So if you live in LA and seriously want to get into the film business you'll probably, at some point or another, give extra work, or "background work" a shot. I've done it. More times than I can count. It's fun for most people who do it, though they say the turnaround time on it is something like three months. But, again, that's probably a good thing, as minimum wage and 17 hour days can be deadly.
But for someone like me, it's a dream most of the time. You may hate the waiting, which is mostly what "background actors" do the entirety of the day, but when you get on set, wearing your costume, you're in Hollywood. Sure, six weeks later all you've got is a few moving blurs that seem to have your hair cut, but you were there, usually with some star in your proximity, soaking in that intoxicating fantasy.
I should point out, though, that most extras are pretty stupid. This includes myself, at least early on. There's something about being there and that unfortunate assumption that all you have to do is walk and get paid. That assumption is, of course, true, but what it does to you is the same affect LA in general has to most transplants - You assume you don't have to try.
Simple instructions like "Cross camera into that hallway, count to three, and come back" go in your ear, but somehow the body can't manage it. Sure, some people are just there for the money, barely listening. But others, like myself, get so afraid of failure - to walk, I guess - that they just can't operate right. They run into cameras, get in the way of a principal actor, walk slower than a normal person might. And yes, I've done all of those.
All of those things aside, I saw something tonight unlike anything I've ever seen in the world of background work. As an extra on something like twenty shows (nothing, really, compared to the vets) I've become accustomed to fairly accurate identification of myself or friends as our resultant blurs on various TV shows. I've been lucky enough to be in focus a couple of times, but in general you have to watch attentively to nail down which one you are so that you can call home about it.
As I was hunting for captures of my girlfriend's grandfather from a film entitled "8 Million Ways to Die," I found something spectacular. I simply can't imagine what happened when this guy called home: http://www.stolendress.com/extras/extra_01.shtml No, I don't mean Jeff Bridges. Pretty sure Lloyd was used to seeing his son on film. I mean the guy crossing behind him and Miss Arquette. I've heard plenty of interesting instructions from Assistant Directors to extras in my time, like "cross in front of him" or "stick close to the wall so you don't cast a shadow." But never before has an Assistant Director turned to me and said "Okay, when you cross camera, walk like a crab and keep your eyes closed."
Watch it again. What was he doing? He wasn't close enough to Jeff Bridges to slide carefully past him in order not to wrinkle his blazer. And if that was blinking, he needs to see a doctor. Maybe he was afraid to look in the camera, so he avoided looking at things in general just to be safe.
That image will haunt me for the rest of my days, I'm certain. He's something of an inspiration to me, now. Whenever I'm on set, whether I'm an extra or a director, I'll have a leg up on everyone around me. I'll have seen and studied the Blind Crab Extra countless times, understanding the true meaning of commitment. I'll understand that when I was on CSI in a Nevada State Trooper's uniform, my little mantra of "think of something coppish" wasn't nearly enough. I should have found a way to become that character in a new way. I should have picked an animal and a handicap and gone with it. And I, Jason Klamm, would have gone down in history as the greatest marmot with Down's Syndrome there ever was. Little did I know at the time.
Wherever you are, Blind Crab, I salute you.
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