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You've seen me a hundred times and never known it, and I've changed your life every time.
I'm a movie extra. I take care of the details. And I'm a pro. Cheap extras show up for the paycheck; I show up for the movie. I do the things that no one will ever know about; things that only I will know turned a bad film into a good one. Whatever it takes.
Like this one, pirate film, could be a breakthrough if we do what it takes. Sometimes extras just stand in the back and smile. Sometimes, I do a lot more.
Or less. The director's snapping his fingers at me, wants coffee. I'm not the caterer, but I go and get it anyway.
Peter Lorton comes on the set. He was supposed to be the star of this one, but a young actor got hot in the tabloids so they've changed the script to make him the star. I'm trapped against a wall with some other townspeople while Peter has a swordfight with the king's soldiers.
Scene starts, swords flashing, crowd following them with horrified looks. He slays the king's men, and looks up at the stairway. It's empty now, but the next scene will start with Desmond Nova, hot young actor, standing there. Peter's supposed to look up and yell, "Avast," but nobody's going to buy that. I whisper in Peter's ear, he smirks, "So, one more for the party?"
We cut. The director compliments Peter on the adlib. Finally, Desmond comes on the set, high again, like every scene. We've spent a lifetime waiting for the caterer to bring him the sugar fix he's got to have when he's high.
We get back into places and he and Peter start to fight, Peter acting and Desmond posing with a glamorous idiot smile. Peter stabs Desmond and Desmond goes down. Originally, Desmond was supposed to stay dead here, and the movie moves on starring Peter. Now, Desmond is supposed to jump up, only wounded, and take over the movie. Dumb. This movie's going down the tubes, unless somebody does something.
Desmond's not moving. The director shakes him, waves over the script girl/medic who looks up horrified. He's dead. The director looks at the ceiling, and yells for somebody to call the police, an ambulance, and Desmond's agent. The director and the writers huddle in the corner, going back to the original script. People say this is a cold business. Maybe, but we care about getting the story right. Besides, it's hard to have sympathy for someone who probably did it to himself with something he put in his arm or up his nose.
Or maybe something he ate. I ease out the door, unnoticed again, before the police get here. After the autopsy, they'll blame the caterers, like the other times. When the movie wins an Oscar, I'll put a little plastic Oscar on my mantel; one for each movie I've saved.
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