It’s 6pm. And I’m eating an unusually early breakfast – of veggie risotto – in a muddy car park at Armadale.

Without casting aspersions on the late-night activities or the good folk of West Lothian, a passing local might wonder what sort of assignation would be taking place at such an hour, in such a location. However, this is legitimate and legal (tax returns permitting), if, as I said, unusual. Showbiz and the world of Hollywood is, however, pretty far removed – we’re at the edge of the cutting edge of the film industry and talent and crew aside, we’re making a minimum wage buck as film extras.

The movie in question: Donkeys, which at the time of filming was known as ‘Rounding Up Donkeys’ – Sigma Films‘ second in a ‘trilogy’ (as defined by Lars Von Trier and his Zenotopia company). The goalposts have changed since Red Road, though Kate Dickie is a continuing presence in this middle part of the three. She’s not here tonight as far as I’m aware, and neither is Karen Gillan (rumour has it she’s in the film somewhere, though presumably as a bit part – or even an extra?).

However, we are in the presence of greatness in the considerable size and shape of James Cosmo (perennial Scots film actor from Braveheart) and Brian Pettifer, often a comedy actor from Get Some In to Rab C Nesbitt… though he also played Dr. Alfred Meyer in Conspiracy, and that mix of comedy and drama may well serve him well. No-one, it seems, is quite sure at this point, in spring 2008, quite what the film will turn out like.

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It’s 7pm. I’m on a bus. Which is parked in the dog track’s car park – doubling up as a staff room for the Background. All the extras (aka ‘Background’) are here as we await our call. They’re a friendly bunch, chatty, though with literally hours of an extra’s day spent waiting you have to be.

Working as an extra is largely about waiting. I’ve waited, more often than not in a bus, to take part in a Scottish Tourist Board promotion in various Edinburgh car parks. I’ve kicked my heels in a stately home in Kilmarnock while Jeremy Northman and Gina McKee psych themselves up for the pretty torturous child porn storyline in Fiona’s Story. I’ve hung around out Bo’ness steam railway wondering where Alistair McGowan and Ronnie Ancona have got to and instead been greeted by a bloke in monocle, white beard and top hat who looked awfully like one of our neighbours. Of course, it was – it’s surprising who you meet, and who has an interest in film, or picking up pin money, or is just desperate for any sort of work.

Back on the bus, we’ve killed a few minutes by filling in our forms. When an extra joins an agency they’ll put down any additional talents. I’ve put down ability to play guitar (badly), juggle (similar), and play football (best not go there). All pretty unimpressive compared to some, like the guy sat beside me. He’s not too sure what kind of ‘stunts’ he should put on his form – I think he said something about fire. His dayjob is setting up a skatepark in Ocean Terminal, which is sure to fit in with some future underground production.
As the evening winds on the chat becomes more relaxed as the merry band swap stories. There’s the woman who used to work in security at a variety of airports. Another fellow is supposed to be doing an 8am HGV run, though thankfully it turns out he’s swapped shifts – we’re in for a long night and he’ll be tired when this is done. There’s an American bloke who was in ads for Lexus and the like when in the USA, and one chap – I’d not call him an aspiring actor – is a builder, but got a line in Still Game.

The “line” – a speaking part – is the holy grail among extras – next step the Oscars. Our sidekick to Victor and Jack is a local and as we head for the track recognises some others who have it seems been recruited as a one-off to bolster the crowd. An interesting evening out for sure, though hardly lucrative – sadly the 12 hours is pretty much minimum wage, but most here aren’t for the money, or indeed for the brush with fame. Though one chap does ask the production crew if this will count towards his Equity Card application.

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8.45pm. I’m eating chips for breakfast, as a prelude to a couple of hours of shouting at imaginary dogs. Insert your own West Lothian stereotyping here.

The snack is sustenance before we walk in the back door to the dog track. Despite someone washing down the cables with cold water to prevent them overheating, it’s astonishingly wet and pretty nippy, and the wardrobe department are working overtime to kit out the crowd. A guy in a Ronald Villiers hat negotiates, and is surprisingly allowed to keep his headgear. The unlucky or ill-advised ones are forced to swap their own branded sweatshirts and jackets for flimsier logo-free gear. The idea is to use a core of 20 or so extras, with the actual race meeting’s punters on the periphery. Armadale’s a small town and it seems that everyone – whether extra or dog fancier – knows each other. There’s are eleven races to get through before the filming can begin in earnest, once the proper punters have filtered away. The local punters are between amused and bemused, and a wee bit unhappy that their regular night has been invaded. Mainly because we seem to be in their regular spot. And to be fair this is their territory I suppose – even the semi-locals barely knew this place existed. Perhaps fortunately, it’s a sparse crowd, due to there being a Rangers game on the telly, though there are dogs on the card called Novo and Ulster to give them (if not us) something to cheer.

The crew film our reaction to some of the races with dogs in shot, and then, with the regular punters off home, it’s down to getting shots of the actors and background. This is a precise and some might say laborious process. There’s the minutiae required for a shot that works which is the kind of thing that changes how you look at films and TV. CarolAnn’s job is partly to arrange the shots’ ‘look’ – lining up people high to low, like in a school photo, getting test shots and geeing up the crowd at the appropriate times while simultaneously hushing us while the actors are contributing dialog – basically, we have to cheer silently, which fits in with the fact that there’s nothing for us to shout about anyway. Everyone has their part to play, including the girl whose most noticeable task is to cover James Cosmo with a puffy jacket between shots. For us, the hardest part for us is geeing along Kebab, one of the dogs that isn’t really there…

Finally we troop off as our race meeting ends, rather later than the ‘official’ races.

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11.45 pm. Breakfast. Yes, breakfast. “Good morning” cast and crew greet each other. Maybe they’re on Hollywood time. Or jetlagged. It does mean plenty of scran – if there’s one thing you get here – pay’s not great – you’re well looked after especially in the culinary stakes. It’s also noticeable how everyone is treated the same, and how polite the crew are, no pushing forward in the queue. This time it’s stir-fry or bolognese or fish pie, and toffee pudding for afters. Great stuff.

With a while to go as the scenery bods set up for the next round of filming, and with the conversation between extras dried up a little, I can take a wander around the set. The car park is strewn with trailers of varying types alongside our bus. The toilets are big enough to hold a party in with ‘proper’ china fitments, while next to that is an ever-illuminated truck which houses the makeup and costume department. To any passing locals the whole setup, this time of the morning, must look like either an illegal rave or an alien landing that’s strayed from nearby Bonnybridge.

Back in the bus I go, and eventually, things start to move on a little as the set-up for the scene in the bar progresses. Production types wander in with clipboards, and call on extras, who are escorted off into the night. It’s like choosing the sides at school football. Some are picked to go first, mysteriously, for being tall. The telly’s on, but there’s not a lot to watch on terrestrial at one in the morning.

Apparently there are usually two buses, but one has broken down, so talent and background are nestled cosily in the one vehicle – Brian Pettifer joins us, but is soon whisked away in a car. Which seems a little OTT for the 30 yard journey to the track, but of course, it’s raining, so a wet star would play havoc with the continuity. So, when our time comes, we’re ferried round to the entrance by car as well – all that’s missing is the red carpet at the other end.

Again, CarolAnn and her colleagues make the decisions on who will show up where. We’re in the dog track’s bar, where Cosmo and Pettifer will have a post-race pint, and (SPOILER ALERT) the whole crux of the film – Cosmo finding out he has a son – will be revealed in their heart-to-heart chat.

It’s the little moments that can, I suppose, make or break a career, as the plum jobs are divvied up on seemingly arbitrary reasons. One of the tall guys is selected to stand at the back by the window, to block out the light which is interfering with the shot. At least he’s indoors – another chap is positioned outside the bar, walking past the window in the rain. I should imagine his constant to-ing and fro-ing may lose its novelty value on the 20th take as he wears a groove in the terracing. At the other end of the scale, someone is ‘promoted’ to buying Cosmo a pint. Yes, he gets a ‘line’.

For me, it’s a couple of hours of propping up the bar (as my jacket is lighter coloured than anyone else’s) and look miserable, like my dog’s lost me my shirt. It’s not too much of a stretch. Though drinking Caliber means some method acting is required (it’s topped up regularly and given some ‘fizz’ via what looks like kitchen fluid but which is I’m assured is the much more unpalatable non-alcoholic lager.)

It’s surprising how tiring leaning at a bar can be, though I’m relieved to find it’s not just me. One woman finds it almost hysterical that she’s been assigned to sit with multiple partners as they try to find the best ‘look’. I’m asked to make animated conversation – silently, of course – with another extra. It’s like a hungover Marcel Marceau looking in a mirror. We’re whispering complete nonsense at each other, but somehow it seems to make sense. It really is time I was in my bed.

And, just like that, we’re done. The last take was perfect – though whether I end up on the cutting room floor is another matter*. A quick pause for a cheese pastie (and much, tiredness-inspired hilarity about greyhound pies) and I’m off. The sun’s coming up over the Bathgate hills and I’ll be home in time for breakfast.
Or was it dinner?

* apparently not – I even made the trailer!

Set image from www.getyourpeople.com