Maxim Jakubowski: London Noir

‘If you’re referring to the little queen you placed in the Channel 4 presenter’s job…’

‘That’s uncharitable and you know it. He got the part because he was young and he looked right. I mean people like Marc Ford.’

Peter knew all about Marc Ford. Among actors, it was a famous success story. The young player hadn’t worked for almost a year. He was down to his last penny, and his wife was pregnant. He’d been offered a small speaking role as a Nazi storm-trooper in a low-budget German film being shot in London. As there was hardly any money left to pay the actors, the producer had offered him points at two and half per cent, and he had accepted. Three weeks’ work, standing in a tank of freezing filthy water, then he’d forgotten about all it. The damned thing had won the Oscar for Best Foreign Film, and subsequently played to packed houses throughout the world. Marc had retired, a millionaire. Marc had been advised to take the part by his agent, Jonathan.

‘Actually, something did come in today. Not terribly interesting, but worth a bit of money.’ Jonathan was a practical man. Having delivered his standard speech he would now attempt to perform some kind of positive deed that would help his boy. They were all his boys and girls. He hadn’t much hope for Peter, though. He’d pegged him as one of the bitter ones, an actor who resented success in others and bore the fatal flaw of being unable to acknowledge his own faults. Actors were supposed to see things more clearly. You couldn’t trip blindly through life always blaming the director.

He moved back to his desk and undipped sheets of fax paper from a chrome letter rack, checking through them. ‘I had a call from a company called VideoArts. They make corporate promos, and they’re looking for featured extras. The first call is Hampstead Heath on Friday morning, early start, dress in your own clothes.’

That means 6.00 a.m., thought Peter, have to book a cab there, stand around freezing in the pitch dark waiting for the director to show up.

Jonathan was watching him, waiting for his reaction. It was a test to see if he would show willing.

‘Well, do you want it?’

Time to be a good boy. Reluctantly, he agreed to go along. ‘Good, now we’re getting somewhere.’ Jonathan’s smile only affected the lower part of his face. He waved the sheet of paper, ineffectually fanning himself. ‘The company produces ten promos for the same client every year, and they like to keep their cast consistent. It’s just extra-work, but they might take you on permanently, which would mean a regular monthly cheque.’

And a regular percentage for you, thought Peter. Another dead-end job that would advance him nowhere. He’d see how it went, but after this perhaps he wouldn’t need an agent at all. He had recently heard of a more interesting proposition, a casting call which hadn’t come through his agent and had far greater possibilities than a god-awful boring sales promo.

At the Fulham Road gym the following morning Peter checked out the details with Fanny, who worked in the coffee bar. As far as she knew, the rumour she had heard a few days ago was true. One of the actors using the free-weight room had told her – she couldn’t remember who. He’d casually mentioned a feature film that was due to start shooting in less than a week. It was being produced by a Dutch, or perhaps a Belgian company, a thriller set in present-day London, but she hadn’t been able to understand the title. Filming would take place in central locations for a minimum six week period, and because of casting problems a number of male speaking roles were still to be cast. She remembered the name of the contact, but had no telephone number. It would take a bit of sleuthing to find that out.

Fanny was happy to pass on a professional tip, partly because she still hoped that Peter might find her attractive. She was an actress, but had been disabled by a childhood illness, and only took roles that allowed her to appear in her wheelchair. The rest of the time she worked at the gym, running the bar, strengthening the upper half of her body with weights and waiting for a man like Peter to ask her out. She had once thought that working here would make her more independent, but the male patrons arrived with inflated egos that pushed her own flimsy sense of courage back into her wheelchair.

Peter tried not to look too excited about the tip. The gym was full of actors who might overhear and get there first. ‘You mean it’s being shot in English?’ he asked, lowering his voice.

‘I suppose so. A lot of these people dub or subtitle according to the territory, don’t they?’

‘Was this guy up for one of the parts? Did he have a script?’

‘God, Peter, I don’t know. I’ve only ever seen him a couple of times before. I imagine they’ll give the script out to anyone who auditions.’ Fanny reached her hand along the counter, hoping he would absently take it. No such luck. She could tell he was already planning his audition piece. She wrote down the name of the production company for him, and Peter headed for the phone booth. At least the kiss of thanks he blew her seemed genuine enough.

Directory enquiries failed to find the name listed, and suggested that he wasn’t looking for a company but a specific building. Had he tried the Yellow Pages ? He was surprised to find the address registered to a fruit and vegetable market. The woman who answered the number explained that they were indeed auditioning in rooms above the stores. She had an unplaceable European accent, admitted that the film was soon to start production, and agreed to check out his Spotlight photograph. If she was interested, she would bypass his agent and call him at home to discuss his c.v. before making an appointment.

She rang him at seven o’clock that evening and they talked for a full half-hour. Peter exaggerated a little about his recent work, and was officially invited to audition on Friday afternoon. Fighting to contain his excitement, he wrote down the address and agreed to be there. For the first time, he could feel the spotlight shifting toward him through the darkness.

As he entered the southern corner of the park, Peter spotted the other extras. They were standing huddled together in the gloom, like sheep preparing to be attacked. Instantly he wished he hadn’t accepted Jonathan’s proposal. In a few hour’s time he would be auditioning for a real film. He walked over to the nondescript group and stood a little way off. Actors, that is those performers with speaking parts, do not mix easily with extras, whom they consider to be little more than unskilled fans. He knew that they would be forced to speak to each other, though, as there seemed to be no one else around. In the distance bare elms stood on the brow of a hill, thrusting up blackened bones like the spine of some half-buried animal. A sour pink glow edged the sky, the first intimation of dawn.

‘Where is everyone?’ he asked, breath clouding around him.

‘The director’s gone with the first AD to sort out payment with the park-keeper,’ said a small man in a brown raincoat. Shooting on the heath cost two hundred pounds an hour, and had to be paid in advance. ‘They’ve already had us rehearsing. There’s a lot of mud about. I’ve already ruined a pair of trousers. Make sure you put in a dry-cleaning bill.’

This was typical extra conversation. They were obsessed with dry-cleaning. Too bad he’d lost the frozen lasagne commercial. At least he’d have had some national exposure in that. Corporate videos never really saw the light of day. Perhaps that was a good thing, though. He wouldn’t want some embarrassing early performance turning up to hamper a successful film career.

After a few minutes the director appeared and explained how he wanted them to move. Lack of enthusiasm dulled his instructions, as if he was being forced to describe the least interesting part of the day’s filming. He simply wanted them to move this way and that. Peter’s questions were cut short. If actors were cattle, the director made it clear that extras were plants.