What A Difference A Line Makes...

Agent Stephen calls me last night from his personal mobile and, amongst other updates that I cannot yet reveal, advises me to be careful about the unpaid film roles I accept. He's right, of course, and I've been telling myself that it does me little good to appear in a non-speaking role for no money. Several days of my time have been dissipated thus in the last fortnight and every moment I spend sitting around on set is time that would be better spent working at something more likely to earn me money: viz my book business. An unpaid speaking role is acceptable because I can use it in a showreel, but non-speaking for free in other than special circumstances, such as a personal favour for James Cameron, is not worth my time.

Billions of years in the future,
the remnants of humanity struggle to survive

Having confirmed that decision last night, I was not in the best of moods this morning when I set off for another such role, this time as a psychopath. It would only be for an hour, the director had assured me when I had accepted the offer a couple of weeks ago, but early this morning she had emailed asking if I could extend the time by three hours to appear in another scene. Well, I'm basically a nice guy despite appearances and I said yes. The first scene went quickly and easily; all I had to do was stand still and grunt occasionally in my cell in a Victorian asylum. (Said cell in reality is a hostel room in a South London Buddhist centre.) But then I had to wait 90 minutes in the café while the second scene was set and, although I had Brian Aldiss' Hothouse to pass the time, I was impatient to leave and get to our second set.

Back on the street, my impatience mounted as we faffed around Elephant and Castle trying to find both an entrance to the underground station and a missing crew member. Nor was I  reassured by the new set: an office block corridor, where we were filming apparently without permission and the knowledge of those around us. Tired of this amateur affair, I was eager to get home. Then we began to film. This time I had a line - five short words whispered in Mockney: "Gawd lives in the sewers". And I began to enjoy myself.

It was the line that did it. My character came alive. I could feel and vocalise him. I was fully involved and all the earlier irritations vanished from my mind. It didn't matter - well, not much - that we filmed retake after retake. I was having fun, gripping the Hero by his shirt front, staring madly into his eyes so close that our noses brushed, and stomping off into the sidelines. Nor did it matter that time was passing. I was Acting again.

Acting yes, but not for long. In less than an hour I was out of there, £1.30 in profit ("travel expenses and keep the change"). Twenty minutes later I was on the tube, back in Victor Meldrew mode (who were all these people? why did they have to keep chattering in my ear in a language I couldn't understand and which reminded me of verbal diarrhoea? why did one of them have to deliberately throw his newspaper to the ground? why are individuals so interesting but people en masse so unpleasant? and so on). Once more at home, however, I remembered that the hassle was worth it. What a difference a line makes.