Passed through Moab, Utah, yesterday and it triggered a few memories.
(I am not going to write about our deranged president tonight. Y’all know how I feel about him in general. But - for the record - I do think he was unmasked last night and I am hopeful even more decent Americans now see him for what he is.)
I was an extra in a movie filmed partially in Canyonlands National Park called Slaughter of the Innocents. It starred Scott Glenn and, I presume, a bunch of B-list actors because none of their names rang a bell for me then, or ring a bell for me now. You might remember Scott Glenn from Silence of the Lambs, Urban Cowboy or The Right Stuff. Or a hundred other films.
Because of Scott Glenn, my six degrees of separation number from Kevin Bacon is two. Me - Scott Glenn - Kevin Bacon. I could only get closer by meeting Kevin Bacon. If only I had been in Marfa, Texas, at the right time when he was there filming I Love Dick.
(I recommend I Love Dick, I do not recommend Slaughter of the Innocents.)
Anyway, a former partner and I were in Moab mountain biking in the early nineties when she saw a poster outside the HardRock Cafe that announced the need for extras. Specifically, male extras. She insisted I apply. What harm could come of it?
And, thus, I got to experience one exceedingly long day on a movie set surrounded by other extras, producers, directors, actors, lighting folks, makeup artists, script writers, boom wranglers, set designers, stunt players and - I am assuming - a best boy, or two. If you have ever wondered about the “best boy” category in movies, and you’d have to be one of those persons, as I am, that stay through all the credits, partially waiting for the next “Ferris Bueller” moment and partially because I am a movie nerd, to have noticed the category of “best boy”. I’ve often wondered what Best Boys did.
Here it is, thanks to Wikipedia:
In a film crew there are two kinds of best boy: best boy electric and best boy grip. They are assistants to their department heads, the gaffer (in charge of electricals) and the key grip (lighting and rigging), respectively.[1] In short, the best boy acts as the foreman for his department. A woman who performs the duties of a best boy may be called best girl. Both are sometimes called best person.
Best boys are responsible for the day-to-day operation of the lighting or grip department.
My insignificant role in this movie was to be a Utah State Highway Patrolman. I had no speaking lines. I was asked to bring shoes that were black and leather. Those were not to be provided. The rest of my outfit would be provided.
As a river guide in the off season, who was mountain biking the slick rock trails around Moab, my attire did not remotely include black, leather laced shoes. I think I resorted to something satisfactory at the local Goodwill or I sprung for the cheapest dress shoes available at whatever passed for a department store in Ed Abbey country.
The next morning I drove south out of Moab to the set location which I remember being on the road to The Needles Overlook. It was a gas station/convenience store which was definitely closed for the filming but also appeared to be on financial life support otherwise.
It wasn’t just off the highway. It was a few miles down a gravel road off the highway. In fact, the fading enterprise was not even visible from the highway.
The film crew had placed more than one sign on the gravel road indicating that the business was closed. They didn’t want any unnecessary visitors to add chaos on top of the organic chaos that probably happens on every movie set.
I couldn’t tell whether there was chaos or confusion since I was an outsider. I do know that every “shot” was interminable. I arrived at 8am in the morning and left sometime late in the evening once my role was played. My scene - in which I did nothing other than stand at attention at the grisly crime scene inside the convenience store as Scott Glenn tried to piece together what had transpired - was shot at night and may have been only the third scene filmed that day.
I spent twelve hours wandering around dressed as a cop - with hat, sunglasses, faux pistol and badge - taking advantage of the catered food and trying to make sense of what was happening. Which wasn’t easy because none of the support staff would deign to talk to me either because they didn’t have the time or they weren’t sure whether I truly was a cop.
During lunch hour I did listen in as Scott Glenn - who was tiny, by the way, which kind of blew my mind because he looked larger than life up on the big screen as the tough guy rodeo rider in Urban Cowboy - held court with a crowd of cast and crew. He was - by far - the biggest name on the marquee. The only thing I remember is when he sagely remarked, probably in reference to someone making a comment about how long everything was taking, “I get paid to wait around. The acting I do for free.”
The most memorable part of the day though was when a Volkswagen van, painted in rainbow colors, came lugging along on the gravel road. It took everyone aback. The VIPs were busily tending to a set and prepping for a scene. All of the actors were sequestered in their trailers. The rest of the crew were perplexed because the road signs were clear that the store was closed and there was no gas. The extras, myself included, imagined it might be part of the movie itself.
A crew member, who had befriended me and knew I was playing the role of a cop, suggested I play the role with the approaching hippie van. See what their reaction would be. I took it as a bit of a challenge. See if my appearance really was convincing.
The van pulled up to the gas pumps and almost immediately the sliding door flew open and a gaggle of stoners poured forth along with the pungent mingled odors of sweat, weed and patchouli. I stepped up to the driver’s window and wrapped it with the knuckles of my right hand.
A wide-eyed male with dreadlocks slowly rolled down the window and tried hard not to look at me.
I said, “The gas station’s closed. Did you miss the signs?”
He said, “Oh, man. Bummer. We’re almost out of gas!”
To get to the gas pumps he’d had to navigate around the enormous klieg lights and other movie paraphernalia. The funny thing was I could tell he thought I was a Utah Highway Patrolman, but he was too stoned for it to matter.
The stoner gaggle had quieted down on the other side of the van and were slowly coming to the realization that, wherever they thought they were going to be when they burst forth from the party van, it wasn’t that. Something for their munchies was - sadly - not in their immediate future.
“Can I see your driver’s license and registration?” That sobered him up.
Then, before he could respond because I actually felt bad spoofing the guy, I said laughing and taking off my aviator glasses, “I’m just shitting you, man. I’m not a cop. But we’re filming a movie and you honestly can’t get any gas here. It’s closed.”
The band of dejected weed lovers went on their merry way.
Slaughter of the Innocents got made. Scott Glenn got paid. And I have never watched it to this day.
True story.
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After watching or listening to the debate, or having Stephen Colbert, Seth Meyers or John Oliver condense the debacle of our democracy that happened last night in Cleveland into a nutshell for you, if you haven’t had enough, you might be interested in the Unfit documentary. I haven’t seen it myself.
This is just an ‘in case you missed this’ or a PSA sort of thing.
Or, if you need something else to hinder your sleep.
Also, this is the sort of public servant we require in our government. Elect more Katie Porters America, please! And make sure she gets re-elected.
Thank you for reading!