Tony O'Reilly

Mon, Nov 02, 2009

IT'S 5.45am on a dark October morning and I am sitting on a bus bound for the Kilmainham Royal Hospital. I am to be an extra in a scene for The Tudors . As a novice I am lucky to be sitting beside Gene, an old pro who is doing his best to initiate me into the hidden world of the extra. As the bus picks up more people, he remarks that there are no women on board.

"So, it's a battle scene?"

I suggest.

"Hardly, look around you," he says with a sigh and I realise we are surrounded by men whose sword-wielding days are well and truly over. Oops! The bus arrives at the hospital gate and is directed around to the rear.

We disembark and head to a large white marquee. I follow Gene, not letting him out of my sight. The morning has brightened and the scale of the operation becomes apparent. Outside the marquee there is a mobile kitchen, a generator and toilets. Just inside the entrance is a long table with rows of neatly laid out forms, one for each of us. These are to be guarded jealously and signed at the end of our stint as proof of our participation. Then we are allocated our "roles". Gene gets to be a councillor, but as one of the lesser-experienced extras I am assigned the role of a bishop.

We are sent to a cloakroom where we leave our possessions and are then costumed up. Once fitted, it's straight into "hair", a quick trip over to make-up and then it's out to the mobile kitchen for breakfast. Time elasped, about 30 minutes for 70 grumpy men; not bad.

After a full Irish we sit and await our instructions. The experienced have brought along newspapers or books. It's approaching 9am when one of the production people comes and gathers us around to go through the king's speech. It is a long speech by television standards and requires us to be, in turn: awestruck, happy, filled with consternation and finally, loving. I get nervous. At what stage was I supposed to mumble consternation again? Before you can say "stage fright" we are marched off to the chapel in Kilmainham Hospital. All of the clergy take up one side and the laity the other. I see straight away who the real extras are. They are the ones with the wigs and complicated costumes, some even have swords. My ego is pricked but there's no time for jealousy.

The floor manager again goes through the scene, step by step, and we await the presence of King Henry VIII, aka, Jonathan Rhys Meyers.

As instructed we feign conversation, but as soon as the king's presence is announced, we bow. In this scene the king is an old man, and step by painful step he makes it to his throne. He begins his speech and chides us, then lambasts us, then offers us his love. We applaud him, and he makes his way out. And that's it?

Well, not exactly. We do it several more times, from different angles, with different reactions. Through it all Jonathan has been superb. He delivers the same speech with equal passion and waits patiently as the technicians set up the new cameras positions.

Where were the film star tantrums? Maybe he is too tired to throw them, I ponder?

As there are no windows in the chapel, people are beginning to wilt and a tea break is announced. Outside, the clergy and laity mix with the bemused tourists. A lady asks if she can take a photograph of me and I get my first taste of celebrity- hood. All too soon, it's back inside again. Same positions for everybody, but this time there are metal tracks laid on the floor. More camera work tracks the king as he walks to, and

then from the throne. I come to realise the greatest gift you can possess for this job: patience.

After every take the director disappears into another room to contemplate the result. We wait anxiously and finally he's happy. I am told that this scene has been completed quite quickly compared with others. A five-minute scene took five hours. I do the maths and can understand why this is a valuable industry to Ireland. In all there must have been hundreds of people involved.

Tired and stiff, we make our way back to the marquee to get some lunch: chicken in a tomato sauce with veg, plus a dessert. It is about 2pm and we don't know whether we are to be used again or not. The announcement comes.

"I need four bishops and some laity." The old hands step forward quickly, leaving us newbies behind.

"Everybody else hand back your costumes and thank you very much."

And that's it, my career in the movies is over.

On the one hand I am relieved to be out of the heavy costume and back into my own clothes, but on the other . . .

As a few of us walk back to the bus I glance behind. The remaining extras are heading back towards the hospital, resplendent in their costumes. But we, the discarded few, are making our way across the well-trodden grass, back to our own time, our own place. The real world.