Being Paint

Or How I Almost Ruined Oppenheimer

Feb 2023

I never thought of being an actor. And I’m still not an actor, so it’s all working out as planned.

But I did appear as an extra in a big budget Hollywood movie, despite my career goals.

The story begins, like many stories, with a tiny news article ignored by most readers. In early 2022, The Santa Fe New Mexican ran a piece that extras were needed for the filming of a biopic of Robert Oppenheimer. As a science nerd, this sounded pretty cool. I thought it would be some PBS documentary that might run at noon mid-summer for old people to watch. I was newly arrived in Santa Fe at that point, just a few months resident, green as a wet kitten, as they say, and I had that lack of impulse control that comes with being in a new place. So I jotted down the dates for the casting call on Google calendar, a Saturday morning two weeks off, and promptly tried to forget about it and not obsess over it.

I’ve never imagined myself in movies. I’m neither tall nor good looking. I talk too much, I don’t listen very well and I’ve never been told “you should be in movies” - all qualities that I assume famous actors and actresses share with each other but not with me. It never even occurred to me to consider acting. Same with professional sports, bartending, being a sea captain. These things just didn’t even enter my consciousness as possible employment paths when I was young. I wanted to be an architect or a mad scientist or a porn star. None of these have worked out either. My parents did me a disservice telling me I could be anything.

Now, older, shorter, grayer, I’ve started to explore one or two of these previously separated avenues of activity. I’ve taken up sailing. Professional sports is still off the table. The porn thing never stood a chance. So seeing the casting call notice I figured, “why not?”. And that simple thought sent me down a rabbit hole. Frantically googling the movie in question, I learned the time period and I googled the costumes. I researched the director, the story, the genre. I ordered the book on eBay. I wondered if I’d seen this Christopher Nolan fellow on PBS Newshour.

But then I paused, and I forced ambivalence onto my desire, so as not to be disappointed when this new thing, this shiny new achievement, turned out to be out of my reach or simply unpleasant. Because that has happened. I tried skiing, got only minor enjoyment, but did it for the kids. I tried van life and did not like it; I enjoyed building the van, not living in it. I’ve bought guitars twice in my life trying to learn to play. Nada. I try stuff. I fail. I try again. I’m a gambler, I’ve been told. And that is a polite way of saying I’m a fuckup, but I don’t mind fucking up, so it’s all working out. The skis sit in storage waiting for me to go, and the van sits in my driveway, dismantled and used for hauling stuff. And I sit at home, watching Netflix.

On the Saturday morning of the casting call, I put on a tan sport coat, channeling the scientist that I think they need for this movie. In a mirror, I actually look like a teacher, and perhaps that’s the same as a scientist? I’ve been told I look nerdy, smart, professorial, so I figure I actually have a chance. I want to be early and the location is about 5 minutes from my house. I’d walk, but a cold spell and snow storm has hit Santa Fe, it being January, and the temperature is about 10 degrees. I arrive at the building used by the casting agency, an auditorium on a local arts college campus. I see a few others arriving as well. They have papers in their hands. Did I forget something? And yes, I recall I was supposed to bring a photograph of myself, a headshot or something. I do not have this. Why have I forgotten this? I feel like a student who has forgotten his homework. My mood changes 180 degrees. I am suddenly less than ambivalent. I am actually now opposed to this. I will not get this, I think. I do not want this.

I am self conscious about appearing too desirous of attention, even though I am desirous of attention. Appearances matter. But that’s shallow thinking. The split personalities inside me fight - that which wants to be famous, to be seen and appreciated and that which wants to eat popcorn on my couch watching sci fi movies alone at night. I’m aging, short and losing my hair and I have no experience with this business of movies. The door to the building is locked. A few of us are shivering in the chill, sizing each other up, not knowing who has an edge for the role that is completely a mystery. And nobody can figure out if we have the wrong building or the casting company is late due to the snow or what.

I give it 30 seconds then turn tail and retreat. That’s partly my ambivalence and partly the biting chill wind blowing down from the Sangre De Cristos. I walk back to my car. I drive home. I put the experience out of my mind.

I have tried many things in the last few years. I’m a little late for a mid-life crisis, but this I’m sure is what it feels like. I tried cannabis gummies (made me sleepy and annoyed). I messed around with crypto (made enough to buy a new cell phone). I built a camper and lived in it for three months traveling cross country (not for me). I took up sewing in anticipation of making my own gear to hike the Appalachian trail (covid and heart attack put the kibosh on that). So I’m not losing sleep over walking away from a frigid casting call that even the casting company didn’t want to attend.

Life goes on. For one week. Then there’s another announcement in the paper. The casting company still does not have enough extras for this movie. Given that the open casting call I tried to attend didn’t happen, this makes sense. But also that’s odd, I think. Weren’t there many people wanting to be in movies? Isn’t the acting business chock full of wannabees who want to be? So I click on the web site and there’s an option to do the whole application online. No trips to random buildings on frigid college campuses required. Plus I don’t need to see anyone else or feel self conscious. I can do this from the privacy of my own home, in my PJs, eating popcorn and watching a sci fi movie. Brilliant.

They need photographs of me. A headshot and a full body shot. I am 100% sure people pay big money to photographers for headshots. I am not going that route. If there’s a DIY version of anything, I’m all over that shit. Fix a toilet? I youtube it. Make bread? Find a blog on it. Build a van to live in? Instagram. Fuck if I’m paying for photographs that will simply show how much I’ve aged.

I google how to use the timer on my phone camera. I balance the phone on my dresser and stand against the white wall of my bedroom for the full body shot. The camera flashes and the photo looks awful. I don’t look like a scientist, I look like a short dude with aspirations of good looks. I change my shirt to a button shirt. I comb my hair. I straighten my glasses. Again the camera flashes and it looks ok.

Time for the headshot and portrait mode on my iphone. And this time the photo looks more than ok. The camera has done some magic. IPhone Magic. It blurred the background and focused on my face. I have no idea how it works, but it looks good. To me. I would send it to my girlfriend for her review but I’m terrified of what she’ll say. Plus I’m embarrassed to admit I’m doing this. There’s something slightly shameful about seeking attention, or so I was brought up. There are no actors or actresses or famous people in my family. My most successful relatives are quiet behind-the-scenes operators, not front line celebrities. That’s some kind of familial DNA at work that prevents attention-seeking, for better or worse. Or maybe we’re all just ugly af.

Next the website asks for measurements. I have no measuring tape. No problem. This is my bailiwick. This is my element. A problem I can solve. I get a piece of twine from the large roll I keep in my tool area and a tape measure. Yes, this is what I can do - solve a problem that requires puttering and messing around with random tools and materials. The casting company website has a link to a Youtube video on how to take your own measurements. I pull up the video and copy the actions on it, measuring my arms, my shoulders, my waist, my hips, my inseam. I submit my photos and my measurements on the website.

Triumphant and exalted, I open a beer and finish my sci fi flick, having accomplished something I’ve never done before - I have applied to be an extra in a movie.

And goddam it, am I surprised when I get an email from the casting company a few days later offering me a nonspeaking role as a scientist-extra in Oppenheimer. Holy fucking shit!

I am way too excited for this. Why am I so excited? Why does this thrill me? I have no idea (that I will admit to out loud), but... I actually have an idea that I will write here. I’m deprived of positive feedback and this is positive feedback. This is very positive feedback. In my head I am Sally Field. In my house I am Sally Field. They like me! They really like me! I google her dress and buy it on Amazon. No, I’m kidding, I don’t do that. But I consider it.

I tell my son about the movie and he is flabbergasted. “Christopher Nolan, Dad? He’s huge!” And I shyly agree that he’s a great director, not admitting that I didn’t really know who he was until that moment.

Then I get an email from the casting company not to post on social media about the movie. I tell my son to tell nobody and I get to act like it’s all hush hush. This makes me feel even more special.

I get an email that I need to go to a “fitting”. I don’t know what this means. But I put it on my calendar. I also have to get a covid test. The casting company is paying for that.

I am beyond excited. I haven’t been this excited in a long time. I’m a child, giddy, and my mind is racing. Perhaps I’m manic depressive and entering a manic episode? Because being excited about something must be mental illness, right?

My excitement is compounded because of a deep, unresolved closet full of emotional baggage from my divorce. A divorce I lost, if one likes to think of divorce as a contest, which unfortunately I do. I lost big time. She walked away with a lot of money after telling me she didn’t want any money. But, alas, as they say, divorce is expensive because it’s worth it, right? And that’s very very true. But still, the experience cut deep, and some wounds leave scars even after they are healed. And this acting part, this tiny extra offer in a big budget movie, would be a salve on that scar, an ointment on soreness that manifests when the soul remembers the ugly.

Because you see, my ex-wife was an actress. A good one too, I’ll venture to say. But I won’t say that. Because... reasons. But she never appeared in a big budget movie. She was in indie flicks, one good enough that it won some awards, some TV shows too, but never in a movie with a big-ass budget and press and shit. Therefore, deep in my psyche, so deep I could tell nobody for fear of looking like an absolutely bat-shit crazy motherfucker, I relished the idea of appearing in this star-studded, multi-million dollar, cast of thousands production, even if it was just my big toe on screen for 1/24 of a second. I would have a role in a movie bigger than she ever had. Revenge is a dish best served in a bucket, in a movie theater, with butter. But I rebury this joy and zip my lips on it because down that path leads to even close friends telling me I need therapy, which they already do.

The casting company has instructions for us. I am to shave. I am to wear normal underwear. I didn’t know there were people who go to fittings wearing... what... abnormal underwear? Maybe commando I suppose, But that would be weird. I’m too old for that type of weirdness. I choose normal underwear. They have a memo attached with a suggestion to bring clothing that is typical of the period. I wonder if actors choose their own costumes? That seems unlikely, but I follow the instructions. I grab some pants that sort of match the handout. I go to Goodwill and look for a tweed jacket, but they have none. Maybe the casting company has bought them all. I grab a sport coat, a tie, an old pair of wire-rim glasses that look more like the examples in the casting memo than my normal glasses.

At the fitting in Albuquerque, I meet Nicole who has me fill out forms. Apparently I am going to be paid. I would have done this for free, I think, though money is nice. This is getting better and better. I am sent back to meet the wardrobe person, I’ll call him Paul. He is friendly and asks me if I am a scientist. The production company is hoping to fill the scientist extra roles with actual scientists from Los Alamos. I say yes, but retired. This is a white lie. I do not work at Los Alamos. I have a single published paper in a scientific journal from graduate school, 30 years ago, but he wants me to be a scientist, so I am a scientist - it’s acting right? My research was in forestry, not nuclear physics. I admit that my career in forestry was brief. Paul is intrigued and asks me my favorite tree. I tell him it is the Baobab. He has me stand still while he undrapes his measuring tape from his neck. I realize he is just making conversation as he measures me. He is like a veterinarian, sweet talking a crazy ass dog before he resects its balls.

I tell him I brought clothes from my closet as suggested. He seems amused when he says, “Let’s see them.” I think for him it is a rare event when extras bring clothing that actually work. The pants are the wrong style, the jacket is the wrong style, the shirt is the wrong style. I am apparently not out of date enough to have clothes that work for a movie taking place in the 1940s.

Paul tells me to strip to my skivvies. He returns with a shirt, a suit. The suit is 39R. I tell him I think I’m a 36. He explains that 70 years ago clothes were smaller and sizes were different. I realize I am out of my league. These guys have period clothes sized from that period. That’s a level of detail I had not expected. I dress. And goddamit I look fantastic. There’s nothing like having a professional pick out your clothes. He takes some photos of me. The only item I brought that he likes are my older wire-rim glasses. “On the set, ask the props person. It’s their call. But bring them if you can.” The clothes are going to be slightly tailored - they have their own sewing team. Pro’s, all of them.

Paul says he’ll see me on the set, about three weeks away. I am directed to hair and makeup, where my diminished locks are briefly combed and sprayed and I am sent on my way.

And that’s it. I’m fitted and coifed. I collect a receipt for my time at the fitting from Nicole. I actually got paid for this! A week later I received a check in the mail for $22.17. This is the most money I’ve ever made acting! Excited, I drive back home chatting non-stop about the fitting with my girlfriend on the phone. She tolerates my babbling and perhaps she’s got me on mute. In fact, maybe she always has me on mute. Because the talking/listening thing previously mentioned.

It is 2 weeks until I am needed on the set. I don’t know if they are already shooting. Maybe the movie is nearly done, maybe not. I have no idea how movies are made. I can’t even guess. As I eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, puttering in my kitchen, I wonder if Cillian Murphy, Emily Blunt and Matt Damon are as excited as I am. Are they eating peanut butter and jelly and puttering in their kitchens? Maybe they are already here in New Mexico, staying at a fancy resort or a rented ranch, and paid staff are spreading their peanut butter for them on fresh bread flown in from their favorite bakery in LA. Maybe.

A week before I’m supposed to be on set, I get an email from the casting agency offering an opportunity to apply for a “featured role” that “involves a slate”. This conjures up all sorts of visions - A Slate! This means someone with a handlebar mustache and a cigarette in a holder will yell “Action” and someone else will snap a clapping board and I’ll be a star!

But then I read the details: the role is “pretending to vomit.” And if I want to apply I must send in a submission. I have no idea how to do this. But, being bored, and excited about pretend vomiting - something I did much of when I was around nine years old, I quickly put on a button shirt and video myself pretend vomiting, after watching videos of pretend vomiting on Youtube. And, I discover that Emily Blunt, supposedly a star of Oppenheimer, has a pretend vomiting video on Youtube with millions of views. You cannot make this shit up. I write a slightly snarky email and send it off to the casting agency.

Unfortunately, I get radio silence so I’m thinking my pretend vomiting is not up to Hollywood standards. Nevertheless, I am now in this to win this. All of my dignity is out the window. I will do anything to get on camera. I am a slut for fame. A whore for attention. Tell me what to do and I’ll do it. For an audience.

The casting agency doesn’t send out the final location and time of filming until the night before - I assume because they themselves are simply waiting to be told by the production crew. Finally, at 7pm the night before I get an email with all the pertinent details. Filming will be at Ghost Ranch, north of Santa Fe, where dozens of movies have been filmed, including 3:10 to Yuma, one of my favorite westerns, with that guy in it whose name I cannot remember; I probably would have guessed Christopher Nolan to be honest.

I leave my house early, thinking that if they chose me, then they must be really desperate and there are probably dozens of extras. And by golly I’m right as rain. There must be 500 cars parked in a field near a series of circus tents. It’s a madhouse. Nevertheless, I park and head toward the commotion. I’m handed an N95 mask and instructed to wear it. New Mexico recently dropped their mask mandate but I can guess what an outbreak would do to a cast of thousands.

I line up with many other people, I assume also extras. Around us groups of folks are waiting in line for a bus. I realize that filming is not here at the circus tents, but somewhere else on the ranch. These folks are dressed up in period costumes. Many “soldiers” in WWII outfits and women in skirts and curled hair, lips red and cheeks rosy, men in sharp suits and a few fedoras. It’s a bit surreal. Probably for folks used to movie sets it looks normal, but I can only think of Halloween.

I reach the front of the line in the big circus tent and fill out some forms. I remember that I’m getting paid for this. Woot! A handler addresses the crowd in line. We must remember to drink water. We must not take pictures and we must not bring our cell phones to the set. All rules I will break.

I am then directed to wardrobe where I put on my previously chosen outfit. It’s hotter than expected so I don’t put on my long underwear. I realize I forgot to wear black socks and the Puma brand is clearly visible between my penny loafers and my wool slacks. Luckily, the wardrobe folks are used to inexperienced doofs forgetting things and produce a pair of black socks for me.

Hair and makeup are next. I’m handed a razor to re-shave so that I’m clean as a whistle. “They want everyone extra light today.” My hair is teased and sprayed to a shellacked helmet. And off I go to wait for a bus to the set. In the meantime I drink a bottle of water. This backfires as I get on the bus and realize I have to pee.

I’m sitting next to a pretty young woman and we get to chatting. I realize suddenly how surreal it all is when she tells me she’s 18 and goes to Los Alamos High School. I actually laughed since with her hair and makeup she looked 15 years older. I felt bad since she thought I was laughing at her. She wants to be in movies. Except for my ex, I’ve never actually met anyone who wanted to be in a movie. I thought that only happened in the movies. Her name is Laney (sp?) and I hope she becomes a big star so I can say I sat next to her on a bus.

We get to the set and our group of about 40 extras gets out and stands in a cluster. A handler arrives and gives us a quick explanation of how it works. I have to pee.

“Rolling” means the camera is on - do nothing, be silent, pay attention.

“Background” means we do whatever it is we’ve been instructed to do - walk, run, talk, sit, stand, etc.

“Action” is for the real actors - they will do whatever it is they do.

“Cut” means stop doing it.

“Reset” means go back to where you were before they turned on the camera.

It seemed very simple and intuitive, but it was really very interesting to hear it in person. It was, frankly, exciting. And at my age such things are becoming more and more rare.

Now I had a minor issue with my costume. I wear glasses. And the pair of glasses I normally wear are black plastic frames, rectangular, kind of modern, nerd glasses. These are not the typical glasses of WWII, the time period of the movie. I had asked my wardrobe fitter if I should wear them or try to do without. My eyes aren’t great. I’ve worn glasses since I was thirteen years old. So to go without is a bit difficult. I have my older pair of glasses, round wire rims, that look much more appropriate for the time period. I can wear these and they are good, but because of some weird bodily changes over the years, this old pair of glasses causes me double vision, though everything is in focus. So I keep them as emergency spares. And I still had to pee.

So here I am, on the set on the day of filming. I approach a handler, who I now realize is called a “production assistant” or PA. I ask him if I should wear my black glasses, currently on my face, or my wire-rims. He radios for a props person. I have to pee. I wait a bit for the props person, who does not arrive, probably since filming is actively happening at the full size version of 1943 Los Alamos that has been constructed about 200 yards away. The command words, “action”, “reset”, “background” drifting over the space between us.

I don’t want to miss my opportunity to be on camera so I quickly head off to the restroom, which is hidden in a WWII-style quonset hut. When I return I ask the PA again about the glasses and he mutters, “nobody showed up?” He radios again.

We stand around waiting for our cue to head to the set. I meet other people, mostly like me - no experience, never done this before. Quite a few are scientists at Los Alamos, which I understand the producers wanted because of the positive marketing aspect - I mean that is pretty cool that real physicists would play the physicists in the movie about physicists. On the bus the next day I sat next to a scientist from Los Alamos. “What do you do there?” I asked. “I design nuclear weapons,” he answered.

Finally we are asked to go to the set. I realize with the large crowd, my chance of being on camera is minimal. And there is some strategy I can also see. Depending on where the camera and director are, as an extra, you could inch your way toward that part of the set, hoping to get picked to stand here or walk there, in some way being in a shot that is more likely to end up on screen than on the floor of the editing room.

So with that in mind, I kind of head toward the front of the crowd of extras as we reach the faux Los Alamos, about 20 buildings, ten on each side of a rough dirt road, each built over the last month to mimic the original Los Alamos, which is 50 miles to the south of us.

But to my dismay, the PA simply points to the three of us in front and says, “you go in there” and points to a building on my right - with a giant red cross on it. It’s the “hospital”. And in we go, and there are already 4 extras in there. So the seven of us stare awkwardly at each other, knowing we’ll never actually be on camera.

The sun had come out from behind clouds earlier, when we were standing around in a crowd behind the set. Wardrobe came around and took my jacket. I’m not sure if that was because they were concerned I would sweat or they wanted more folks in just button shirts. Later I find out the scene takes place mid-summer. But the result was that I was in a button shirt and tie and I had switched to my wire rim glasses. I looked like a 1940s uber-nerd. And since this was a hospital, when the PA came by to give us instructions, “You look like a doctor,” he said and had me go out and stand on the porch of the hospital. Alone. I was the only extra asked to stand outside. I was elated. I might even get on camera. If you are reading this and cringing, yup, that’s me, cringe-producing, king of cringe, so cringey.

(In a bizarre side note, a year later at a house warming party in my Santa Fe neighborhood, I met the granddaughter of the actual doctor at Los Alamos during the Manhattan Project. True story.)

The instruction was that when the director called “Background”, the others would emerge from the door behind me and head to the street. I would already be on the porch. Dr. Oppenheimer (”Cillian” to insiders), down the block, would be waving as we celebrated the successful detonation of the first atomic bomb on Hiroshima. It’s strange now, but it was a different time and the scientists at Los Alamos were trying to end a world war, but it is disconcerting to realize that the staff of Los Alamos, and the whole country, celebrated the bombing of a civilian city on the other side of the globe. Politics aside, that’s what happened.

I really wanted to see some celebrities, so I chatted with my fellow extras - another 18 year old who had been an extra in Stranger Things the week before, a man my age who had been in enough movies that he said he got residuals from some of them, two young women who worked at Los Alamos. They pointed out Christopher Nolan, about 100 yards away walking and talking animatedly with his staff of assistant directors and a man carrying an enormous camera on his back. I saw Cillian Murphy, our star, standing calmly, waiting for his cue. I thought I saw Matt Damon, playing General Groves. It was all surreal. I had never been close to a movie star in my life.

So the process starts. “Rolling”, “Background”, “Action”, “Reset”. We pretend to be excited about the dropping of the bomb. We are told to walk faster, slower, stay near the hospital, etc. In all cases, when “rolling” is called out, I’m standing on the porch of this hospital and looking at Cillian Murphy, about a football field away from me. He’s looking down the street, toward me and all the other buildings in each shot of the scene. The sun is directly on my face. Later, another extra and I discuss and we realize that was probably a decision by Nolan so that the sunlight was on the set. The camera was right behind Cillian Murphy, so I know I’m being filmed, the full sun on me. I’m probably a dot on the screen I figure, but I’m still on screen. In between takes we extras chit-chat.

My wire rim glasses cause me to see double vision, as I said. So, in between takes, instead of closing one eye to squint at Christopher Nolan and Cillian Murphy, I switch to my regular black glasses so I can star-gaze and imagine what they are doing, what they are saying. I’ve always been a curious guy. “A lifelong learner,” a friend once called me. ADHD says the DSM-IV. When we are told to get back in position with either a repeated cry of “reset” or just realizing that everyone is getting back, I switch back to my wire-rims.

We shoot that scene again. And again. Each time, the shot seems to go better, smoother. Minor adjustments are made on the set. A WWII era ambulance is moved slightly. A truck of soldiers enters more slowly. We are given suggestions by the PAs to shake hands, look at the loudspeaker on the light pole, etc. Finally, it’s smooth. At the start of the shot as I hear the yell of “rolling” I swear I am staring deadeye at Cillian Murphy. The camera is buzzing and it is right behind him, pointing right at me. I figure that’s the shot they’ll use. I’m going to be in the movie. I am the happiest, cringiest dork on Earth.

A PA comes to the hospital and says they are going to shoot a slower shot, with just a few extras. I’m chosen to stay on the porch for continuity. It’s going to be a few minutes so I reach up to switch to my black, regular glasses so I can see better. But low and behold they are already on my face. Oh, shit.

Did I have these big black glasses on for the last shot or was I wearing my wire-rims? Did I just wear my black glasses for the last shot? Seriously? I can’t remember exactly if I’d already switched. But I’m fairly sure I was wearing the wrong glasses for the last shot. And for how many shots prior to that? I hide my panic and switch to my wire-rims, contemplating exactly the ramifications. I mean, there were many crew members coming around, making sure our collars were straight, our hair wasn’t mussed, our props in the right place. Wardrobe came by with combs and hairspray. Prop people had been collecting and distributing things like American flags. Didn’t someone notice? Why did the prop folks never come to the cluster of extras to talk to me about my glasses? Oh, fuck. Oh, shit.

This movie is being filmed in IMAX I’m told. That’s why the cameraman has this giant suitcase shaped thing on his shoulder. It’s a giant, IMAX camera. And it’s real film. It’s not digital. That film cannot be modified. It’s chemical based. And it’s expensive as fuck. Days later on set I will talk with a crew member in charge of film and learn that each roll is $2000. Nolan and company use 8 to 20 rolls a day. And I think I was wearing my black glasses for the shot that was probably the best one of the day. And in that shot I’m standing just over the shoulder of the star of the movie, albeit a hundred yards away, but the camera pointed right at my fucking face with my rectangular, black hipster glasses.

And now I’m shooting a scene where I’m wearing different glasses, but supposedly just a few minutes earlier. Did I just fuck up a shot with 400 extras? Literally $500,000/day filming and I screwed it up? What do they do to extras who fuck things up? Are we on a list in Hollywood, a no-fly list for studios? The movie budget is $100 million. For that kind of money, would Christopher Nolan, watching that scene in his private editing room in his mansion, pick up his phone and make a simple call to Liam Neeson and his skills?

There’s a well-shared screenshot of Game of Thrones where a Starbucks cup was left on a table and made it to screen - some PA having missed it before “action”. There are outtakes all over the internet of continuity issues on sets. Will this be one of those shared images? Will I become a meme, but in a bad way? The “black glasses extra” meme. But I don’t know. Maybe I was wearing the right glasses. Maybe they won’t notice. Maybe that shot won’t be used. I don’t know.

I consider approaching a PA and explaining that I did this. But what would I say? “Hey, um, I switched glasses...?” I have no idea what I should do. They are already moving on to the next shot. Christopher Nolan and his entourage disappear around a corner. A set of tracks is being laid out in a nearby field. Everyone starts to move off this part of the set. But I vow to leave on my wire rims and not take them off until I’m done for the day. As if that will help at this point, the horse having left the barn and all.

We move to another scene where we are all in a crowd as Cillian Murphy and Matt Damon bid farewell to the staff of Los Alamos. I hide in the back of the crowd, hoping to not be seen at all. My dreams of stardom dashed in my own mind. I’m both paralyzed with incomprehensible shame and resigned that I just screwed this up big time. Then a calmness descends over me as I realize that this kind of thing must happen all the time. And besides, I’m just an extra. I’m background. It’s not important. I pray it’s not important. Please, god of cinema, hallowed be thy name, let this not matter.

I stay silent as extras in the crowd are asked to put kids on their shoulders for the crowd scene. Kids who are no longer extras, but props. Despite my attempts to hide, I have a good view of Cillian Murphy, Matt Damon and Christopher Nolan as they shoot this final shot. I am no longer interested in being in movies. I want to crawl into a hole and die. Leave me in the desert, please.

The weather gets cold and I miss my jacket. We reassemble at the buses as the day winds down. We started filming late, but I realize it was not late, it was right on time because the director wanted the sunlight in a perfect spot - right in my eyes, right where my black glasses would be visible in 70 millimeter, $5000/minute IMAX. God I’m an idiot. But now the sun is descending. We head back to the circus tents. Lunch is served, it’s not lunch since it’s dinner time, but the PAs are calling it lunch because I guess there is lots of filming happening in the evening. But I am not to be part of that. My group is “wrapped” and we are sent off to wardrobe, our day on the set complete.

I drive home, bursting with excitement because I might be in movie or maybe I won’t be in a movie because it is possible that I just fucked up a shot that costs well into the six figures. Like I’m conflicted because I enjoyed filming, though it was a bit boring, but also because this may be the most exciting fuckup of my life. I’ve fucked things up before. I chose a friend as my divorce lawyer instead of a real divorce lawyer. I bought an auto-parts business I had no business buying. I never got therapy after my heart attack resulting in me moving half way across the country and living in a camper for three months, et cetera. I’m not a paragon of well-intentioned living. I am, instead, what happens when white, privileged people get lucky. We end up living really well and being stupid, fucking up things that others would trade their thumbs for and certainly not fuck up. But this. Oh, this is just spectacular. I had one job--just show up and stand around like a fucking potted plant and somehow I couldn’t do it right. Clearly, this is kismet for wanting this bit part as revenge on my ex-wife. I wanted it for the wrong reasons and this is the result. Karma is a cinema-loving bitch.

Being an extra is one of the easiest jobs on Earth. In the industry it’s not even called “being an extra” it’s called “background.” Yes, being an extra is literally just being a piece of furniture on the set. You are flowers in a vase on the hall table. You are a footstool. You are paint. You are literally decoration. Easy peasy, yet here I was able to take that simple task and just crush it up into a messy wad and wipe my ass with it. I may have reached a new low (or high?) in incompetence.

But say la vee as they say, amiright?

I was still scheduled for another stint as an extra two weeks out. Despite my misgivings and panic that I had destroyed Christopher Nolan’s money shot, I was able to move past that and look forward to being on set again, because...life is simple when you are. And being able to separate your monstrous mistakes from doing simple tasks like tying your shoes is part and parcel of being a giant screw up. Donald Trump probably doesn’t think about his bankruptcies, his destruction of the Republican Party, his ending American hegemony, or his hair, because if he did, he’d be paralyzed with self-doubt and shame. He remembers his successes, such as they are, and that allows him to function. I can do that too - separate my past from my present. Move on.

And then, suddenly, from stage right, I get a text. It’s Monday morning at 9:15am and it had snowed a few inches the night before. It’s cold as a witch’s left tit in northern New Mexico. Apparently this means a bunch of extras didn’t show up. The text asked if anyone could come to the set immediately to play a scientist - my role. I have nothing else to do, which in most circles is not something to crow about, but it is what it is, so I replied back immediately with a yes.

And sure enough, in an hour and a half I am donning my 1940s leisure suit, swapping my hipster glasses for my wire-rims and on a bus to the set with a dozen other “rush” extras. Apparently it wasn’t the snow that caused the need for extras, it was the helicopter.

Mr. Nolan had a helicopter scheduled for that day, apparently just to get shots of horses from the air since Dr. Oppenheimer liked to ride horses at a ranch he owned near Los Alamos. The weather was clear and crisp and perfect to get aerial shots of the faux town of Los Alamos, complete with residents going on about their daily business. It was still cold as my ex’s smile, but they had a snack bar hidden in a WWII style quonset hut with hot coffee, and PAs came around with hand warmers and turned on outdoor heaters. So it wasn’t terrible. I was told to walk up and down the street, enter a barbershop, walk to the mess hall, repeat.

And the most exciting part was that as we went about our fake daily business, a sleek black helicopter buzzed the town, trying hard not to “get itself in the shot” as the helicopter person explained during a safety lecture. “This isn’t a Vietnam war movie. The helicopter is not an actor. We’ll try and keep the wash to a minimum.” I’m fairly sure I was in the barber shop when the helicopter was filming so I doubted I’d be on screen at all.

The day dragged on until sunset while we shivered behind the mess hall hoping to be utilized further. But it was not to be. Despite staging us in the town while the sun dipped below the horizon, the crew never did get the helicopter to take any more aerial shots of us. It was brutal to stand in our skimpy costumes in 25 degrees; that’s the life of an extra. I was told by the only female extra to show up for the rush that she had been on another set where a woman lay naked for several hours playing a dead body while they repeatedly shot the same scene. Truth is stranger than fiction. There’s regular requests, she said, for dead body extras. That is not an aspirational job for me. Like, seriously, I’d rather be a naked dead body than play a naked dead body.

So back home I went, now with two days of being an extra under my belt, I felt like a Hollywood insider. I knew what to do and how to do it. I knew how to separate past mistakes from present successes. I considered running for President.

So when another email came through from the casting agency asking who had availability near the end of the month, I jumped at the chance. Because who doesn’t want to stand shivering behind a fake mess hall all day for minimum wage? And I got booked for yet another two days! This would bring my total days on set to five. I mean, who’d a thunk it? From zero to hero, as they say in the biz! I do not believe I can exude more cringe, amiright? I’ll try to use the words “dank” and “rizz” shortly.

I was originally cast for only two days as an extra. But I kept getting emails from the casting company asking for extras. I was already fitted, documented, a known quantity so as the casting company asked for extras, I replied yes.

The entire set moved to downtown Los Alamos - the real one - to film in Fuller Lodge, one of the last remaining buildings from the time of the Manhattan project. Again I showed up. By now I was a regular. The wardrobe folks knew me enough that I got a “great to see you again”. I learned the names of some of the crew. Seth, Robert, Jessie were already there when I arrived at 6 am and still there when I left. When did these guys sleep? I kept my glasses fuckup to myself.

A scene was shot in the main hall of Fuller Lodge. It was another big day. Nearly 150 extras packed the hall. The superstars of movie making were busy - Nolan, Hoyta, Nilo - doing their thing - directing, producing. We were told to cheer, to dance, to stomp, to do whatever needs to be done so that Nolan’s vision of Oppenheimer’s life could be translated from book to screen.

I was sitting with the other extras. Behind me was a pretty young woman who was not an extra. She was an actual actress. Most of the extras were like me, completely new to the movie business so we grilled her on this oddity - a professional mixed in with the amateurs. She told us about her role (in the credits she’s Laughing Woman) and how she got the part (Nolan’s team called her agent). She was there for just a day, flown in from LA and then flown out again. I marveled at the complexity of this. For a few seconds on screen, a dozen people had interacted with Kerry Westcott to get her to this spot in Fuller Lodge. Maybe I’m a simpleton, but it seemed incredible. And, to boot, she could cry on command. She did it for us while we waited for a film cassette change. Like really cry. Weirdly awesome talent.

Los Alamos got wrapped and I had no scheduled time on set for 10 days. The next scenes were filmed in Santa Fe but take place in the 1950s. No extras from the 1940s period were to be used for continuity reasons. Though I know of one extra who was on both sets; a PA told him to “stay behind something.” It’s inevitable, I supposed, for any complex production to have minor snafus like that. I shuddered as I thought of my glasses and the possibility that my screw up would be visible.

The set moved and I was asked again to serve as background. And of course I accepted. The next shooting location was down south in Belen, NM. This is about 2 hours from my house in Santa Fe. Now, I’m all for being a minimum wage slave for the chance of being on screen with Matt Damon, but then the reality of waking up at 4am to get to set by 6am showered and perky made me question my need for validation. Because maybe validation and immortality on screen aren’t worth quite the cost of going without a morning run and a pastry.

But attention-seeking prevailed and there I was leaving my house at four in the morning, driving in the pitch black, eventually on rural dirt roads to another ranch where a small tent city stood, housing my buddies in wardrobe and the awesome hair and makeup team (one’s hat said “wish you were hair” - love that).

I was greatly disappointed when my costume did not include the spectacular wool jacket from Los Alamos. “This is Trinity, completely different scenes,” said Paul. And he handed me boring khakis and a tan work shirt.

And off to the set I went. I was shortly standing under a giant steel tower, a replica of the one in Alamagordo, NM that held the very first atomic bomb. In this scene I was a scientist helping place safety padding under the bomb in case it should fall while being hoisted. Next to me stood Mark, a rough-hewn stunt man who told stories about jumping from a camel to a train in the movie Sahara and being chased by a pit bull in No Country for Old Men. Next to him was an actor named Dylan, playing Frank Oppenheimer, the brother of the subject of the biopic.

Dylan looked just like the photos of Frank Oppenheimer in the book. He and I chatted with Mark about stunts and the Exploratorium Museum in San Francisco which was founded by Frank Oppenheimer. This was my first actual conversation with a movie star, despite it being my 8th or 9th day on the set. Dylan Arnold is a teen heartthrob (something I didn’t know until I called my son, expert on all things media).

And this is the reality of being on set with stars and super-stars. As an extra you will rarely interact directly with a star. Extras are told not to bother the stars. Emily Blunt is not going to chat about Mary Poppins while you both wait for the film canister to be changed. Asking for autographs and selfies is discouraged. And this isn’t just to protect the stars from being mobbed, it’s because sets are busy and people have work to do. Actors are acting, they aren’t there for publicity photos or to chit-chat.

Christopher Nolan, in particular, is known as a tough taskmaster. He’s light on idle talk and heavy on getting shit done. The set was always moving, filming, a beehive of busy bees. I got a chance to talk with Adam, the senior electrician/lighting dude. He told me Oppenheimer is the ‘superbowl’ of productions. He called over a buddy and introduced him, “This is Scott, he has two academy awards.” Then he called over another, “The man is the ‘go to’ for the Coen Brothers.” I was awestruck at the talent assembled for Oppenheimer. Christopher Nolan attracts the best.

I’m semi-retired. So it’s been a long time since I’ve worked with smart people doing a single task as a team. But here I was watching these guys make a movie like a well-oiled machine. Each person I saw, each crew member, each actor, even us extras, we either knew what to do or we were off the set. Nilo called out “rolling”, we all shut up, “action”, we all moved, “cut”, we did whatever we needed to do until the next “rolling.”

I was in the tech business for many years. When I deployed computer code, I knew it would generate revenue. In movies, all the expenses are up front and all the revenue is on the back-end. It’s a completely balls-to-the wall business. $100 million up front, maybe zilch when it’s released, or maybe a billion dollars. You don’t know. Not a business for the faint of heart.

I’m not going to say there weren’t moments on the set where curses were tossed about, from Nolan on down. But this wasn’t done lightly and shit got fixed quickly. Everyone was just so fucking competent. I’ve worked with incompetent boobs who can’t seem to screw in a light bulb. Fuck, I’ve been the incompetent boob myself. But here, on this set, shit just got done. As tight and hard-working a team as I’ve ever seen. Respect.

Anyway, enough of my hard-on for watching Christopher Nolan and his team on set, let’s talk about my real brush with fame. The moment when I, uber-nobody, went full fan-girl and spent 10 minutes chatting with Matt Damon, surely one of the most A-list of A-list celebrities.

Now, one thing that is important to know is that I really have a hard time matching names to faces. Maybe I have mild face blindness. Or maybe I’m just mildly narcissistic and not very aware of anything around me. Either way, show me a picture of a major celebrity and I’m not likely to know who they are. I had to google what Emily Blunt looks like.

But Matt Damon, well, he’s pretty much easy to spot. Because he looks just like Jason Bourne.

On our last day of filming in New Mexico, I was on set with two dozen extras filming a scene with Damon and Murphy. The spring winds blew dust across the desert and we regularly had to turn en masse and cover our eyes and noses. The crew called in a water truck to spray down the set. We were shuffled off to the side and Mr. Damon, much to my surprise, ended up standing next to me and one other extra, alone.

I don’t know how the conversation started, but basically it turns out that Matt Damon lived a few blocks from me outside Boston when he was, as he said, “a starving actor” and we actually knew the same neighborhood haunts. So after a few minutes we were deep into it, comparing notes on which restaurants were still around and such. If he hadn’t been a famous actor, I’d have figured I was talking with a regular dude from Central Square. He sounded just like a buddy of mine, Mike, who grew up a mile from Matt Damon. Same voice. Same cadence. Same intonation. And I think that’s part of his brand, unintentional or not.

The next day, gloriously recounting my brush with fame over breakfast with my sister and brother-in-law, I suggested that maybe Mr. Damon was recounting his conversation with me to his family. “And then this creep buttonholed me on the set...” But even that is an unlikely stretch of my imagination.

And this, perhaps, is the bane of celebrity. We know celebrities from the screen, but we don’t really know them. A false sense of intimacy is created by watching them in movie theaters. When we meet them in real life we think we know them, but we don’t. Mr. Damon. You don’t remember me and if you do, apologies. And he even kept his word, autographing a copy of American Prometheus as he said he would.

And, high with that experience, having seen how movies are made, I wrapped up my first and probably last time being an extra. Because my ratio of appearances in movies to Best Picture Awards is 100%. I’ve retired from movies at the top.

Some of you may be wondering if I fucked up that scene with my glasses. I didn’t. I’m not even visible in those shots. The extras are blurred in the background, not noticeable at all, just as the Director wanted.