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Americans, as well as general humanity, will engage in any premises if the promise of being famous is at the core of their actions. Mainstream television shows such as Fear Factor, The Bachelor, and, most horrifying of all, Jersey Shore, exemplify that. We paint our quests in any guise we’d like — the search for money, love, or a sense of self, but the root of our desire to make sex tapes, like the Kardashians, or willingly display our lack of talent, like William Hung, derives from wanting fame. Extras in North Carolina were cast by the same talent scouting agency for the blockbuster hit, The Hunger Games. In the film, the extras look dirty, hungry, and cold. Of course, this could be because they are acting in The Hunger Games, but apparently extra work only brings in minimum wage most of the time in North Carolina, so evidently these people wanted more than a paycheck. They wanted to be three rows back and four to the left of Katniss Everdeen.
Irene Cara’s dream of “Fame/I’m gonna make it to heaven/Light up the sky like a flame/Fame/I’m gonna live forever/Baby remember my name,” has melted. We’ve transitioned from Gene Kelley to Dance Your A$$ Off, and Ke$ha’s “Tik-Tok” sold more copies than any single by The Beatles. We’ve gone from handwritten calligraphy to texting — sure it’s convenient, but it’s not a pretty sight. As Lady Gaga’s “The Fame” illustrates, “All we care about is runway models/Cadillacs and liquor bottles,” and “All we care about is pornographic girls/on film and body plastic/give me something I wanna see/television and hot blonds in odd positions.”
Close to noon, our little section makes it into the mall. Mannequins and sale signs have been teasing us along our journey, and now that proper lighting and clean air are available once more, I feel myself acclimating to society again. Michael Angelo is explaining one of his story ideas to me. It’s about a drug dealer falling in love with a girl in a wheelchair. “Because that’s something you never see. But this girl’s going to be so special and with it, that he’s just going to fall for her,” he claims. I’m truly impressed by this original idea and make a mental note to Google his progress on this project in a year or two.
A woman comes up to the break in the line and, taking a look, inserts herself behind us. Instantly Amy and I feel frustration — it was obvious the woman knew she was cutting. “Where do you get the forms?” she asked. “At the back of the line out there,” Amy indicated, sounding polite but firm.
When our professor friend joins us he says, “Sorry, were you here? We’ve been waiting in line for over two hours and you just got here — you have to start around the mall.”
The woman leaves and Amy says, “I tried to be nice about it, but it wasn’t right.”
The man smiles. “Luckily I’m great at being a jerk when I need to be,” he laughs.
“You should include that under ‘special talents,’” I say. Then I add, “Like we’re not going to notice who we’ve been standing next to for two hours.”
When we finally reach the end of the line, a teenage boy directs each of us to a casting recruiter. They sit on three sides of a rectangular block, each recruiter chatting up a different hopeful. A row of bins with headshots makes up the fourth side of the rectangle; they are divided by age and gender. As I go up to the man, I smile and try to look confident. “Have you ever been an extra before? Will you be available for the entire time frame?” he asks. I answer still trying to think of something interesting to say. “So you want to be in a movie?” he asks. “Yes, particularly this movie,” I emphasize. “Well, this looks great,” he says pawing my resume. He instructs me to place my headshot face down in the correct bin, and that’s it. That’s it. Amy finds me. “Did they tell you to place yours facing down?” she asks. “Yes, but I saw some were facing up,” I answer. We ask Michael Angelo, and he says, “No, my guy said facing up.” It is noon, and Amy and I decide to debate the headshot placement question more over lunch in the mall.
After lunch and a bit of shopping, we pass by the recruiting station. Even though the casting call was supposed to last from 10 a.m. to 1 p.m., the exact same talent scouts are just now packing up… and it’s 3:30 p.m. We wonder if they got a lunch break. Headed home, I still can’t believe what 3,000 people would go through to be famous. After all, we waited in line two hours for a grand, calculated total of four seconds per person, talking to someone who could possibly get our foot in the door.
Yet we waited in line even though Amy recently injured her knee so badly she has physical therapy. We waited even if it broke our rules of having a relaxing weekend where we don’t worry about impressing people. We waited even though there was zero chance of seeing Robert Downey, Jr. or any other cast member. Just the idea of being this close was enough. Fame is a vice. Fame is a rabid animal that sinks its teeth into your arm and infects you. Fame is a bully that throws you in line by your lapels. Being famous is a compulsory instinct in an age where being known and leaving a legacy matter more than ever. “I was here” is what we want to scribble on our lives and the lives of those around us.
A month afterwards, Amy emails me. “Still no word from them. Guess we won’t be famous,” she says.
“Not this time,” I respond.
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About Alexandra Coker-Schwimmer
