Is that really me? An extra in "Three Days to Kill"
|Sara, Clement (my husband at the party) and an unrecognizable me.|
I have straight hair. Really straight hair. And I never wear red lipstick. Ever. Plus, my eyes are almost always framed by a pair of black glasses. When they're not, I squint because my vision is bad.
That's why I laughed when Emma, another extra for "Three Days to Kill", asked "Do I know you? You look familiar?" because I considered myself to be completely unrecognizable. Suddenly, I was someone with voluminous hair and dramatic eye makeup. Someone who would receive an invitation to a high energy party at a luxurious penthouse apartment with a spectacular view of the Eiffel Tower. Someone with a Cambodian, not a Swiss, husband.
But that's the magic of Hollywood, or in this case, the Cité du Cinéma in Paris.
Where the team of makeup artists work their wizardry on your face...
|Sara getting her hair done.|
And the hair stylists tease your hair into submission.
Once you're all glamorous and ready to go, you wait. And wait. And wait some more. When munching on a baguette with Nutella smears your lipstick, you're told to return to the makeup chair for a touch up because everyone has to look their best at this party. Kevin Costner, Hailee Steinfeld, Connie Neilson - they're all going to be there, along with some bad guys who will put a damper on the fun when they frighten the guests with gunshots. How rude! (Note to self: when you host a swanky party in Paris, be sure to ask everyone to check their weapons at the door).
As with all things in life, it quickly becomes evident that some people are better waiters (those who wait) than others. They've come prepared - with scripts to study, crossword puzzles, books, games or earplugs. Chatting with my fellow extras, I learn that many of them are doing this for the first time, like me. Some of them have taken a couple of days off from their regular jobs in finance, building management, engineering and parenting to try some completely different. They want a change, something out of the ordinary. They're my kind of people.
When we're finally escorted to the set, I'm given a husband. We introduce ourselves. We're told to stay in the elevator until the doors open. When they do, we're to join everyone else on the dance floor. Darn it, late again! How did they know that I always tend to arrive a couple of minutes after the designated time, no matter how hard I try. Now I'm typecast and will forever be the last one to make an appearance. Or perhaps the bad guys will arrive after me. It depends what ends up on the cutting room floor. To be continued...
|Lunch on the set. A baguette, some cheese, wine - and a 3 course meal. We're in France, after all!|