The effort behind being just faces in the crowd

CLINT EASTWOOD never yelled, “Action!” We never heard him say, “That’s a wrap.” But we got a rare chance to watch him as a director, up close, on the set of “Flags of Our Fathers.” In the end, production here wrapped more or less as an act of God, when rain coincided with the last shot of the day and folks scampered toward the buses.

But, oh, what a production it was. “President Dwight D. Eisenhower” was on the set and so was “Vice President Richard Nixon.” The actor playing Nixon hammed it up a bit between shots, turning his mouth down and muttering to himself. Also on hand was Defense Secretary Donald H. Rumsfeld, to watch how Hollywood does war. Maybe he picked up a tip or two.

Thanks to the generosity of a friend, my boyfriend, Jeffrey Glazer, and I were invited to be extras in Eastwood’s new movie. Based on the book by the same name, the film chronicles the story of the six soldiers who raised the flag on Iwo Jima during World War II.

We had never been on a movie set before, never acted in a film, but Jeffrey was sure we were destined for great things. A few days before the shoot, he started practicing. “STELLL-AAAAAAA,” he yelled. “Excuse me?” I asked. He replied, “Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my close-up now.”

In this case, Mr. DeMille was Mr. Eastwood, and he looked much as he did in the movies -- chisel-faced, lean and spare. He was wearing a baseball cap and walking shoes, khakis and a white T-shirt with small discreet lettering on the back that said, “Hit Pit Gym, Million Dollar Baby.” Word is Eastwood casts his movies not by glad-handing actors but by looking at tape to gauge their on-camera presence. Sure enough, when he greeted the front-row actors, veteran Judith Ivey said, “Nice to meet you.”

This was the movie’s first day of shooting -- a Hollywood oddity, I suppose, filming the last scene first -- and the following day the entire entourage would decamp for Reykjavik, Iceland, to film the war scenes. They were reportedly bringing a boatload of World War II military supplies -- tanks and guns and uniforms, more gear than Iceland could supply. Sort of like an invasion.

Our scene reenacted the dedication ceremony of the Iwo Jima Memorial in Rosslyn, Va., in November 1954. Except that we shot it in August 2005. Kim Tuvin, a Screen Actors Guild actress sitting next to me, smiled as she explained the Perverse Law of Movie Weather: Scenes from the winter are filmed in the summer and vice versa.

Jeffrey marveled at the incredible attention to detail for a scene likely to take one or two minutes in a 120-minute film. What struck me was the yin and yang of making a movie -- the camera was bulky and obtrusive, but the art of acting was quiet and subtle

Eastwood had a loose, informal interaction with his actors, coaching as if by suggestion. “This is the method of acting where you get your brain empty and everything else is spontaneous,” he said at one point. At another point he directed Ivey to look at someone as the dedication ended and told her that the camera would stay on her. There was no drumroll, no “quiet on the set!” Ivey summoned a well of tears, a fierceness of expression, and then it was over.

On the day of the shot, we woke at 4 a.m. to make our 5:30 a.m. call. So did 460 other extras. It was a fright. Women arrived, as instructed, with their hair in curlers. Men, many pre-caffeine, looked intense. Once at the Key Bridge Marriott Hotel, we were dispatched in waves down to a ballroom, where row upon row of Eisenhower-era clothing awaited us, each outfit bearing a nametag.

During the fitting 10 days earlier, my costume coach, Margery, had selected a lovely gray suit for me, but the waist was so tight I had to forgo dessert for a week. I was relieved when I slid into it but regretted our choice of earrings -- as the day wore on, they were to prove even more uncomfortable than the black suede high heels.

Then it was makeover time. A bank of 13 hairdressers combed our tresses into waves, setting our hats at just the right angle. Then another bank of six cosmetics specialists doused us with sunscreen and red lipstick. A number of women looked in the mirror and exclaimed, “Oh, my goodness, it’s my mother!”

By 6:35 a.m., we were in the ballroom, eating a breakfast of cereal, fruit and eggs, looking for all the world as if we had been transported back in time. The hotel staff was buzzing about this crowd that looked like it was arriving for a hearing before the House Un-American Activities Committee. Except these 1950s ladies and gentlemen were trading disposable cameras to snap pictures.

Our contingent left the hotel at 7 a.m. and arrived at the Iwo Jima Memorial soon after. Rows of white folding chairs had been lined up, and in the back were the dummies that fill out a crowd scene. The inflatable dolls -- actually just torsos -- were already clothed and coiffed and seated. At first Jeffrey and I were placed near the dummies, nine rows back. Then, to our astonishment, we were moved to the second row, right behind the stars of the movie -- Ryan Phillippe, Jesse Bradford and Adam Beach -- with a remarkable view of the director himself.

For four hours, they shot our scene. The actors playing Ike and the other notables, including a local sports announcer named Frank Herzog who was dressed as a U.S. senator, sat up on the stage. We who were in the crowd -- dressed in wool -- stared up at the Memorial, watched the Marines parading by and then slowly got up to leave at the end of the dedication. We did this many times, from many angles.

Between shots, the makeup people came to mop our brows. Jeffrey was sweating like an athlete at midcourt, and I was amused that the cosmeticians kept dabbing at him with dainty little tissues. A beach towel might be more like it, I thought. My lipstick was restored. Little cups of water and Gatorade were offered -- as long as we returned the paper cups, for fear of leaving traces of the wrong era on the ground.

There were microphones at the podium, and programs on some of the seats, but we never heard a speech. Presumably, those scenes would be shot later, away from the admiring crowd.

By then, Jeffrey and I will be in a cool movie theater, with a greater appreciation for the incredible effort that went into every scene, smiling at having been a small part of history. I don’t think we will be extras again -- at $60 for the day, being a background actor is a difficult way to earn a living -- though we met plenty of folks on the set who have made a career of it.

For us, it was a memory. “For my children’s children,” Jeffrey said. “They can look at this film and say, ‘There’s Poppi.’ ”

Well, that depends on whether the scene from the dedication includes our faces or whether we wind up on the cutting room floor.

Either way, we had a ball.