At 5:45 p.m., I turn left off E. Palm Canyon and drive down the south side of Parker's landscaped grounds until I see the wardrobe trailers. Extras playing waiters and bartenders at the mythical country club had an earlier call. They hang out on the sidewalk wearing black trousers beneath long black aprons and goldenrod shirts with little logos that say "Dunes Club."
I park in a dusty, empty dirt lot behind Parker's paved guest parking, where the white craft-services tent has been moved from its previous downtown location. It is unseasonably cold and windy for April in Palm Springs. Dust billows up from the dirt, mingling with the smoke surrounding the Mexican cooks who attend to the barbecue grills containing tonight's dinner. My sport coat and trousers pass muster with my favorite costumer, and an assistant director takes us all to the set.
We gather on the grounds of Parker, immediately in front of the spa. The large letters over the spa building read "P.S.Y.C." Parker intends the acronym as a geographic pun, since a yacht club in the desert creates a presumably amusing oxymoron. But I see it in psychiatric terms, envisioning famous and wealthy psychos checking in to reassure themselves about their own tenuous grasp on reality. This is, after all, the last place Robert Downey Jr. was arrested for possession of narcotics. It is also the place where Nicolas Cage (using the name Frankenstein Cadillac) recently checked in and out of the $5,000-per-night Gene Autry Suite after only a 20-minute stay. He was as impressed with the self-conscious and overpriced Parker as I am.
The manicured grounds in front of the P.S.Y.C. are set for an outdoor cocktail party. White floor-length tablecloths drape themselves around tall cocktail tables that are overlaid with gold satin squares. Matching cloths decorate several low banquet tables that contain the buffet and serve as the bar for the party. Spotlights illuminate the area, masked by a variety of diffusers, but even with the heat from the lights, it is cold, very cold. Rain spits from the darkening skies as we are led to the holding area for extras. Goosebumps and erect nipples abound. Assembled in a banquet room, we receive instructions from the prop master, a bear-like man of indeterminate age.
"Tonight you'll be given drinks to hold, but they are props. Do not drink them. Repeat. Do not drink them. You may take a sip, but no more. We won't be doing refills. The wine is grape juice. In a minute, we'll be setting up a table for you to put your drinks on when you return to this room between takes. The table is divided into squares, and each square is numbered. Make sure you put your drink on the same square each time. Remember the number of your square, and that way we won't have any trouble with people picking up the wrong drink. Okay?"
The prop master leaves, and he is replaced by a dictatorial female assistant director who was clearly inspired by the commercial for Head On.
"We will be shooting all night tonight. Is there anyone who can't stay all night? We will be shooting all night tonight. Is there anyone who can't stay all night? We will be shooting all night tonight. Is there anyone who can't stay all night?"
Hearing no protest, the agent provocateur moves on.
"Okay. Now remember, it's a hot summer evening in Palm Springs, and you've been spending the day around the pool. Now you're attending a cocktail party. It's warm, and you're having a wonderful time."
That, under the circumstances, will require some acting.
"No talking out loud on the set," she continues. "You will be pretending to talk to each other, but do it in pantomime. Stay on the paths, and do not cut through the bushes. There are cables everywhere, so be careful not to trip. Now let's go out to the set."
Once on the set, I notice that Handley and Heard are back for a second night, as are Gayle O'Grady, Sharon Lawrence from N.Y.P.D. Blue, and the adorable gay munchkin Leslie Jordan. Jordan is in his 50s, 4-ft. 11-in. tall, and his mischievous grin and endearing demeanor make people laugh even when he isn't speaking. Playing a waiter at the country club, Jordan is the only star on the set who chats with the extras.
After a few takes, the rain starts to come down in earnest, and we're quickly led off the set and back to the staging area. As soon as we get seated, a production assistant enters the room.
"You all have to move," she explains. "We need to move the equipment into this room, because it's closest to the set. Bring your things and follow me."
About 50 extras pull together coats and bags and move to Parker's employee break room, complete with candy, soda machines and a locked wine storage cabinet. Two matching signs on the wall reflect the division of Parker employees into the "orange team" and the "yellow team." According the big zero written in magic marker, neither team has had an on-the-job injury this month.
Because of the rain, director Scott Winant calls an early dinner break, and we head for the craft-services tent and the extras' food line. The extras get heavy pastas, potatoes, beef, and fried chicken staples. The cast and crew are already inside, partaking of a more refined selection of prime rib, salads, and pastries. Once the principal actors and crew are seated and fed, extras are allowed to take plates and pick up servings of whatever remains at the cast and crew's banquet tables.
The stars travel in a little bubble of their own, separated by physical beauty, wardrobe, hair and make-up. Each and every one is, if not exceptionally handsome, extremely well-groomed. And the 20something stars — black or white, male or female — are adorable. The contrast between the principal actors and the crew is even more startling because the crew of the Untitled Kevin Williamson Project is rather blue-collar, to put it politely. They have bad teeth and hair, lousy clothes, and lumpen bodies. They are also really nice, and they acquit themselves admirably while on the set. The only halfway attractive man on the crew is the tall, Clark Kent-like grip who carries the boom microphone. Between takes, he spends most of his time hitting on the prettiest female extras. When we sit down to eat on the lunch break, two guys from the crew are finishing their meals directly across from me at the long family-style table. I catch only the final fragment of their conversation, as one man turns to the other and volunteers, "Yeah, but now I find out I'm going to jail. It would be a lot easier to take if I didn't know I was going to have to go to jail."
After the 30-minute dinner break, we are quickly called back to the set for the next scene. The rain stops, but in an uncharacteristic desert phenomenon, the air remains thick with the smell of it. A rare and seductive aroma floats on cold breezes, mixing with the fragrance of spring orange blossoms. This heady perfume causes the grounds at Parker to take on the unmistakable feel of a tropical island suffering from a cold snap, and the evening now seems fecund and full of promise.
Before the cameras roll, Winant reminds the extras, "Don't forget, it's a balmy summer evening, and we're soon going to head off to the pool."
One of the extras turns to me. "You should have been there two nights ago, when Handley and Heard had to run around the golf course in the middle of the night while they turned the sprinklers on. We all deserve hazard pay for this."
Cold snap
It is 3 a.m., and we've been working since 6 p.m. We're freezing. The women have it worse than the men, because they complied with the request to wear high-heeled sandals and skimpy dresses. The rain returns, spritzing the cocktail tables with tiny ice pellets as mold grows along the surface of the liquid inside the extras' wine glasses. Everyone dons heavy coats during set-ups. The stars have attendants who hold umbrellas over their heads between takes. Their overcoats are whisked away by crew members when the assistant director announces, "Camera is rolling." For the next three hours, we repeatedly hear the mantra, "Background reset to one. Camera is rolling. Action!"
Our hot summer pool party finally breaks up at 6:20 a.m., when sunrise makes it no longer possible to get an evening shot. By this time, all of us in background could walk straight to the set of Night of the Living Dead and be perfectly in character. On this final day of shooting for the pilot, we have worked over 12 hours. It will be months before I see the edited pilot on YouTube, briefly recognizing my plaid shorts in one scene and finding my face, in profile, at the cocktail party.
Now called Hidden Palms , the Untitled Kevin Williamson Project is as glossy and beautiful as its stars. The desert is amazingly photogenic, and the entire episode not only amuses but conveys a sense of mystery. It is essentially The O.C. meets Desperate Housewives in Palm Springs. Leslie Jordan once again appears in drag, and Williamson strikes a blow for sexual diversity by showing a menage involving a married couple who invites a man to share their bed. As far at the Palm Springs Chamber of Commerce is concerned, there is only one fly in the ointment: Hidden Palms will be shot in Phoenix.
But my days as an extra are not over. When I return home, there is a message on my machine to report to work at the Morongo Casino in Cabazon for the upcoming Nicolas Cage/Julianne Moore film, Next. It is being directed by the alleged cross-dressing, blow-job offering Lee Tamahori. How can I say no?