The past weekend I was in the basement reorganizing some of my valuable future family heirlooms, a.k.a. stuff no rational human ever would consider saving. I came across a sandwich bag containing a cigar butt and a faded yellow pay stub, souvenirs of days spent working on The Babe, a feature film about Babe Ruth starring John Goodman and Kelly McGillis.
The scene I would be a part of took place at a bistro in 1917, so I’d need to look like a 1917 dude. A week prior to shooting I reported to a North Side Chicago costume warehouse to be fitted for a costume, get a 1917-style haircut (oh, joy), and learn how to dance the Lindy.
Taking a half-vacation day from my job, I assembled with about 40 male-and-female-types on the appointed date at the warehouse. I went through the male assembly line of haircut, Lindy lesson, and costume-fitting. For me, the wardrobe lady selected a spiffy, dark brown, pinstripe suit, tan shirt with a separate stiff white collar, two-tone brown shoes and spats. I tried to remember the last time I’d worn spats. Oh, yeah: Never. Same as the last time I’d danced the Lindy. All the costume paraphernalia was tagged for the use of my personal body and off I went.
On the day of shooting, I reported to a large empty grade school classroom with every other lowly extra to get dressed in our costumes and wait for makeup. One of the guys looked out the windows and noticed Kelly McGillis passing by in short shorts. When he shouted it out there was a male mass migration to the windows, followed by furious window-knocking. I was in the makeup chair, so I never saw Kelly. It was when a tear ran down my cheek.
As the makeup lady was finishing up, the extras’ director came in and said they were ready for us, so we lined up and marched two blocks to the location on Clark Street: the John Barleycorn Pub, kitty-corner from the former Children’s’ Memorial Hospital. Doctors, nurses, and other medical-types were out on hospital balconies watching the action below. The alley behind the pub was transformed into a city street with a couple of storefronts and the Babe’s yellow, 1914 Stutz Bearcat parked in front. Inside (the pub, not the hospital), I was seated with two other vintage guys at a small table just off the dance floor. One chair was left empty. A set decorator came over with some antique beer bottles, glasses, and packs of cigarettes, Lucky Strikes and Camels. He pulled a cigar out of his pocket. “Do you smoke?” he asked me. “No,” I said. “Well, you do now.” He stuck the cigar in my mouth and lighted it. “Make sure I get all this stuff back.” I took the cigar out of my mouth and held it out to him. “Not that,” he said and left.
The assistant director told us what we were supposed to do. I was to clap, jump up when The Babe came off the dance floor, and slap him on the back a few times when he made his way to the bar. The tech crew wheeled in a smoke machine and began waving its large hose around and filled the place with smoke. Fortunately, the pub owner had shut off the overhead sprinklers. Unfortunately, he forgot the silent smoke alarm and minutes later, City of Chicago fire trucks roared up outside. This delayed shooting for more than 30 minutes because the chief came in and inspected everything.
In conversation with my tablemates, I learned one was a financial planner and the other a Kenilworth realtor who’d bought matching Porsches for him and his wife. He was equipped with a pager, and called his office whenever we had a break in shooting.
One surprise to me was director Arthur Hiller. Just before the start of filming, the assistant director led him on to the set. Hiller seemed in awe when he surveyed the place. The assistant pointed out various parts of the set and led him behind the camera. Was this bewildered-looking guy the president of the American Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, the one who directed the Oscar-nominated Love Story, Silver Streak and more successful movies? I thought maybe the assistant mistakenly grabbed one of the Barleycorn Pub’s regulars off the street.
Each time a take was finished, the band quit and John Goodman left the dance floor. He plopped himself into the empty seat at our table and chatted. After one plop, he removed and showed us what he called “nostril prophylactics,” little, black, screened, nose-widening, gizmos he had to shove in his nose to look more like Babe Ruth.
Filming ended late in the afternoon. John went down (or up) the street to a hot dog joint to meet George Wendt, who’d stopped to visit him. My cigar long had since gone out, so I knocked off the ash and stuck it in my pocket. Then I was off to get my pay voucher, turn in my costume and go home.
I was left wondering when an opportunity would arise for me to do the Lindy. Maybe on “Dancing with the Stars.”