Monday, September 27, 2004
Week 107
It’s Tuesday, and I’m contemplating the state of my career. What will I tell Mom when she calls? I don’t always know what to tell her about the life. I don’t want to lie to her, but I don’t want her to worry, either.
I’m mulling this over when I get a phone call from some indy folks about a movie shoot Friday. Can I come to Maryland to play a Confederate Officer on horseback? The pay is deferred, but they will put me up in a hotel Thursday night.
I say yes, I’d be happy to, and then my thoughts turn to Mom. How do I spin this to her? I can leave one of two messages on her voice mail:
TO MAKE MOM PROUD: ‘Hey Mom, can’t visit this weekend – I’m out of town on a movie shoot – they’re putting me up this time, and giving me riding lessons for the battle scenes – can’t pass this up – will miss you, sorry.’
TO MAKE MOM SEND MONEY AND COOKIES: ‘Hi Mom. Guess what? I’m so desperate for movie parts that I’m going to drive five hours each way to Hagerstown to play some hillbilly soldier in a Civil War flick. I’ll drive five hours, say my six lines, and then drive back to New York. Don’t ask about the hotel, ma. $49 a night, four to a room. I will probably be sharing a twin bed with one of the extras who will want to stay up all night talking about the mad cash he made on Mortal Kombat: Annihilation (true story). Glad I moved to New York so I could drive to Maryland and share a bed with a sweaty Civil War re-enactor who’s in it for the free beer and chicken wings.
Neither description is particularly true, or relevant. (For the record, all the extras I met were total pros, and the hotel had a bad ass pool). Neither is a lie, but neither speaks to the artistic truth of the situation. The truth is, in the scene, I play a Confedrate Officer who comes across infantry soldiers rounding up prisoners. He instructs them to take the Yankee muskets but leave the Yankees behind – the men will only encumber them for the march ahead.
This is my job. When the director says action, I am to embody that character as best I am able. Everything else, the hotel, the five hour drive, the costume they put on my back and the horse they put under my butt – is scenery. I should acknowledge it to the extent that it serves the work. I should control the horse as my character would, but the Confederate Officer cares not a whit for the five hour drive, the quality of the hotel in which I stay, nor the state of the career of the actor. The Confederate Officer simply wants to get his boys on the goddam move. That is his story, and that is the story I will do my best to tell. I must get off book, I must bring a few ideas to the director, and once I have done this homework, I must arrive as ready and refreshed as I am able, and listen to the director and give him what he wants. I cannot predict nor control how the horse will behave under me. I cannot control the hot weather or the itchy wool uniform. I must prepare myself in every way I can and be ready to improvise as the situation demands. I must arrive rested, calm and prepared. The rest is out of my hands.
As it turns out, humility is the order of the day. The extras and re-enactors I met had a knowledge of and passion for the subject that is going to do more to make this film realistic and engaging than my five lines. Those guys made the film. Thanks to Mike, who taught me to ride, and thanks to Kevin, who let me do the scene six times. This city slicker can’t wait to see the tape.
(Dave 6 Press is weblog written by David Stott. David hates spam as much as you do and does not want to clog your mailbox if you do not want to receive his weekly entries. If you'd like to be removed from this mailing list, please reply to djstott@nyc.rr.com with the subject: WANK ON YOUR STORIES, MR. STOTT. [Somebody actually did this last week]) ¶ 10:11 PM
I’m mulling this over when I get a phone call from some indy folks about a movie shoot Friday. Can I come to Maryland to play a Confederate Officer on horseback? The pay is deferred, but they will put me up in a hotel Thursday night.
I say yes, I’d be happy to, and then my thoughts turn to Mom. How do I spin this to her? I can leave one of two messages on her voice mail:
TO MAKE MOM PROUD: ‘Hey Mom, can’t visit this weekend – I’m out of town on a movie shoot – they’re putting me up this time, and giving me riding lessons for the battle scenes – can’t pass this up – will miss you, sorry.’
TO MAKE MOM SEND MONEY AND COOKIES: ‘Hi Mom. Guess what? I’m so desperate for movie parts that I’m going to drive five hours each way to Hagerstown to play some hillbilly soldier in a Civil War flick. I’ll drive five hours, say my six lines, and then drive back to New York. Don’t ask about the hotel, ma. $49 a night, four to a room. I will probably be sharing a twin bed with one of the extras who will want to stay up all night talking about the mad cash he made on Mortal Kombat: Annihilation (true story). Glad I moved to New York so I could drive to Maryland and share a bed with a sweaty Civil War re-enactor who’s in it for the free beer and chicken wings.
Neither description is particularly true, or relevant. (For the record, all the extras I met were total pros, and the hotel had a bad ass pool). Neither is a lie, but neither speaks to the artistic truth of the situation. The truth is, in the scene, I play a Confedrate Officer who comes across infantry soldiers rounding up prisoners. He instructs them to take the Yankee muskets but leave the Yankees behind – the men will only encumber them for the march ahead.
This is my job. When the director says action, I am to embody that character as best I am able. Everything else, the hotel, the five hour drive, the costume they put on my back and the horse they put under my butt – is scenery. I should acknowledge it to the extent that it serves the work. I should control the horse as my character would, but the Confederate Officer cares not a whit for the five hour drive, the quality of the hotel in which I stay, nor the state of the career of the actor. The Confederate Officer simply wants to get his boys on the goddam move. That is his story, and that is the story I will do my best to tell. I must get off book, I must bring a few ideas to the director, and once I have done this homework, I must arrive as ready and refreshed as I am able, and listen to the director and give him what he wants. I cannot predict nor control how the horse will behave under me. I cannot control the hot weather or the itchy wool uniform. I must prepare myself in every way I can and be ready to improvise as the situation demands. I must arrive rested, calm and prepared. The rest is out of my hands.
As it turns out, humility is the order of the day. The extras and re-enactors I met had a knowledge of and passion for the subject that is going to do more to make this film realistic and engaging than my five lines. Those guys made the film. Thanks to Mike, who taught me to ride, and thanks to Kevin, who let me do the scene six times. This city slicker can’t wait to see the tape.
(Dave 6 Press is weblog written by David Stott. David hates spam as much as you do and does not want to clog your mailbox if you do not want to receive his weekly entries. If you'd like to be removed from this mailing list, please reply to djstott@nyc.rr.com with the subject: WANK ON YOUR STORIES, MR. STOTT. [Somebody actually did this last week]) ¶ 10:11 PM
