In China, extra is a major role

Thousands line up for a shot at fame

BEIJING -- When you have a movie calling for 700 eunuchs, it's good to live in a country with a potential pool of more than 1 billion "extras." And this is the place to find them: at the gates of a nondescript compound called the Beijing Film Studio.

Just after 6 a.m., a crowd swarms the entrance to the studio, which has become a mecca for wannabe actors across China. Most are migrant workers with dusty clothes and dirt-etched fingernails, but they hunger for a bit of celluloid to counteract a tough, often dull, existence.

By some estimates, 100,000 people land in front of these gates each year looking for infinitesimal roles as policemen, soldiers, pedestrians. The odds don't favor wallflowers, which prompt many to toot their own horns.

"My skill as a master of oral instruments sets me apart," says Han Shixi, 43, a farmer, emitting a sound somewhere between a trumpet and a Bronx cheer from his pursed lips.

Others sport court jester hats, sequined blouses and cowboy hats in a bid to stand out when casting crews show up looking for bodies to populate the country's steady diet of action films and period dramas. In the case of director Zhang Yimou's "Curse of the Golden Flower," more than 4,000 extras, including 700 "specialists," or eunuchs, were required, presumably castrated only in the filmmaker's imagination.

Han won't win any beauty contests. But his etched face is an asset in landing minor gangster parts in crime dramas, a genre in heavily censored China that always ends with the bad guy in handcuffs and the policeman bestowing justice to the relief of all.

"The first time a director saw me, he said, 'I want you to play a thief, flirt with the woman, then sexually assault her,' " Han says, before launching into a few of his old lines: "This time we go to a cargo station, see? We don't make any mistakes, see?"

Others say their emotional depth helps them land roles, even if most amount to little more than breathing, or not even that: Some play corpses.

"I believe I'm talented," says Yang Hui, 30, from Hebei province, citing a role she played recently as a scared bus passenger. She watches movies for inspiration.

"I liked 'Forrest Gump,' " she says.

Shop assistant Lin Chengguo got his 15 seconds of fame playing a young Afghan when China stood in for Afghanistan in the film "A Boy Running After a Kite."

"Or maybe it was called 'The Kite Runner,' " he says.

Fantasy meets harsh reality

Although some extras also work as security guards or day laborers, many wannabes have little but time on their hands as they wait -- time spent trading acting tips or offering views on why they should be stars.

"I'm stylish, good-looking and the girls love me," says Huo Wenjie, 21, also from Hebei. His hair was pulled back under a large cowboy hat.

"I'm also an excellent singer," he adds, belting out a few lyrics: "There's you and me in the crowd ... "

Several extras fantasize about visiting Hollywood, where they hear the pay is high, the working conditions great, the red carpets omnipresent and the unions eager to protect you.

"I'd probably have to ride there on a rocket though," Han says. "There are so many visa restrictions now."

Production companies pay $7 to $12 a day for extras, but less than one-half of that generally reaches the actors, given the middlemen. Many are poorly treated during production of the 400 movies and thousands of television programs made here each year. China is a country, after all, where lax labor laws make it cheaper to use humans than computer automation.

Complaints of agent rip-offs abound. Some of the victims from the provinces find themselves locked in houses where they're charged for food, rent, costumes and agent fees until they're broke, says Zhang Gang, co-founder of the Self-Support Center for Small-Time Actors, a group that fights exploitation.