'Hack'-ing into show business

Being an extra is exciting, and the series gives Philadelphia a weekly boost.

By Abe Goodhart

I've had an affinity for cabdrivers ever since my early years as a Philadelphia schoolteacher, when I spent eight summers driving a yellow cab on our city streets. That's why I was delighted when I was accepted as an extra on the TV show Hack last fall after an open casting call.

I've been in four episodes of the show, about a disgraced police officer turned cabbie, and played a different role in each. In one, I was told that I would portray a customer in an upscale, conservative men's clothing store. I was advised to dress appropriately, and I wore a dark blue suit and tie.

When I reached the show's base of operations in South Philadelphia, I was informed that I would still be a customer, but in a go-go bar instead. About 50 extras were escorted into a dimly lighted establishment and I was chosen to sit at a front table. A dancer, very lightly attired, was bumping and grinding against a pole to the beat of loud, recorded music.

I had been given a bunch of dollar bills to pay for drinks (actually, ginger ale) and to provide tips to be offered periodically to the contorting performer in front of me. Was I the required dirty old man in this scene? (By the way, it didn't make it off the cutting-room floor.)

David Morse, the Chestnut Hill resident who stars in Hack, seemed taller in person - well over 6 feet - than he appears on the screen. Though stern of face, he was quite accessible to the extras. At one point, when I told him my name, he asked whether I were related to Common Pleas Judge Bernard Goodheart, who performs marriage ceremonies on Valentine's Day. (I'm not.)

For another episode, while the staff was preparing for a new scene, I had time to think about what I was doing there. It took no talent at all. Any person off the street could be a nonunion extra and earn $75 per day. Maybe it was ego. There is something about being seen in any form of mass communication, even if your name is printed somewhere, that somehow smacks of vanity.

John Milton, the English poet, in his 1637 poem "Lycidas," wrote "Fame is the spur... (That last infirmity of Noble mind.)" It is the first infirmity of mine, because each time I was in a Hack episode, I wanted to be wherever the camera was pointed.

In one scene, shot on the Benjamin Franklin Parkway, a production assistant instructed me to sit on a bench as part of the background. I was not told how long I was to remain there. After a while, I got up to stretch and went to get a better view of the main actors engaged in dialogue. Then somebody else told me to walk past the actors. As I reached the other side, I heard the production assistant's angry voice in my ear - "I thought I told you to sit on the bench!"

"Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher; all is vanity."

In another episode, I inadvertently exceeded my lowly station by trying to improve a scene being shot. My job was to read a newspaper. Just as somebody on the director's staff called, "Action," a gust of wind blew part of my paper away. I shouted, "Hold it!" and dove for the newspaper. When my head came up, I saw at least four people staring at me. Later, my behavior improved.

I don't know what effect Hack has had on Philadelphia, but I've heard no discouraging voices. And it sure can't hurt us.

My son, who lives in Colorado, tapes the episodes so he can pause scenes and then watch them frame by frame, looking for me. He and his friends have become fans of Hack, and friends of Philadelphia.

I was in some scenes of this season's final episode tonight, and I'll let you in on a secret. I am hoping and praying that Hack will be renewed. I get paid for performing, but - don't tell anybody - I would be happy to work for nothing!

Is it that I love Philadelphia, and the weekly boost Hack gives it? Is it the show's great staff? Is it the free food, available all day and all night? Is it the main actors, who have not one bit of condescension toward the extras? Is it vanity? Or all of the above? You bet it is.

Abe Goodhart (tzimus@aol.com) of Philadelphia is a writer and stand-up comedian