Too Cute for the Coens

I stood in front of my open closet the morning of the Coen Brothers' casting call, recalling the cryptic notice taped to store windows around my wild west town.

"Casting Call for No Country for Old Men. Looking for bikers, Native Americans, Latinos, and pre-1980 cars."

I pulled out a black tank-top imprinted with red flames and the tiered mini-skirt I wore the year Rod Stewart sang "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy." I had to suck in my 40-year-old stomach to fit my old clothes. I braided my hair with leather biker wraps and figured my quarter-Cherokee heritage gave me an edge.

Two hours later I opened the door to the University Student Center and took my place in line behind several hundred wanna-be film stars. A movie man in khaki adventure pants handed out yellow cards with spaces for us to fill out our name, address, physical description, and willingness to spend hours under hot film lights. I fudged my weight by five pounds and handed my card to a young woman with tiny blonde pigtails that stuck straight out of her head.

"Hmm. You would make a good West Texan." She notated my card and pointed to another line of locals waiting to have their head shot taken. "We'll be calling you. Don't cut your hair!"

I spent my weeks before the shoot reading Cormac McCarthy's disturbing novel, "No Country for Old Men," watching the Coens' old films like Fargo and Raising Arizona, and telling all my friends that I was going to be a real live movie star! But no phone call came. One neighbor got called. Then another. There must be some mistake, I reasoned. I hitched a ride with my friend, Carlos, to the Santa Fe production offices for his costume fitting.

"Birdie, I'm sure they'll call you. They've called everyone else I know." Carlos shifted his weight as we crossed the Pecos River. "This is a huge movie. They need a lot of extras."

The costumer gave Carlos a rancher's Stetson, button-down shirt, scuffed farm boots, and a pair of vintage Levi's. He disappeared behind a screen and I moved in for the kill.

"So, hey! Why haven't I been called? Are you still looking for women? I can be a biker! A Native American! Just stick me anywhere! I love the Coen Brothers!" I flashed my biggest grin and pulled my hair out of its ponytail. "Plus I didn't cut my hair."

The woman leaned toward an open ivory file cabinet and asked my name. She pulled out my photograph.

"Ma'am, I'll go ahead and put you in the same scene as your friend." She handed me a dowdy flowered dress, sandals, and a scarf for my head. "Be on site at 7 a.m. sharp!"

7:30 found me in line for makeup, the dress hanging like a tent from my breasts. A man with wire glasses and a short beard walked past us, looked at us one at a time.

"That's Joel Coen!" An extra dressed nearly identical to Carlos whispered sotto voce.

Joel pulled a production assistant aside, spoke in her ear with a voice to quiet to hear. He pointed to me. He walked outside.

"You!" The assistant motioned for me to leave the line. "I'm sorry, but you're too cute."

I sat on the Grand Avenue curb and watched Carlos walk back and forth a hundred times in front of the State Street Cafe, as the cameras inside caught his moving shadow against the drawn blinds. His shirt turned to a limp rag as the sun moved toward Hermit's Peak. I didn't catch a glimpse of Tommy Lee Jones, just handfuls of faded extras repeating gestures like a wind-up Wild West music box.

"So what's it like being a movie star?" I tried not to let Carlos hear my disappointment as he walked home, shirt stuck to body.

"Movie star? All anyone's going to see is the shadow from my big nose. Just be thankful you're too cute."

Comments

[Lloyd]

yeah!