Confessions of a Film Extra

‘What are you two guys doing up here, anyway?’ I say, beginning to smell a rat – or more likely, three of the little furry chaps.

‘We’re freelance reporters. We were coming to do an article on Miss Mealie.’

‘You’ve got quite a scoop then,’ I say sarcastically. ‘Too bad Miss Mealie won’t let you use it.’

‘What do you mean?’ says the lady in question.

‘It must be obvious. If a kid can get thrown off the programme for puking his ring, then they’re going to crucify you for having a nasty naked man in your room. Even if your lousy story was true, some mud would stick. Now, why don’t you wise up and send these two goons back to wherever it is they come from?’ It would sound better if I borrowed Humphrey Bogart’s mac for the delivery, but even then it might not cut much ice with Miss Mealie.

‘Good thinking, rapist,’ she hisses, ‘but what makes you believe I want to stay on Kiddichat for the rest of my life? There are other forms of entertainment, you know.’

And then I see it all. In a blinding flash it comes to me like a clip from an old detergent commercial. I have been framed. Miss Mealie is after publicity at any price and my career has been sacrificed to get it. I snatch at the camera but the geezer is too quick for me.

‘Uh, uh. Naughty!’ He wags a finger at me. ‘If you want to see the pictures, buy the morning papers tomorrow.’

Chapter Three

‘This is a nice one of Timmy,’ says Mum. “You can’t see a lot of his face though.’

‘You can’t have everything,’ says Dad, all sarcastic like.

They are studying the daily newspapers and I have made the front page of every one of them except The Times and the Guardian. I know that because Mum has rushed out to buy everything except the Jewish Chronicle and Chicks Own. She is dead narky about my non-appearance in the quality press because she had to go up to Clapham South tube station before she found a copy.

Her reaction to my little spot of bother is interesting. Distress, accompanied by pride in the number of column inches I have achieved – I hasten to add that I am referring to space in the newspapers. Already she has the scissors out and I can see that I am taking over from Jason as the family star. Unfortunately my career now seems likely to be considerably shorter than that of the squint-eyed little monster glaring at me over his bowl of Tasty Frosties.

‘You see where tangling with that harpy got you,’ sniffs Rosie, who does not hate me quite so much now that she knows I am not destined for the Uncle Timmy spot.

‘It was strictly a no-tangle action, I’m afraid, Rosie. You don’t want to believe everything you read in the papers…’

‘Oh yeah. Sounds very likely, doesn’t it?’ says Dad. ‘Stark bollock naked and her with her dress half torn off. Nothing remarkable about that, is there? Oh dear me no.’

‘She led me on, Dad. I’ve never had to resort to force yet. It’s not my nature.’

‘She was a hussy, that one,’ says Rosie helpfully. ‘There was always a lot of talk about her.’

‘I think she left those pills there on purpose,’ I say, seeing a chance to patch things up with Rosie. ‘She never liked little Jason, did she?’

‘She never liked anyone except herself.’

‘It says here she’s considering a number of film roles,’ says Mum, who is still studying the papers. ‘She wants to be an all-round entertainer. There’s talk of her going to Hollywood.’

‘More like Neasden Rep,’ snorts Rosie. ‘She can’t do anything.’

‘Don’t look at me, Dad,’ I say. ‘I never found out.’

Most of the papers treat the affair as a put-up job and the police reaction has been less enthusiastic than that of firemen being called out to a false alarm at a waterworks. When I have read the dailies it occurs to me that I am being a bit premature in writing myself off for a job with Dominic Ralph. The worst headline is ‘Was it Rape or a Lovers’ Tiff?’ Most of the others look on the funny side in a way that makes me wish I could have shared their merriment at the time. All in all it occurs to me that I might give Dominic a ring and see where I stand.

In fact I do not stand, I grovel. And even that does not do any good. I ring Dominic at the studio where no one can find him, and at his flat where the phone is answered in an accent that makes Kenneth Williams sound like Richard Roundtree.

‘Who is that?’ minces the voice. ‘I’ll just see if he’s still in.’ Pause. ‘No, I’m most terribly sorry but he’s just popped out. Can I take a message?’

‘Yes,’ I snarl. ‘Tell him to turn off his bleeding electric razor. I can hardly hear what you’re saying!’ I jam down the receiver and compose myself to plan my next move.

I am not getting anywhere particularly fast when I light upon the card that the hated Miss Mealie gave me. This is probably another load of rubbish but anything is worth pursuing in my present situation. The first number on the card rings without reply, but the second is answered instantly.

‘Dukley, Barchester and Rideabout,’ says a very toffee-nosed voice, ‘gee-ood morning.’

‘I’m sorry, I’ve got the wrong number,’ I say, ‘I was after Trion Productions.’

‘Justin Tymely?’

‘That’s right.’

‘He’s on the floor at the moment, shooting.’ Blimey! I think, she’s very cool about it. I wonder why I cannot hear any shots.

‘I’ll ring the police,’ I say. The receiver is half an inch from the rest when I hear squawking coming from it.

‘What are you talking about?’ says the upper-crust voice tightly. ‘He’s shooting a film at the Sheppertree Studios!’

‘Oh, silly me,’ I say. ‘I thought – oh well, it doesn’t matter. I’ll see him there. If you have any contact with him, tell him a window cleaner rang.’

‘Don’t go down to the studio,’ says the bird exasperatedly, ‘we need you here. The windows are filthy.’

‘I’m not a real window cleaner,’ I say. ‘Well, I am, but not at the moment. I’m an actor window cleaner, Timothy Lea.’

‘I’ll tell him you’re coming if he rings in, Mr Lea,’ says the voice icily and the line goes dead.

I am looking forward to visiting a real live film studio but by the time I get to what seems like the other end of the Home Counties, my enthusiasm is waning a bit. The buildings that greet my eye look like derelict hangars and I have not seen anything less impressive since I worked at Melody Bay Holiday Camp.

‘Mr Tymely,’ I say to the peak-capped geezer on the gate. ‘Mr Justin Tymely. He’s a film director.’

‘What’s he doing?’

‘I don’t know. Something with a window cleaner in it.’

The gatekeeper shakes his head and consults a list pinned beside his hatch. ‘Up the Ladder, Jack,’ he says finally. ‘Does that ring a bell?’

‘Probably what I want. Where do I find him?’

‘Straight down as far as you can go, then turn right, second left.’

Fifteen minutes later I find myself outside a metal sliding door with ‘Stage 5’ painted on it. There is also a red light and a sign which says ‘Do not enter when light is flashing’. The light is flashing so I wait obediently. Five minutes pass and it has just started to rain when two youngish men come round the corner. They are dressed in painters’ overalls and for a moment I make the stupid mistake of thinking that they are painters. Their conversation soon disabuses me.

‘So I said to him, I says, “If Crispin is going to have one then I’m going to have one”. Well, I mean, it’s ridiculous, isn’t it?’

‘And what did he say?’

‘Stupid old faggot didn’t know what I was talking about. Can you imagine? Ooh, I could have sunk my nails into him. Sink! Sink! Sink! I know you say I over-react to things –’

‘I never said that! That I did never say. I said you were sensitive.’

‘Well then!’

My contact with the conversation vanishes as the newcomers ignore the red light and disappear into the hangar. There is obviously no point in waiting about outside so I depress the lever and go in after them.

‘Oiy! Can’t you read?’

I am being addressed by a large red-faced man wearing a dirty plaid shirt and paint-spattered trousers.

‘I’m sorry. I was following those two.’

‘Sssh!’ hiss the two gay blades who are now scowling at me as if I have started cracking walnuts under my arm during a palace reception.

‘You use your eyes!’ says the big man.

I nod vigorously and upon enquiring after Mr Tymley’s whereabouts, am directed round the back of what looks like a hastily erected pre-fabricated shed. This must be the set, I think to myself and peer through one of the windows with interest. A pretty, long-haired blonde girl wearing a mini skirt is being embraced by yet another man dressed in painter’s overalls. As my pulse quickens he slides his hand inside the girl’s blouse and begins massaging one of her breasts as if he is trying to smooth it into her chest. Saucy! I think to myself. Obviously Mr Tymely makes a pretty explicit movie even by modern standards. The girl opens her eyes, sees me and gives a little yelp.

‘Ooh, Ron!’ she says.

Ron turns on me angrily. ‘Bugger off!’ he says. ‘Go on, hop it before I give you a thick lip! Bleeding peeping toms!’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say urgently. ‘I thought –’ But there does not seem a lot of mileage in telling Ron what I thought, so I leave him and his lady friend to get better acquainted and push on to an intersection between piles of props ranging from choir stalls to bar fittings. This, at last, must be where the action is, because I can actually see a camera. Standing beside it is a greasy-haired individual with cheeks and chest like a retired pouter pigeon that has gone to bird seed. He is shaking his head at a tall, slim young man who has a mane of hair flowing from halfway down the back of his head, the upper part of that article being bald as an egg. The tall geezer is wearing faded denim from head to toe and has an expensive-looking silk scarf bulging from his neck.

‘All right, all right,’ shouts Lofty, ‘Sellotape her nipples! Jesus Christ, isn’t there a woman in the whole of London who can erect her nipples? When the hell are we going to get something in the can?’

‘Jim,’ says Greasebonce, ‘do her nipples, will you?’ Jim is playing cards with half a dozen painters and stagehands and seems irritated at being disturbed.

‘Oh, bleeding heck,’ he says, throwing down his cards. ‘That’s extra, you know, Sellotaping nipples. Extra.’ He drags himself to his feet and advances onto the set.

‘Bloody unions,’ snarls Greasebonce under his breath in a gruff Scottish accent. ‘Most of these bastards want danger money before they’ll pull the bog chain.’

The set is obviously intended to represent the inside of a bedroom and the lady now complaining about Jim’s cold hands is wearing a black lace negligee and one of the biggest sets of knockers I have ever seen. Cleaning his nails on the other side of the rumpled bed is a queer looking cove in the inevitable painters’ overalls. He managed to make them look like the latest male fashion dreamed up by one of those kinky French designers.

‘Right. Thank you, Jim,’ says Lofty. ‘Now, Mac, if you’ve got some film in the camera, let’s do it again. And for God’s sake, Crispin, put a bit of life into it! Try and imagine Sandra is a man or something.’

‘Charming!’ says Sandra.

‘You’re supposed to be a lusty housepainter about to enjoy the sexual experience of a lifetime,’ continues Lofty. ‘At the moment it sounds as if you’ve popped in to ask for a glass of water because you’ve come over a little queer.’

‘He should be so lucky,’ mutters Mac.

‘If you don’t like my reading, Justin, I don’t know why you don’t get someone else,’ flounces Crispin. ‘Victor Mature, for instance.’

‘He wanted luncheon vouchers,’ says my prospective employer acidly. ‘Now, concentrate on the performance you’re being paid to give.’

‘I don’t know how you expect anyone to say these lines,’ moans Crispin. ‘ “Man, but it’s a really switched-on pad you’ve here, honey.” Good grief, if my old Rada teacher could see me now –’

‘Yes, I know, Crispin,’ says Justin. ‘But the money’s good, isn’t it? It’s better than reading children’s stories on the telly. Now, for God’s sake, let’s have some action!’

‘Bunchleys munchy butter-beans just melt in your mouth,’ says Crispin for no apparent reason.

‘My nipples are going numb,’ says Sandra from the bed. ‘Jim put that sellotape on too tight.’

‘You’ll just have to grin and bear it, dear,’ says Justin as a groan goes up from the camera crew. ‘OK. Let’s get this bleeding scene in the can.’

‘Quiet, please!’

‘Scene one hundred and forty two – Take three.’

‘Mind Sandra when you use that clapper board.’

‘Shut up!’

‘See nipples and die.’

‘Shut up!’

Sandra stands by the bed and Crispin adjusts his hairpiece and squares his shoulders – well, oblongs them really. They are not wide enough to square.

‘Man, but it’s a really switched-on pad you’ve got here, honey.’

‘You like it, do you?’

‘Like it. I love it.’

‘That chest for instance.’ Mac’s camera is honing in on Sandra’s boobs. – ‘You like my chest?’

‘I love your chest. There’s one thing, though.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I think it needs a coat of paint.’

‘You want to paint my chest?’

‘Yes. I’ll go and get my brush.’

‘All right, I’ll get it ready for you.’ As Crispin turns his back Sandra shrugs off her negligee and Mac’s camera lens nearly caps the tips of her titties. Sandra lies down on the bed and Crispin comes into camera holding a brush and a can of paint.

‘OK, Crispin,’ coaches Justin. ‘Register surprise. Good. Now Sandra, take his paintbrush. Bite it. Good. That’s lovely. Beautiful. Hold it there for a couple of secs. Lovely. Now down. Super. Crispin, get on top of her. Not too fast! Don’t leave Mac behind. Right, now reach for the paintbrush, Crispin. Both your hands on it. On the paintbrush, Crispin! Lovely. That’s beautiful. Kiss. Down, down, down. And paintbrush into the tin. Lovely! Right, cut. That was beautiful. We’ll do one more to be on the safe side but we’ll certainly print that one. What do you want?’ Justin has suddenly become aware that I am standing by his side.

‘Miss Mealie sent me. She said you needed a window cleaner. I spoke to your office this morning.’

‘Your what?’ says Mac

‘Shut up,’ says Justin and turns back to me. ‘How is the winsome slut? Still fucking everything that moves?’

‘Nearly everything,’ I say resentfully.

‘You’re the fellow who was in the paper today, aren’t you?’ says Mac who has been peering at me closely. ‘Did you see it, Justin?’

‘I only read the Financial Times,’ says Justin coolly. ‘What were you doing in the papers?’

‘Miss Mealie cooked up some publicity gimmick which had me prancing about in the altogether.’

‘You’ve got the right pedigree for this caper, then. Have you got a card?’

I dive into my breast pocket and retrieve the card Miss Mealie has given me.

‘No, no, dear boy. That’s my card, isn’t it? I mean a union card?’

‘No.’

‘My God. Did you hear that, Mac? You’re not allowed to buy a copy of the ABC Film Review without a union card.’ He looks round the set. ‘If these people knew you weren’t a card holder, they’d be out of that door like lemmings.’

‘I’m sorry. Where do I get one?’

‘You can’t get one unless you’re an actor.’

‘But I can’t be an actor unless I’ve got one.’

‘Exactly. Clever, isn’t it? Don’t worry. We’ll get you one.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Nothing at the moment. I want to use you for some scene-setting stuff, probably tomorrow. You know, shinning up ladders. Standing on window ledges. That kind of thing. All exterior shots.’

‘Don’t I have to say anything?’

‘No, but don’t worry. It’s degrading to have to speak on this kind of film, isn’t it, Crispin?’

Crispin shudders and continues to pat his hair.

‘Completely unnecessary, too. We like to keep the actor’s lips moving to give the impression that they’re alive but apart from that it’s busts, bottoms and bums all the way. Sandra’s mammaries are the language our audience understands.’

‘Couple of flashes from Sandra and the centre of Singapore is ablaze with burning taxis,’ agrees Mac.

‘A lot of your stuff goes abroad, does it?’ I ask.

‘We wouldn’t be in business without our export market. That’s another reason why we play down the dialogue. If you’re trying to flog a movie everywhere from Bangkok to Budleigh Salterton, you’ve got to keep it simple. You noticed the international flavour we injected into the piece you saw?’

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘very sophisticated.’

‘Don’t knock it. That’s what the audience wants. They don’t listen to the words.’

‘Did you say we were going to do another take of this scene?’ says Crispin petulantly. ‘I’m not wed to my craft, you know.’

‘Crispin is what they call an old pro,’ explains Justin. ‘He came to us from Children’s Hour via the West London Magistrates Court.’

I watch them do the scene again and it occurs to me how blasé everyone is. There is lovely Sandra revealing her all and most of the blokes on the set are playing cards or kipping. Even Sandra herself calmly chucks aside her copy of The Lady before getting on with it. I suppose the glamour must wear off after a while. Luckily the blood is still running dangerously hot through my veins and when Justin announces that shooting is over for the day I am swift to offer Big S. her robe.

‘Ta, love,’ she says. ‘Did you say you were a window cleaner?’

‘I used to be.’

‘That’s a pity. I hoped I could press you into service. I can’t get anyone to come near me.’

‘You amaze me,’ I husk. ‘Tell you what: I’m not doing very much at the moment. Why don’t I give your windows a quick once over?’

All the time I am talking to her I cannot take my eyes off her knockers and she pulls her robe across her chest protectively.

‘You’re sure it’s no trouble?’

‘None at all.’

‘All right. I won’t be long.’

When Sandra comes out of the dressing room she leads the way to the car park and steers me towards a bubble car, the shape of which is a perfect match for her own best feature.

‘It’s very economical for hopping about in,’ she says. ‘As long as you don’t mind a bit of a crush.’ She reaches across to shut the door and for a second I feel as if I’m bringing in the melon harvest. ‘Snug, isn’t it?’

‘Very. Tell me, how many films have you made?’ I say, demonstrating that gift for conversation that has made me the darling of my Mum’s Tupperware parties.

‘I’ve no idea. About twenty, I think.’

‘I don’t even know your full name.’

‘At the moment it’s Sandra Virgin. I’ve had about six. Paula Rental, Dreft Sunsilk –’

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