SECRET OF SOAP

The secrecy of any information regarding any shoot is practiced only on extras.

It is understandable that no production manager, director or cast want future

story lines costumes or scenes shared with the world on social media.

However the level of security does not extend to the many technical, costume,

makeup or other personal who all get a daily call sheet.

This is a document that plans the whole day ahead saying who does what and how

each might be contacted.

It also contains the magic words, Estimated Wrap Time.

In the hands of extras this document would elevate the extra who holds it to the

level of The Oracle and whilst it would cut conversation on potential overtime,

lunch time and the magic finish time, so popular with supporting actors, the

oracle would sit in the bus winning all and any popularity whilst answering

questions.

The Holy Grail of the shoot is ironically easy to obtain. Most of the techs are

only too happy to provide a copy on request or a short detour into their area

will yield a discarded copy. Few, however, would dare to break down the class

wall that separates the extras from the superior crew and the Grail normally

remains hidden by etiquette.

 'Good Afternoon' I venture to a spotty little young man with a belt with tools

hanging from it and which seems to tie his top half to his bottom half 

'have you got a copy of the call sheet'

'Sure mate' he happily replies handing me an ear marked tatty little A4 booklet which contains the secret of life for the day

By the time I get to the sanctuary of the supporting actors rest/eating/waiting bus I know we will work until 10 pm, that there are only six of us, and I will be a street cleaner whilst the action takes place on the street in front of me. 

Just one scene

This is a soap and I read the script. It is not Hamlet and I wonder at the 

imagination of the writer who has put together this masterpiece in pre-secondary school English?

I am the fourth of the extras to arrive and I take my place next to the young budding actress who is carefully putting her own make up on to play 'woman walking on the pavement'. 

It is unlikely this will be the day that a watching casting  director will discover her but I will not disillusion her with news of the role she will play.

I feel powerful over my peer group with my superior prophetic knowledge when the 

fifth man ( man cutting hedge ) arrives and immediately hugs the pavement woman 

as they remember the toothpaste advert they did together some weeks ago with true affection.

Conversation of what might lie ahead is made whilst tea is drunk and cakes are 

eaten as we wait the late arrival of our last colleague (boy in hoody) and the 

third assistant director (a posh young intern making less than us) checks him in 

making a mental note to tell the casting agent he was late and condemn him to 

several months of  no work offered until his transgression is forgotten ) and we 

are all put into a bus to be transported to a street that a location manager has 

decided is more appropriate for the scene than all the other like streets.

We all stand around whilst cameras, cables and equipment are carried around us.  

A table is set and a tea urn appears by magic on a table where more cakes and 

sandwiches appear under cling film. 

Extras may not remove the film and must wait for crew to take the first pickings before devouring what is left.

After rehearsals without the stars a Lexus pulls up and two actresses emerge from it who boy in hoody excitedly recognises (one was apparently in a film called Zombies can be Kind)

What will these mega gods (who must not speak to or even acknowledge the extras 

and minor crew on their way to earning wages which will top all of theirs put 

together) make of this masterpiece of a script

Three hours and eight takes later we realise that they are indeed human 

with limited talent.

Then after the eighth take the director  shouts 'that's a wrap' and we all buzz 

to our respective transport. Extras to be the last to leave of course

I look at my watch 

It is five to ten.