That Thing You Do: Making Movie Magic [memoir]
1990’s Orange, CA being transformed to 1960’s Erie, PA
When you work around film and tv sets all the time, like I did when I was working as a production coordinator, the initial thrill is replaced by low humming tedium, the daily grind of hurry up and wait. But I’d left the industry when I got pregnant, now, three years later, visiting the sets of movies my husband was working on, was back to being nerve-bitingly thrilling. Actually being in the movie, albeit as an extra, even more so. The fact that it was Tom Hank’s directorial debut made it an even headier experience.
After a gourmet dining experience befitting our Hollywood lifestyles—we ate at Denny’s—we tried to settle into some semblance of our nightly routine. Mark made some calls while I gave Russell a bath and read him the usual dozen or so stories, and then sang him to sleep with my limited lullaby medley. My repertoire ran from Moon River to Walking in a Winter Wonderland—no matter the season—to Hush, Little Baby, my take on the mockingbird song.
I can’t sing. All my life I’ve had people wincing when I sang along with the radio. In elementary school one teacher told me to ‘just pretend you’re singing ’ for our classroom’s holiday choral performance, and even my husband used to routinely correct me, singing the song himself so I could hear how it was supposed to sound, before he finally gave up, realizing it was hopeless. I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket and that was that. My little boy never winced. He looked at me and asked for more, like I had the voice of an angel. Sometimes I think when I sang to him, as soft and low as I could manage, to soothe him to sleep, that maybe I did have the voice of an angel.
Getting to sleep myself wasn’t so easy. Like all the extras, the so-called ‘background actors,’ I’d been instructed to arrive on set with my hair in curlers. Curlers. I didn’t own curlers. I’d had to borrow some from my mum. I wore my thin blonde hair straight letting it hang shoulder length, lank and limpy. If I thought about my hair— which I seldom did, so happy was I at being a first time mother at close to forty—I pulled it back in a pony tail. But That Thing You Do was a period film, set in 1964, when women still went to the beauty shop every week to have their hair set. Bouffant up-do’s, flips, curls galore. I lay with my head on my pillow, the curlers, scratchy and rigid, digging into scalp, and couldn’t sleep. I wasn’t just uncomfortable, although I was plenty that, I felt like a kid trying to sleep on Christmas eve, waiting to see what Santa would bring. I’d always had a secret belief that if I could get the real Hollywood hair & makeup treatment, I could be beautiful too. I knew actresses routinely spent over an hour in the hair & makeup trailer being brushed and teased to perfection. All I needed was a wig here, a fall there, a heavy base to eliminate freckles and flaws, contouring colors to create bone structure, lip liners to make lips where I had none, false eyelashes to make my eyes pop. I couldn’t wait to see the new me.
I stared at the motel ceiling, the cottage cheese effect a cheap outdated mask for poor quality construction, and thought of Ann Margaret and Brigitte Bardot. I’d even settle for Sandra Dee. I finally fell asleep thinking just a little movie magic and I wouldn't just sing like an angel, I could look like an angel too.
I can’t sing. All my life I’ve had people wincing when I sang along with the radio. In elementary school one teacher told me to ‘just pretend you’re singing ’ for our classroom’s holiday choral performance, and even my husband used to routinely correct me, singing the song himself so I could hear how it was supposed to sound, before he finally gave up, realizing it was hopeless. I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket and that was that. My little boy never winced. He looked at me and asked for more, like I had the voice of an angel. Sometimes I think when I sang to him, as soft and low as I could manage, to soothe him to sleep, that maybe I did have the voice of an angel.
Getting to sleep myself wasn’t so easy. Like all the extras, the so-called ‘background actors,’ I’d been instructed to arrive on set with my hair in curlers. Curlers. I didn’t own curlers. I’d had to borrow some from my mum. I wore my thin blonde hair straight letting it hang shoulder length, lank and limpy. If I thought about my hair— which I seldom did, so happy was I at being a first time mother at close to forty—I pulled it back in a pony tail. But That Thing You Do was a period film, set in 1964, when women still went to the beauty shop every week to have their hair set. Bouffant up-do’s, flips, curls galore. I lay with my head on my pillow, the curlers, scratchy and rigid, digging into scalp, and couldn’t sleep. I wasn’t just uncomfortable, although I was plenty that, I felt like a kid trying to sleep on Christmas eve, waiting to see what Santa would bring. I’d always had a secret belief that if I could get the real Hollywood hair & makeup treatment, I could be beautiful too. I knew actresses routinely spent over an hour in the hair & makeup trailer being brushed and teased to perfection. All I needed was a wig here, a fall there, a heavy base to eliminate freckles and flaws, contouring colors to create bone structure, lip liners to make lips where I had none, false eyelashes to make my eyes pop. I couldn’t wait to see the new me.
I stared at the motel ceiling, the cottage cheese effect a cheap outdated mask for poor quality construction, and thought of Ann Margaret and Brigitte Bardot. I’d even settle for Sandra Dee. I finally fell asleep thinking just a little movie magic and I wouldn't just sing like an angel, I could look like an angel too.
••••••••••••••••
We’re Ready for Our Close-up, Mr. Hanks.
Part One We’re Ready for Our CloseUp Mr. Hanks
Part Two Making Movie Magic
Part Three High Five: Get Set, Ready to Roll
Part Four Extras Holding
Part Five The Opening Credits, Our One Second of Fame
