Bollocks To Bollywood

Bombay, India

Jason was approached on Wednesday about being an extra in a Bollywood movie. The "casting agent" was offering 500 rupees and a free lunch in exchange for our services from 08:00 to 21:00. I was skeptical, but some sleuthing on the interweb convinced me that the offer was legit and I agreed to come along. We got up early (06:30) to shower and pretty ourselves up. A bus full of Western faces started the long-ish (maybe 40 minutes) ride to the studio at 08:00. Our fellow cast members were a UN of white people. There were delegates at the Cracker Congress from Holland, New Zealand, Australia, England, South Africa, Finland, Italy, Germany. I think we were the only kids keeping it real for the Ewe Ess of Eh, but I did not get to chat with everyone.

The studio was by far the nicest, most modern, and best-maintained complex of buildings I have seen in India. The bus took us through some very nasty slums into a little oasis of latte-chugging money-men that never wear ties, suspiciously-dressed homosexual dancers with Rick James hair, and frumpy clipboard-bearing production assistants. Yellow paint and palm trees completes the picture - a little bit of Los Angeles protected by a high wall from a whole lot of Bombay.

No time was wasted getting into costume. Jason was chosen to be a bartender and draped in a horrendous Hawaiian-style shirt. I was allowed to remain in my street clothes - white shirt and dark trousers - to fill in as a customer. The set was a sound stage into which had been built the "Vancouver Yacht Club". The instructions to the set designer must have been something like "an old-boy's club with a strong nautical theme". There was a pub-like bar at one end, a fake blue sky behind even faker masts at the other, and some side rooms decked out with leather chairs and brass navigational instruments. The ceiling was modeled on the ribs of a wooden ship, giving the impression that things had gone a bit Poseidon Adventure - the prefect setting for the farcical musico-aquatic production about to unfold.

The night before the shoot we went to a local theatre to do some research. I was not riveted by the film "No Entry" despite it being in its 50th glorious day. Rather, you could say that I was somewhat appalled. Merits aside, the research did set reasonable expectations for Bollywood content, so it was not a surprise that we were shooting a super-lame song-and-dance number. Choreography in these parts has not evolved much beyond the Cop Rock era. The premise for the scene was that the heroine (stage name: Taneesha - a rising subcontinental star), having downed one too many Moosehead, had decided to have a bit of a drunk sorority girl dance on and off of the bar. Jason was right there behind the action passing out second-rate vodka tonics. It seems likely that some part of his head will be in a few frames of the final product. I was only chosen for group shots and kept well clear of the direct gaze of the camera, so it is somewhat less assured that my smirking mug will be gracing the silver screen.

The set was a very male environment. Between shots, an army of carpenters, electricians, lighting specialists, and camera coolies shouted orders up from the floor, down from the rafters, left, right, and sometimes in kind of a diagonal direction. Authority seemed to be in order of fatness. The biggest fat guy would shout at three fat-but-less-fat-guys who shouted at yet-skinnier gentlemen who then passed the message along to the emaciated bottom caste that actual get things done. In a surprising twist, the ring master of the Cirque de Belly turned out to be a visually unimpressive woman who's authority was matched only by her grumpiness. She sat well away from the main action and watched things through a monitor, issuing commands to the crew through a booming sound system. The disembodied voice of the apparently absent director blaring out of the speakers gave her a god-like quality and left no question as to who was in charge.

We shot from 10:00 to 21:00 and maybe completed 20 seconds of the film. I figured that most of the waiting would happen when the crew was setting up a shot. Not so. The camera was moved, lights lit, and extras arranged with a determined quickness. The majority of the time was spent rehearsing, re-hearsing, shooting, and re-shooting very small segments of action. Taneesha (sp?) struggled to please all of her customers. The choreographer never missed a chance to re-demonstrate a move or offer bits of useful advice like "use the energy". The camera operator wanted to check and recheck his field and focus with the apparent belief that cinematic quality is measured entirely in F-stops. The god-director was worst. Her oft-issued instructions were inconsistent and contradictory. At one point, she literally asked for a move to be "graceful", "drunk", and "ladylike" all at once. Such are the awkward demands of stardom.

It was good fun watching the crew at work and we were treated better than I expected. Tea and water were readily available on set and lunch was tasty and plentiful. Nonetheless, even curiosity satisfied and quality eats cannot forestall the boredom bred of perpetual waiting. I was relieved and quite a bit tired when we called it a day. We met up with some of the other extras after the sleepy bus ride home for food and drinks, but decided to turn into instead of head out clubbing with the Caucasian Coalition. I look forward to seeing one of the OC crew in the final film. Being a Bollywood extra was worthwhile, but I will not do it again. My thresholds for boredom and artistic license were both reached.