Jan. 27th, 2005

peterjackson: (Saaaaaay)
Christmas break's over, and we're all back in 1933 New York this week, knee deep in the depression. We've needed a lot of extras for scenes, cause New York city was as crowded then as it is now. We've got over a hundred extras just to drive cars through the streets! It's a confusing tangle of cast, crew, extras, caterers... you name it, we've stuffed it into this city we've built. Quite amusing to see Hutt Valley turned into the Big Apple. Naomi's finally given me the perfect expression to get across to the audience that Ann Darrow's desperate for a job, and I think there was a collective groan as I grinned and yelled "cut! And that's lunch!" It was only 14 takes! I'm really pleased we got it so quickly.

I'm finding my way to the nearest canteen for some juice and whatever doesn't smell too bad, when my pace is matched by one of the car-driving extras. Haven't seen this one before, but he's got on the requisite oversized fedora that the camera likes better, it's got a wider brim than the ones the pedestrian extras wear. I nod in his direction, squinting in the sunlight, mentally lost in trying to decide on two ways to go with the scenes we're hitting after lunch. And that's when he starts chattering.

"Amazing stuff this morning! So, what's easier, herding orcs or conducting traffic jams?"

"They're both fun, I guess orcs are less cooperative, though."

"So, is Naomi easier to work with than Viggo?"

"Er, every actor's different, can't compare 'em. She's great." What, this guy want to be my new best friend now?

"Speaking of Viggo, you seen him since he got jailed?"

The hell?

"Probably the stress of having his love affair brought out in public, you think? I mean, you think that's why he hit the drugs? That's gotta hurt, man. Bet you wouldn't have hired him if you knew he was gay and an addict, now would ya?"

I duck away from him, seeing two of my security guards not far off, and shove through the crowd to grab one by the arm. "Over there. Gray shirt, fedora. Not an actor, a fucking reporter. Get him the hell out of here."

The guards waste no time, rushing the man before he can bolt. As they haul him off, he twists his head around to give me a triumphant grin. Asshole.

I've lost my appetite. I wander past the canteen wagon, and lose myself in the back alleys of New York.

December 2006

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