EDITOR’S NOTEBOOK -- Roger Carlson

World heavyweight champion Sonny Liston is at the left, glaring across

the ring at the arrogant and sassy Cassius Clay. Across the ring and to

the left is Howard Cosell, rambling on about this championship bout and

how Liston is a 7-1 favorite to demolish the brash challenger.

Directly in front of me is former heavyweight champion Joe Louis, and

two seats to the right of me is the original Angelo Dundee, the trainer

who pulled the trigger as the Louisville Lip went on to stun the boxing

world.

It’s 1964 and, as the makeup ladies would tell me daily, “No haircut

for you, you’re perfect, honey.”

With Jon Voight in the role of Cosell, Will Smith emulating Muhammad

Ali in his competitive years and director Michael Mann at the controls,

some six feet to my right, I sometimes had to put my pen aside and remind

myself, this is no time warp. It’s just a movie.

The only time warp here was the span from early November when former

Daily Pilot Editor Bill Lobdell sent me a message about a talent agency

looking for “older sportswriters” to fill roles as “featured extras” for

the movie “Ali,” answering an open call a couple of weeks later and

receiving a call in late November that I was one of the few.

There would be, however, a lot more to the story than that.

Have you ever wondered how a pot of flowers feels on a busy day?

It’s a thought I had never entertained until I found out firsthand the

life and times of a movie extra, which can have its ups (as described

above) and a few downs, of which I don’t believe many are aware.

Sitting for take after take

As a flower pot, I found myself sitting at a press table for roughly

10 hours a day, a span that (counting three hours of “holding time,”

three hours for the round-trip drive to a San Fernando-based warehouse

and another hour for “lunch”) would consume some 16 to 17 hours daily. I

got home at 4 a.m. one day. 5:15 a.m. another.

Situated in the front row, some six feet to the left of the corner,

where Mann and his entourage huddled around two monitors, I found myself

within hearing range as they discussed take after take of the storied

Cassius Clay-Sonny Liston heavyweight championship bout, one of the key

components to the story of one of the world’s all-time figures.

“No, that’s not what I want,” Mann would say. “His head’s being cut

off,” and he would bound into the ring, grab the camera and go through

the process himself to see exactly what was or wasn’t available.

The boxers returned to the ring, Liston swings wildly, Clay dances,

dodges and pulls back, another missed punch by Liston, another and

another.

Finally, Liston ties him up and gets a couple of solid shots to Clay’s

side. More dancing, more missed punches, and then Clay counterpunches.

And so it went, day after day, take after take, scene after scene as

heavyweight Michael Bentt, superbly playing the role of Liston, watched

his face deteriorate with the help of makeup.

After 12 to 15 takes of a series of punches, they would do it again

with a hip-mounted camera, then a tummy camera, then a hand-held camera,

and a head-mounted camera, each with setup delays, mistake delays,

problem delays and film changes.

And all the while, I continued my role of a flower pot, a necessity to

complete the scene as some 88 or so sportswriters double-ringed the

square circle as the two combatants duked it out.

Not so glamorous

The daily routine began in a line for a voucher, in a line to receive

my clothes, in a line for “hair and makeup,” where I received my “honey”

message, and in a line to proceed to the set, where the warm glow of 275

lights above the ring provided a toasty feeling after surviving

refrigerator-like temperatures in the adjacent holding area.

At night, the process reversed itself, as you basically checked out

with no strings attached each day.

“How glamorous!” was one comment in the Daily Pilot newsroom a couple

of days before it all started.

I thought about that comment on the first day I was moved from the

wardrobe line to the makeup line, then moved back to the wardrobe line,

then moved to another area, then back to the wardrobe line, and finally

to discover the wardrobe I had been fitted for two weeks earlier no

longer existed.

But what really brought the “glamorous” item into focus was the first

time I found it necessary to find another line, for the restroom.

A description isn’t necessary. Just think of the worst situation

possible and double it.

A day later, there were out-of-order ribbons across the doors, and

portable units were placed outside. But for that entire day (and night),

it was grim beyond belief.

The lunch line did not take that long to get through, but after you

went through it, you sort of wished it had taken longer. One of the

assistants would be shouting, as you placed food on your tray, “Move it!

Move it!”

While the hours and hours of waiting -- mixed with moments of

appearing interested as the scene was repeated and repeated -- was

taxing, nothing could quite equal the demeaning factor as the numbers of

extras expanded and depleted from day to day. Some days there were about

200 of us. Other days as many as 1,500.

Holding the key was an obviously inexperienced fellow who would shout

at one and all to “sit down” or “be quiet” or “get in line” as his echoes

bounced off one another.

Meanwhile, the hammering by the carpenters would tattoo his speech

into oblivion, and everyone would just look at one another in a hopeless

manner.

A can’t-miss player

It went on and on like this, from start to finish.

At the end of the second day, one about to get aboard the bus, which

would transport you back to the parking area, blurted out, “I feel like

I’m going from one gulag to another.”

Still, you would tell yourself that this was all wonderful. You’ve

made the cut, it’s a paycheck, and you’re in a first-rate movie.

Ah, yes. The cut. I made it. How could I miss? I’m a sportswriter.

Have been for, well, a long time. And I look like one, especially from

the ‘60s. A little lumpy, glasses, not too many locks, a white male, and

a bit drab. How could I miss?

After a game of musical chairs, I found myself in the back row on Day

1, but the director came through, looking over each of his flower pots,

told the young one in front of me to “stand up,” and told me to take off

the hat one of the prop girls had plunked on my head.

We went to lunch, returned to “One spot,” and one of the assistant

directors announced that anyone who had been asked to stand, was to move

back. As my friend in front of me was getting his material together, they

told me to move up into his seat.

So there I was, right where I belonged.

But my “sportswriter” resume was clearly a nonissue. I asked a couple

of Screen Actors Guild actors why they would want me here, at all, and

the response was that it was the “Purple Theory.” They didn’t want all

actors.

Next to me was a chap in his mid-70s, a fellow I would learn was from

Brighton in England, a veteran of Normandy and presently a resident of

Lancaster, Aubrey Crew.

He, too, was in the “right spot,” I was to learn later. Out of my line

of sight as we entered the ring area, he was headed for his spot in the

stands, which he had been assigned, only to trip over some wiring.

He fell on his face, his glasses digging into his forehead, leaving a

nasty gash. An assistant director rushed to his aid, cleaned him up and

promptly put him into the first row of press, where he remained

throughout the first Liston-Clay fight. His solution for the cold was two

pairs of long-johnsand two T-shirts. I settled for two pairs of socks.

Another in the first row was Irvine resident Jim Manos, who was moved

from the stands to fill a hole in press row. A former Marine Corps

captain and a veteran of the Korean War, he was a retired school teacher

of some 42 years. He, too, found it a little hard on the psyche to accept

the Gestapo-like attitudes of the greenhorn in charge of the holding

area, as well as his underlings.

Better than minimum wage

Well, there’s a price you have to endure to be a Hollywood sort, and

besides, they were paying us, so why fight it?

Payday is any day you receive a check in the mail for one day’s work.

It’s $50 for eight hours ($6.25 per hour), time and a half for the

next two, then double time after that. It works out to something close to

$90 for a 12-hour day after taxes.

That’s what every nonunion player gets, although I received what the

agency had said they would pay earlier for the first day, which was

roughly double that, plus mileage, plus $1 an hour for working in a

“smoking” situation. It was presumably a SAG actor’s wage.

After that, it dwindled to the “50 for 8” routine, and after

questioning it with the corporal, I just let it go. I didn’t want to get

the boot.

After all, David Niven was getting $2.50 a day as an extra in 1938.

How could I complain?

So the routine went, and after the first day’s frenzy, it actually

seemed better.

On the third or fourth day, the script called for Clay’s explosion at

the weigh-in with Liston, and about 100 of us were herded into a room,

where I thought I was totally out of the picture.

Then one of the directors split the herd to make room for Clay to

march in, and after several shoves from behind and some stomping on my

feet from in front of me, I found myself actually in the middle of the

scene. I think.

Liston is getting weighed in at 218 when Clay enters, shouting and

cursing, calling Liston a few choice names before Liston leaves, as

Cassius harasses then shouts down the press before exiting. I think I’m

in it, big. But, you know, they have enough film to make a dozen movies,

and what actually comes forth is anyone’s guess. I don’t think they know

themselves.

At the end of the Clay-Liston fight, there is a rush of writers

storming the ring. I declined the invitation and, judging by the number

of people who were falling and being stomped on over the course of

several takes, it was a great decision.

Will Smith proved to be a class act, from start to finish. Tireless,

with humor and very sharp abilities, you will find yourself believing he

is indeed Muhammad Ali before you leave the theater.

He kept everyone loose with his antics, teasing the makeup lady,

punching the top assistant director, Michael Waxman, often, to the

delight of all.

Keeping quiet

Funny things happen at these things.

For instance, at the pre-fight scene, two photographers and a longtime

craggy-faced extra spent considerable time scheming how they could steal

the scene, become engaged in a big discussion, and demand “an upgrade”

fee for their efforts. After doing it three of four times, the director

came over to them and told them to please stop it.

On the second day’s shoot, two photographers were dismissed when it

was discovered they were shooting live film with their own cameras. Too

late. The next day’s Star, one of those tabloids you find in a liquor

store, had shots from the first day’s shoot.

Also in the weigh-in scene, on one occasion, an experienced SAG actor

decided he could not stay within the framework of what was already being

shot and, literally and figuratively, leapfrogged over me and into the

aisle, nearly colliding with Will Smith (Clay), as he was making his

exit.

The day after the weigh-in scene and between ringside shots, the

little corporal reached in and pulled out all of the press and put us in

seats adjacent to an aisle, where Will Smith was making his ring

entrance.

I couldn’t believe it. The guy who is next to Cosell is on the aisle.

I’m one seat away from the aisle. Smith is coming down the aisle, the

camera is 10 feet ahead of me.

As the corporal neared, I told him I thought I was prominent in the

pre-fight scene, this didn’t make sense. He said, “You and everybody

else.”

Ah, to be a potted flower.

Earlier I had tried to explain to a couple of ringside assistants that

typewriters don’t sit side by side in press row. It doesn’t work.

Carriages collide.

All I found were deaf ears and, as my friend Aubrey said, “The key to

this job is to stay quiet and do what they say.”

A definite change of pace

One of the cardinal rules for an extra is that you cannot speak to the

star, let alone ask for an autograph.

But it didn’t say anything about advisors, so I asked the real Angelo

Dundee for an autograph. A very gracious sort, he asked me my name and

then wrote, “To Roger, thanks for asking, Angelo Dundee.”

On my last day I was in the second row of two 1973 fights -- George

Foreman versus Ken Norton, followed by Norton’s victory over Ali in San

Diego, breaking Ali’s jaw in the process.

Both fights are limited to about two scenes apiece. If I’m visible in

either, I would be amazed. Surely I’ll be visible in the Liston fight,

but to what degree is anybody’s guess.

At the end of the Ali-Norton fight, there is an exit scene and I’m on

the aisle, but as Ali approaches, I’m afraid I’m overwhelmed and mashed

by the surging fans.

Even if I suffer a shutout, it was a great experience, a change of

pace and, as a movie fan, I developed a great appreciation for the

extras. And, besides, maybe I’ll show up in the crowd, camera left,

second row in from the aisle!

At the end of the first Liston fight, I turned in my clothing,

including the wretched shirt that I had worn for some 116 hours, and told

the girl, “I think this thing can stand up by itself.”

Happily, I left, knowing the next day called for a new wardrobe.

The next day, they gave me a new coat, which didn’t fit, and no shirt.

“Just use the same shirt you’ve been wearing,” she said.

By noon, I had made up my mind, recalling some comments made a few

weeks ago on the national scene.

“It’s time for me to go,” I told myself.

Once again, a good decision.

* ROGER CARLSON is the sports editor for the Daily Pilot.