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Part 10

Honza picked me up outside my apartment in Sokolov in his usual good humor, his sunny grin a welcome antidote for the gloomy weather and my cement-filled head.

I’d slept most of the day in recuperation from my party. The Czechs do many things well: making weapons, playing hockey, populating the country with stunning women, etc., but their real talent comes in a glass served in a pub. Pilsner Urquell is a dandy brew, and you can get 750 ml on draft for less than a dollar. I must have had ten gallons of the stuff the night before, as well as frequent shots of Jack Daniel’s. Needless to say, I wasn’t feeling my best. Honza commented on it.

“You look bad.”
“Thanks.”
“Good night?”
“Great night,” I said, leaning my head against the car’s window.

He sadistically turned the radio up for the drive into Karlovy Vary, warbling along as his mood suited him.

After we’d checked in and eaten, I felt a lot better. We changed, then went upstairs to hang out. In a short while, Jiri came upstairs and asked everyone to come downstairs. I asked why.

“We’re shooting the last scenes with the extras for the next few days. We’ll be inside the casino, so we will choose about forty people to be featured. The rest will be allowed to go home, and won’t be needed again.”

I have to admit that I was dismayed. With the way my luck had been running, I figured it might be a short evening—and the end of my tenure as an extra.

My friends and I shrugged on our jackets and followed the throng downstairs. When we got there, I saw that Tom the PA was there, passing judgment along with Jane the wardrobe assistant and her boss, Judy. As we filed past, they’d point to someone and say, “Yes, she’ll do.” Or, “Yes, we need him, the one with the yellow tie.” I was reminded of after-school baseball games when I was a child, where you stood and tried to look as if you didn’t care if the team captains picked you or not.

I watched my friends as they were all chosen, and then it was my turn. Tom smiled and opened his mouth to speak when he was interrupted by Judy. “Oh, yes, let’s not forget our Yank. He’s been well behaved.” She winked at me, and Jane smiled and waved me over, where my name was taken down by her Czech assistant. I was in! A wave of relief flooded over me, and I joined my fellow Gangsters. All those not chosen were released and the remaining forty or so of us were asked to go back upstairs and wait. We did, jabbering excitedly and speculating about what our duties would be.

I secretly hoped I’d be at a baccarat table. For me, that would be the ultimate—dressed in my tuxedo, seated in a luxurious casino, tapping my forefinger to signal the croupier that I wanted another card, watching 007 out of the corner of my eye. I knew it was unlikely, but hey—I could dream!

Meanwhile, the crew had been setting up inside the casino—rigging lights and reflectors, moving props, and measuring focal lengths. This last part was interesting to me, for I’d noticed that during this portion of the set-up, they always used stand-ins. I’d seen Daniel’s stand in around many times: A 30-something guy with sandy blond hair, invariably dressed in jeans and a blue blazer. We’d spoken briefly a few times, and once I said he must be sad to see the production wrapping up in the Czech Republic, as it would mean the end of his lucrative gig. His answer surprised me.

“Oh no,” he said. “I stay with the production.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’ve been to the Bahamas already, and will go to Italy after this.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. I have been on the entire shoot.”
“Wow.” Then it sank in. “Wow! That’s great for you! I just assumed they’d find another stand-in whenever they went somewhere else. You must be having the time of your life!”
He shrugged modestly. “It’s fun,” he said.
That is one hell of an understatement, I thought.

When the crew was ready, we were called to go over to the casino. Once again we made the trek along the macadam drive, past the car park ringed with trees—but this time, we went on in to the lobby, then upstairs. As we got there, we were held on the landing just outside the gaming room by Tom. He had a Czech PA with him, translating. I leaned forward to hear.

He was explaining that some of us would be placed inside the casino, while others would be outside, seen entering, or near the door, leaving.

Then he asked, “Does anyone here know how to play Roulette?”
The Czech PA translated, and a few people tentatively raised their hands. Needless to say, my hand was up in a flash. Hell, if he’d asked if anyone knew how to perform brain surgery, I’d have had my hand up. In the military, you learn very quickly never to volunteer for anything. Here, it was the opposite. You wanted to volunteer, because if you get in a shot early, they often must continue to use you for continuity’s sake. I was a bit puzzled, though, when Tom caught my eye, then pointedly ignored me and chose three or four others. He disappeared with them inside, positioning them, and returned after a moment.

“Can anyone play Blackjack?”
Again my hand went up, and again I was ignored. He chose a few more people, took them inside, and reappeared.

“Hey,” I said, trying to sound as helpful as I could. “I was practically raised in a casino, so if you can use me, I’ll go anywhere.”
“Thanks,” he said, “but I’ve got plans for you.”
What could that mean?

He selected a few more people and scattered them around the interior of the room, then came and pointed to me and the Charlize Theron lookalike. “You two, come on.” I followed him in, and paused for a moment inside, looking around in wonder. It was fantastic. Done primarily in shades of red, the room was stunning. It was everything a casino should be, from the ornate chandeliers to the huge, grandly elegant paintings on the wall.

It was Royale less Eaux from On Her Majesty’s Secret Service, it was Cafe Martinique in Thunderball, it was Le Cercle in Dr. No, it was M’s club Blades in London—it was Casino Royale! And I was here.

As Tom escorted past the tables, I wondered what his “plans for me” were. I found out soon enough, as he deposited us next to the bar. “You stand here,” he said to me. “Just lean on your elbow, and talk to your girlfriend.”
“Okay,” I said.
He must have heard something in my voice, because he gestured to his right. I looked in the direction he pointed and saw the camera about fifteen feet away. It was pointed directly at me. “We’re featuring the bar in this scene,” he said quietly. Then he winked, and walked off. I slowly closed my mouth, which had been gaping in surprise. Oh, man. I could feel the grin spreading across my face.

He’d deliberately placed me in the spot where I had the best chance of being in the scene.

I contemplated this act of kindness for a few minutes. Remember, I’d told Tom (and anybody who’d listen, actually) that I was a huge Bond fan. Not only had he remembered this, but he’d stored this tidbit in the back of his mind until he could act on it.

Then I thought back to the selection process earlier. Most of the people chosen were younger, or dressed in more modern, more elegant formal wear. There was nothing special about my appearance. Yet Jane and Judy had made sure I was selected.

In short, they were looking after me, making sure that this Bond fan would have an experience he’d never forget.

I’m smiling as I write this—just thinking about it gives me a warm feeling. You know what it feels like? Imagine it’s your birthday, and all your friends refuse your invitations, telling you that they’re too busy to share a pint, or get together for dinner. You’re feeling sorry for yourself, wondering how you’re going to spend the evening. Then you come home and find all your friends waiting for you in your living room, wearing paper hats, holding drinks and blowing horns.

That’s exactly how I felt. After the days of nothing to do, all the ups and downs, the false starts, the freezing weather—I felt like I’d just been given a fantastic surprise birthday party.

Tom came back with another Gangster/Girlfriend duo, and placed them next to me. If I have to be perfectly honest, I wasn’t terribly thrilled. This guy and I weren’t exactly enemies, but there had been a slight undercurrent of friction between us.

It’s hard to describe. Sometimes you just meet someone and instead of hitting it off, you do the opposite. It can start with a look, or a comment, whatever. It’s a chemistry thing, and makes no sense, but it’s there. Well, this guy (I’ll call him Stanislav, or Stan for short) and I had gotten off on the wrong foot. His English was very limited, but the few times we’d been in each other’s company, he’d been fairly stand-offish.

He was a good-looking guy: Young, hip and well dressed, with a diamond stud in his ear and a shaved head, he was popular with many of the other extras, and spent a lot of time laughing and joking with them. Hell, maybe I was just jealous, since the Girlfriends enjoyed flirting with him, and he spent a lot of time with them.

Anyway, here we were together. Since I was talking to my “girlfriend” for this scene, we didn’t have much interaction, but there was still some tension. As I said, it didn’t make sense, but it was there. Maybe an alpha male thing, sizing each other up. Who knows?

The bartender in this scene was one of the British crew members. He’d been “drafted” to play the part, as there was apparently no Czech extra with any bartending experience. He and I joked back and forth while the set up for the shot continued. He should have been a standup comedian—his responses to my wisecracks were immediate, funny and delivered with a perfectly straight face. I’d start it:

“Excuse me, bartender.”
“Yes sir?”
“Vodka martini, very dry, shaken, not stirred.”
“I’m sorry sir, we’re out of vodka.”
“What?”
“Yes sir. There’s a British secret agent here, and he’s drunk all of our vodka.”
“Oh really? I happen to be a British agent too. What’s the other fellow’s name?”
“I don’t remember, sir. But he drinks a hell of a lot of martinis, and is always going on about his double-oh number.”

Or:

“Excuse me, bartender.”
“Yes sir?”
“The lady and I would like a drink.”
“May I see some ID?”
Playing along, I’d pull out my driver’s license, and he’d say, “Sorry sir, but we only accept a license to kill.”

Maybe you had to be there, but it cracked me up.

After a while Daniel Craig and Giancarlo Giannini arrived, dressed in tuxedos. They rehearsed their moves, and then Martin called for a run-through.

“Background!” We all chatted in pantomime.
“Action!” Daniel left the other side of the bar where he’d been standing, and strode quickly past Giancarlo toward the door.
“Cut!”
Then there’d be a ten-minute conference, and we’d do it again. Unlike the scene outside, I didn’t mind at all. It was warm in the casino, and I was having a great time!
After several more rehearsals, Tom showed up again, with another Czech extra in tow. This guy was almost my height, with dark hair and a menacing air about him.

“Let’s give you something to do,” Tom said to me. “This is your bodyguard, and I want you to be telling him to keep his eyes open—you’re telling him to watch your back while you and your girlfriend have a drink.”
“Okay. Like this?”
I tapped the bodyguard’s shoulder and gestured to the room with my head.
“Good. That’s perfect.” He moved off through the crowd to tell a waitress how to serve drinks.

Let’s give you something to do. He was still looking out for me.

Interestingly, my bodyguard (who spoke English fairly well) asked me if I was a teacher.
“Yes,” I said, surprised. “I was for a while, in Sokolov.”
“I knew it must be you. My wife was in your class. She said her teacher was a tall American.”
Small world!

We rehearsed a few more times, then shot the scene. We shot it twice more, and then we had a break while they re-positioned the cameras. To give the crew room to work, the extras were all herded back downstairs to the basement waiting area. Here, you can see some of the extras scattered about on several rolls of carpet—they were softer to nap on than the tables in the main waiting area.

It was very late (about 4 a.m.) when we were called back to the casino. As I came in, Tom pulled me aside and said, “Sit at this table.”
Not quite believing it, I looked where he pointed and saw that I was to sit at a baccarat table. I started to pull out a chair, and he stopped me. “No,” he said. “Sit here.” I sat down in the end seat he’d indicated, and he pointed at the other end of the table. Maybe ten feet beyond the end of the table, the camera was facing directly at me. I looked back at Tom. He just winked again and hurried away.

I would be playing baccarat in a casino, wearing a tuxedo and watching 007. At the rate good things were happening to me, I should have bought a lottery ticket!

I was still processing my new location when several others joined me, spreading out around the table. To my left was an older woman, maybe sixty, and to my right was Stan, my not-so-favorite Gangster friend. Apparently the powers that be had decided we should hang out together. Ah, well.

The croupier at the table then began to give everyone stacks of chips, handing them out randomly, to make it seem as though we were all in various stages of winning or losing. Behind him a good-looking older guy in a tuxedo was supervising. He said something in English to the croupier, so I asked him how he came to be there.

His name was John, and he was representing the company that had provided all of the gaming equipment—the tables, chairs, and chips. He’d had an interesting life—he’d started with company when he was very young, and was now a big wheel in the sales department. He knew everything there was to know about casinos, and had traveled all over the world, selling equipment and helping new casinos get organized before they opened.

I noticed that the chips (which were brand new) weren’t marked with the Casino Royale logo, so I asked him where they’d come from. He told me they’d been ordered by a casino in India, which had subsequently failed to get the proper governmental permits to open, so the chips had never been shipped.
“Damn,” I said, looking at the stack of black 5,000-dollar chips in front of me. “I was going to keep a few.”
“Don’t bother,” he said. “They’re not redeemable anywhere in the world. Besides,” he added with a smile, “I’ll be counting them all when I get them back.”

He also told me that as a lark, the crew had made him an extra, and he was tickled to death. I remembered what Joe had told me the first day: “It’s a Bond film, innit?”

After we had our chips, we began to play baccarat. This wasn’t purely for our amusement—it was also training for the Czech extra who was playing the dealer.

We played several hands, and lo and behold, Stan and I actually began to warm up to each other. He’d bet, and I’d bet against him. One of us would win, and the other would pretend to be upset. Soon, the ice had melted and we were talking amiably, me in my bad Czech, and him in his bad English.

As a matter of fact, I was so busy goofing around that I didn’t notice that Daniel had come over to stand at the corner of the table. He reached down and picked up three chips and did a one-handed chip shuffle. This is where you hold three chips perpendicular to the floor, and using your thumb, “roll” the front chip over the middle chip to the back. If you’ve ever been in a casino poker game, you’ll see players doing this all the time.

He did it very smoothly, so I said, “It looks like somebody’s been practicing.”
He turned and smiled briefly. “Not enough.”
“Can you roll a chip across your knuckles?”
“No, I still can’t do that.”
“Don’t feel bad,” I said. “I’ve been playing poker for twenty-five years, and I can’t do it either.”
He smiled and went off to talk to Martin.

In this shot, Daniel was to come from the other side of the room, pass our table, and go out the casino door. On the way, he’d say a line to Giancarlo who would turn and watch him silently as he left. I won’t say the line—it may be important, it may not. Anyway, as I watched them rehearse it, I felt someone standing just behind my chair, and turned in my seat to see who it was.

I found myself looking up into Le Chiffre’s face.

Mads Mikkelsen had come in, and was standing with a beautiful blonde girl (maybe Ivana Milicevic—I’m not sure) and three bodyguards, all huge. As the rehearsals went on, I realized that he was supposed to walk out, and Daniel would see him leaving and quickly follow.

We were almost ready to shoot when Martin came over and spoke quietly to Mads. A moment later, they disappeared out the door. Daniel followed him. I waited for them to come back, but a minute passed, then five, and nothing. Martin was conferring with his DP, and gestured toward the windows. I looked and was surprised to see that behind their sheer curtains, dawn was breaking. The conference ended, and Martin walked out. The next thing I knew, Jiri was there.

“Everyone please go back to the hotel,” he said.

What?

I asked him what had happened. He shrugged and jerked a thumb at the windows. “It’s getting light,” he said. “We cannot shoot. Everyone can go home.”

Not again! I was so close!

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