Extra Special

The filmmakers put out a call for extras—people who could be convincing as members of the Twin Cities Jewish community, circa 1967. Laurie Savran, a Minneapolis attorney and former Minneapolis Public Library Board trustee, answered the call and was cast as one of several hundred attendees at a bar mitzvah ceremony and a funeral. The part did not require her to memorize any lines, but it did force her to suffer the horrors of a fiendish, skin-gouging bullet bra. This is her diary from her days on the set.

The Audition
I get involved because I love movies and because my cousin Raleigh Wolpert sent me an e-mail. It said the Coen brothers are looking for “Jews over 50” who want to be extras in their new movie, A Serious Man, which draws on images of growing up in St. Louis Park in 1967. Raleigh said the Coens are looking for “interesting” faces. Well, I’m Jewish and my face is at least as interesting as a lot of other Jews I know, so I audition.

Early on, we are emphatically told that if we get into the film, under no circumstances should we ever approach Joel or Ethan Coen on the set. If I’d wanted to break the rules, I could have mentioned to the boys that I attended Hebrew reading class with their mother, Rena, back in the late ’50s, when she was pregnant with Ethan. She was an adult then, and I was just a girl. Also, that I’d seen Rena at art events over the years and went to shiva for her when she passed away in 2001.

The audition, at a warehouse in Northeast Minneapolis, is crazy. I take one look at the huge crowds and my courage fails. I tell Cal [Appleby], my significant other of twenty-five years, “Turn the car around and drive me home, Cal. I’m not doing this.” But Cal teaches meditation in prisons and persists. He says we’ve come this far, and we’re going in.

I know so many people—some going back to my years at St. Louis Park High School. When it is my turn, the casting folks—minus Joel and Ethan—take my photo and measure every part of me. Then comes a spiel about not bringing friends onto the set and agreeing to be available twelve to fifteen hours a day if we are accepted. I leave thinking I don’t have a chance. But a couple of days later, I get a call saying, “The Coen brothers loved your hair.” I am ready for my close-up.

I am told to return a few days later for my costume fitting and hair design.

The Costume Fitting
I am paired with a Los Angeles costume professional named Mary Zophres, whom I later learn has worked with Joel and Ethan on other films. She sizes me up and begins pulling various ’60s outfits for my two scenes, the bar mitzvah and funeral. The warehouse is filled with racks of dresses, shoes, underwear, belts, purses, and scarves. Most was trucked in from Hollywood, but Zophres says some came from places such as Lula in St. Paul.

This is my unfortunate introduction to the bullet bra, a pointed device that hooks together in back along the length of my lower spine. Before I can try on anything, I have to get myself into the bra and a girdle, neither of which I am pretty sure are ever going to be seen in the movie. Then I begin testing out various outfits. I keep thinking how lucky I am to be costumed by the same person who dressed The Dude in The Big Lebowski, my all-time favorite Coen brothers movie.

Next I’m sent to a hairdresser, who puts my hair up in curlers. She puts another Jewish–looking woman’s hair up in a French twist. For most of the ten or so hairdressers, bouffant hairdos seem to be the order of the day.

The costume dresser reappears with a new idea for the bar mitzvah, an orange wool suit and hat. Orange? Really? I’ve never worn that color in my life. Next I get a brown dotted skirt and jacket to try on for the funeral. After three hours of fitting and primping, I can go home—with orders not to cut my hair. I get a pay voucher and am told to return in a month for three days of actual filming. Eventually I will earn $7.14 an hour.