Adventures in Austenland #7
I reminded myself that I’d already kinda written a book and a screenplay about it, so that ship had sailed.
To make money in college, I’d been an extra in a dozen different TV shows and TV movies, so I knew the drill. You stand around for hours, be quiet, do as you’re told, and never ever, ever, ever address the talent or the upper-tier crew.
I joined my little group of supporting artists in the front hall of the house, where I was just excited to spend a lot of time in those gorgeous environs.
For the other extras, it was their first day on set, and they assumed I was one of them.
And for a few hours, I was able to pretend that I was.
They seemed a little suspicious when the third AD, Chris, gave us directions, and I was the only extra who he addressed by name.
But I simply explained that this wasn’t my first day on set.
Keri Russell entered. She’s lovely in any circumstance, but in her silver ball gown and resplendent updo she glided into the room like a Greek goddess freshly peeled off an urn. In passing, she smiled at me and said, “Ooh, I like your hair!”
“Thank you,” I said shyly.
The extras waited till she’d passed by before whispering congratulations. I’d earned a compliment from the star!
Soon Jennifer Coolidge, magnificent in a pink gown and piles of blond curls, noticed me as she passed by.
“You look good. You know, you have the perfect coloring for this setting.”
The other extras were astonished! And probably . . . confused? Stars don’t usually interact with extras, and while Marc was good, my hair wasn’t that extraordinary.
And then James Callis was called onto set in the traditional way.
ist ad jack:
“James Callis?”
james:
“Yes?”
ist ad jack:
“Love your work.”
James entered the great hall, spotted me, smiled, and walked directly over. The extras in my group stiffened, unsure where to look. Such proximity to the talent felt dangerous.
“Getting into character, are we?” he asked.
“It’s the shoes, James. I never really feel in character until I put on their shoes,” I said, repeating a line he’d ad-libbed in a previous scene.
He laughed and asked, “Did you like that bit?”
I said I did. I always liked the lines he tried out. He’s so witty and a gifted improviser.
James took my gloved hand, looked me in the eye, and with his perfect sincerity and generosity, he said, “It is a genuine pleasure to have you on set.”
“Thank you so much,” I said.
When he left, I knew the extras were gaping at me. I acted all NBD and just let them wonder . . .
By midday, I’d let my new stardom go completely to my head. Andy, the producers’ assistant and a close pal on set, told me I should start ordering the runners around.
“brINGME COFFEE!” I should demand, and then when they did, slap it out of their hands and scream, “I DON’T DRINK COFFEE!”
While I didn’t stoop to shouting and slapping, I did start to shamelessly sit with the cast. There was a circle of chairs for “Artists Only.” The stars sat there when they were on break, and they had a special “Artists Only” box of treats.
When not outfitted like a Regency matron, I sat with the producers a ways off in the “video village,” where we watched the filming on a five-inch screen.
That day, I probably should have joined my fellow extras, who loitered about the lawn like grazing sheep.
But I took my sassy little self and sat my supporting artist bum on an “Artists Only” chair.
Did I eat snacks from the special box? Why, yes, I did. Maltesers. Loads of them.
It was such a friendly cast, no cumbersome egos, and hanging out on the gorgeous grounds of an English estate in summer could feel like vacation.
In fact, later that night James, Ricky, and I were sitting and talking when a runner let James know that he was wrapped a couple of hours early.
He said, “Oh really? Any other set that would be good news. But here, one wants to linger.”
James wasn’t alone. Many members of the crew, who had worked sets for decades, said this was the most enjoyable production they’d ever been a part of.
Much of that good mojo was certainly the mood trickling down from the top, but some was the extraordinary house and grounds.
Instead of moving constantly from place to place, we were fortunate enough to stay at West Wycombe Park for five and a half weeks.
It felt a bit like home—if your home is on forty-five acres of manicured parkland and comes with its own ballroom.
Jane Seymour played the proprietress of Austenland, and off camera was often looking after me in a motherly way.
She is extroverted and gregarious, and we chatted for hours.
When she saw me in my costume that first ball day, she told me to go stand in the garden so she could take my picture.
I’d heard it was a no-no to have cameras on set and hadn’t brought my own, but who was going to say no to Jane Seymour?
She took my photo and then considered that I’d look better on the arm of a gentleman.
Just then, Ricky Whittle arrived.
If you google Ricky Whittle, you’ll have trouble finding a photo of him fully clothed. He has a rare condition that makes it difficult to wear shirts because when he puts them on, they just melt right off .
“Ricky, come get in this photo with Shannon!” said Jane.
Was he going to say no? Of course not. No one says no to Jane. Also, he’s a kind and generous human being. With Ricky beside me, I kicked back a leg and made an “I look silly!” expression.
But something happens when Jane Seymour directs your photo shoot.
By the final photo, I ended up in a full horizontal dip, Ricky’s face an inch from mine, his gaze on my lips, my arms flung out in complete surrender.
I looked like the only thirty-seven-year-old mother ever to grace the cover of a romance novel.
My lips are pressed together sour-lemon tight, just in case I had bad breath. Ah, we never really escape junior high.
I emailed that photo home with others Jane gave me, and my husband showed it to my four-year-old daughter.
Turns out she wasn’t totally clear on what I was doing because she told her preschool teacher, “Mama is in England with a man who is not my papa, and she is wearing a wedding dress.” Getting your book and screenplay optioned for an independent movie is less lucrative than most people assume, but I still earned enough that we were able to squirrel away some money for our daughter’s future therapy expenses.
THE UNDERWEAR INCIDENT
The ball scene was a two-day shoot, all indoors with loads of extras.
It was body-achingly exhausting to stand still between takes, walk during takes, then between takes “back to one” (i.e.
, your starting position). Action. Walk.
Cut. Walk back. Stand. Action. By the end of day two, the body heat made the ballroom toasty and humid, and we were all a little loopy.
Happily, my starting position was near Ricky Whittle’s. The man is indefatigable and endlessly optimistic. Between each take, he danced, he joked, he made the whole experience fun for everyone lucky enough to be nearby.
But still, I blame the heat and the exhaustion for what happened near the end of the day.
As we waited for the next take, Ricky said, “I want you to sign a book for me later.”
I said, “I’ll sign anything. I’ll sign your underwear.”
I don’t know why I said it. I certainly never expected him to take me seriously. And I definitely hadn’t meant that I would sign them WHILE HE WAS STILL WEARING THEM. But he grabbed Third AD Chris and said, “Quick, I need a Sharpie. Shannon is going to sign my underpants.”
Every minute on set costs money. The crew does not waste a moment on anything frivolous. But without hesitation, Chris got on his radio and said, “I need a Sharpie ASAP.”
The next actions all happened within five seconds: Two runners sprinted into the ballroom, Sharpies outstretched like relay batons; Chris grabbed the nearest Sharpie and shoved it into my hands; Ricky unbuttoned his breeches with a speed that took my breath; I pulled off the Sharpie cap and signed my name; Ricky rebuttoned his breeches; the runners fled; and the first AD called action.
We enacted the final ball scene. The first AD called cut and a wrap on the day, and I wandered off set, wondering what had just happened.
As I exited the manor house, I ran into PA Andy and started laughing. “The funniest thing just happened—”
“Hang on, let me record you telling the story,” he said. He put on his shoulder the camera he used to film behind-the-scenes stuff.
The sound assistant, Gideon, came by and asked what we were doing.
“Shannon’s going to tell a story,” said Andy.
“Not with that crap mic,” said Gideon. He plugged in a boom mic and lowered it over my head.
Just then a producer came by and asked what we were doing.
“Shannon’s about to tell a story,” said Gideon.
“Not in this crap lighting,” said the producer, and she pushed us back into the ballroom, which was still lit from the last take.
And so in less than sixty seconds, with military precision, it was lights, sound, camera, action—and then Ricky Whittle came by and asked what we were doing.
“I was going to tell them what just happened,” I said.
“Oh, let me do that,” said Ricky. He folded his arms over his chest, looked at the camera with feigned innocence, and said, “I feel so violated.”
JJ Feild and James Callis stopped to watch as Ricky and I debated over the facts of the incident, all while the camera rolled, Ricky acting outraged and me laughing so hard I could barely breathe.
After, as I left for base camp, I hitched a ride on a golf cart with James and JJ. I was still blushing and laughing. The past year housebound with babies had left me emotionally unprepared for such shenanigans.
me:
I wonder what my friends back in Utah will think about the underwear incident.
james: