband rolled his eyes at me as if to say, What can you do?
The wife was excited. “I have,” she said. “I’ve seen them all. I love Pierce Brosnan!”
Despite their unfamiliarity with the new 007, their enthusiasm for being in the eye of the Bond storm was still high. “Where are they shooting now?”
I pointed. “Over there, in the parking lot. See the dark grey car? That’s the new Aston Martin—James Bond’s car.”
They looked out the glass doors in the direction I’d indicated, at the car surrounded by crew, lights and a camera on a crane.
“Can we go over there?”
“Sure,” I said. “The security guys will chase you off if you get too close, and if you try to take a photo, do it as surreptitiously as you can—they don’t want people taking pictures.”
“Thanks!”
They hustled out the door, the wife leading the way. I smiled as I watched them go. Curious, I kept watching. They stopped about fifty feet away, but soon got bolder and closed within a few yards. After a few minutes the man took out his camera, and immediately a crewman came over. There was a brief discussion, and the three slowly headed off, looking back over their shoulders.
I have to admit that one of the pleasures of being an extra on a location shoot is seeing the spectators watching from afar. It gives you a ridiculous feeling of elitism to be on the inside—in the know, as it were. It’s sort of like the shoot is a huge nightclub, and you’re the guy who walks up past everyone in line and nods to the bouncer, who lifts the velvet rope and lets you in. Childish, I know, but what can I say?
Martin and company were shooting a scene with one of Le Chiffre’s henchmen (who’s discovered by cops to have something in his car trunk that he shouldn’t have—I won’t tell you what). I watched for a while, and when they finished, I drifted off to lunch.
The rest of the day was fairly boring. Apparently the filming had moved to the hotel lobby, and there was no room to stand around on the fringes and observe. Because of this, I don’t have much in the way of a story for you. So instead, I’ll give you some background, and share some vignettes. These are in no particular order or chronology—indeed, some of them happened a few days prior to this, and some later.
Since we were all English speakers, I’d spent a lot of time chatting with Jane and Joe, the wardrobe folks. Jane was a Canadian (if I remember correctly), and had an absolutely incredible memory. Several times I saw her stop an extra as they were being herded out by Jiri to shoot, and she’d say, “Hey, wait a minute! Didn’t you have a scarf?” Or, “Where’s your handbag? Don’t you have a gold handbag?” This may not seem like a big deal, but remember that we’re talking about a changing roster of three hundred extras, total, over the course of ten days. I defy you to go to a similar sized office, look at everyone, and the next day tell me what they were wearing, including accessories!
Jane’s boss was Judy, a friendly, harried Welsh woman, whose main responsibility was the main actors’ wardrobe. Jane and Joe handled the extras, but occasionally the boss would drop by and check up on things. She was funny and energetic, and would sometimes crack me up when she’d get a walkie talkie call from one of the ADs. She’d stop in midsentence and pause, then press the earpiece deeper into her ear. Then she’d say something like, “How many?”
Pause.
“Tell him I don’t have that many. We only dressed four policemen.”
Pause.
“Of course I can, but it’ll take time.”
Pause.
“You can’t be serious! Tell him I don’t have anymore.”
Pause.
“Because I don’t! We only brought seven!”
Pause.
“Right. Maybe we can paint them black.”
Then she’d shake her head like a horse bothered by a fly, and roll her eyes. “Gawd, “she’d say. “Does anyone know what’s happening on this picture?”
I mentioned the Aston Martin earlier. After a few days on the set, I’d noticed a youngish guy hanging around the cars, wearing a polo shirt with an Aston Martin logo and his name silkscreened below it. One day I asked him if he was associated with Aston Martin. He was in his early-to-mid twenties, and I figured he was a sort of glorified “lot boy”—someone who works for a car dealer, whose main job it is to move the cars around the lot, wash them when needed, that kind of thing.
His name was Paul, and he confirmed that he worked for Aston Martin.
“What do you do, exactly?”
“I take care of the cars.”
“Yeah, but what all does that entail?”
He looked at me a little strangely. “I’m responsible for them from the moment they leave the factory. I get them here, I make sure they’re in top condition, you know, all that.”
“You make sure they run?” I asked. “So you’re a kind of mechanic?”
He looked at me patiently. “Actually,” he said, “I built them.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not. A senior guy has his name on the plate on the engine,” he said, “but I did most of the assembly work.”
“Good Lord,” I said, impressed. “How’d you get the job? How old are you?”
“I’m twenty-five,” he said. (I’m not sure it was twenty-five, to be honest. It may have been twenty-four, or twenty-six). “I used to build custom cars, and one day I took some photos of stuff I’d done, and sent them to Aston Martin with a letter that said, ‘This is what I can do. Give me a job.’ And they did.” He said all this without the slightest bit of arrogance. To the contrary, I found him perfectly pleasant and likable.
“Wow. What a great story.” I said. “Tell me something…”
He answered all my questions, and took me over to show me the cars, explaining the differences between the prototype DBS and the DB9, and what they’d done for the movie. Indeed, he showed me the “modifications” to the car. I won’t go into them, as I’ve vowed not to give any spoilers away. Then he told me about tuning the exhausts for more horsepower and a better sound (and let me tell you, they sound unbelievable. A smooth deep-throated growl—well, let’s just say I know what’s first on my list if I ever win the lottery).
He told me about having to change the gearbox after an overzealous and under-informed stuntman burned it up “doing donuts” during the airfield filming. They’d had no suitable facilites in the area, but a Mercedes dealership in nearby Germany had graciously allowed them the use of their service bays.
After our initial talk, we’d chat frequently, and ended up swapping email addresses. He’s also an airplane buff, so I told him he has a standing invitation to visit me here in the states, and I promised I’d take him flying when he does. In return, he said, he’d show me around the Aston Martin works whenever I’m in England. I’m definitely going to hold him to that promise!
At any rate, you can get an idea of what the days were like when we weren’t shooting. As I said, on this day I was never called, and that evening when we were released Jiri told me as I checked out that the next day would be a night shoot. We were to be there the next day at 5:00 p.m., and could expect to finish at around 5:00 a.m. Tomorrow, he said, we’d begin shooting the casino scenes. I pictured myself in my tuxedo, sipping a martini across the felt from 007, carelessly shoving piles of chips into the pot. And best of all—no more waking up at 4:15 a.m.!
I couldn’t wait.
