From the vault: I was an extra in Talladega Nights

A bonus newsletter as NASCAR visits the famed Alabama track

If you enjoy this newsletter, please consider recommending it to others and becoming a paid subscriber. You’ll get dispatches about travel, adventure and #dadlife that will sometimes be heartfelt and profound, sometimes peel back modern parenting life for a look inside, and sometimes be, well, whatever this is. If you support my work, I would appreciate it.

NASCAR visits Talladega this weekend, and one of the drivers has his car painted like Ricky Bobby’s car in Talladega Nights. That’s as good of a reason as any to share a story from way deep in my catalogue: I was an extra in that movie and wrote about it for Sporting News.

A few notes that aren’t in the story.

I went to an industry screening of the movie. The line that got the biggest reaction, BY FAR, was when Ricky Bobby’s wife said, “I’m a driver’s wife. I DON’T WORK.” Not because it was funny but because it was true.

I’ve rewatched the scene I’m in approximately a billion times and maybe you can see a sliver of my hair but I’m not sure if that’s even me.

When I arrived on set, I had to fill out a bunch of paperwork. They sent me a check for my day’s “work,” which I never cashed because that would be unethical. I still have it.

There’s a scene in the movie where a driver is flipping switches on his car. I was interviewing director Adam McKay as he filmed that. I’d ask him a question, he’d start to answer then stop and say, “hold on a second … ACTION! …  CUT!” and then continue with his answer.

Will Ferrell was as friendly and as normal as could be, which gave me even more respect for how funny he is. Sometimes comedians are always on, always manic, always trying to make you laugh. He wasn’t like that at all. Also: My wife insisted that I tell him how much she loves Elf. He said of all his movies, that’s the favorite among women and children.

Careful Accidental Adventurer readers will note the name Andrew Giangola in here. He’s been the man behind the scenes in many of my favorite stories throughout my career, including the one about underwater training with bull riders a few weeks ago. These stories are damn near 20 years apart.

I got into this business to stick it to the man. I’ve gotten so soft I won’t even stick it to the props guy

I beg NASCAR for months for the chance to be an extra in Will Ferrell’s racing movie and write about it. I hear there is trepidation about “integrating” me into the movie. Who said anything about integrating? I don’t want to do a nude scene with Ferrell; I just want to stand in the background of a media scene. “Don’t sell yourself short,” says NASCAR’s P.R. man extraordinaire, Andrew Giangola. “I want you in the hot tub scene.”

Luckily for movie fans, there will be no such scene when Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby drives into theaters August 4. I “play” a photographer in victory lane, which requires a visit to wardrobe first thing in the morning when I arrive on the set at Lowe’s Motor Speedway. The wardrobe guy tells me jeans aren’t allowed in victory lane, even though they’re Levi’s Signature Series, the official jeans of NASCAR. If photographers couldn’t wear jeans in real victory lane, victory lane would be empty. I’m told to put on a pair of black Dickies.

After that, I wander over to the staging area for extras. David Linck, the movie’s publicist, informs me that “extra” is wrong. “You’re atmosphere,” he says.

I talk idly with the atmosphere--there will be 150 of us today, up to 300 early next week. Most of the people I talk to are just doing this for fun. But there are aspiring actors and actresses, too. I hear stories of roles and near-roles, none of them in any movie I’ve heard of. One aspiring actress, a professional flutist, is friends with the head of the Sporting News’ research department. Small world, no?

At 9:34 a.m. I have my first celebrity sighting: John C. Reilly. I analyze whether Reilly can pull off being a NASCAR driver. It’s a crucial test because NASCAR fans can be, um, touchy about how the sport is portrayed.

With his firesuit unbuttoned at the collar, Reilly certainly looks the part, though his bushy hair and mustache make him more suited for 1986 than 2006. He has the walk nailed--a NASCAR driver walks in a perfectly straight line. His shoulders never move, and his arms barely swing. I think that comes from years of walking in jostling crowds. Or maybe that Matt Kenseth commercial is right and the drivers are robots.

We get props--cameras, credentials, etc.--before lunch. I want to use my own credentials, so I can brag about having played myself in a Will Ferrell movie. But I’m told I can’t because the Sporting News logo might, in a million years, be visible, and nobody has asked for or received the Sporting News’ approval. The movie people won’t take my word for it that it’s OK.

I briefly consider playing myself anyway--there’s not a chance in a million years I’d get caught--but I chicken out. I got into the journalism business for the sole purpose of sticking it to The Man. I’ve gotten so soft I won’t even stick it to The Props Guy.

Back in the staging area, I watch the stampede toward the free food. It reminds me of the NASCAR press box, only the people here are groomed and have manners. A woman walks up to me and says, “You actually look like press.” Frankly, I’d rather look like a fireman.

She has been an extra--er, atmosphere--several times and has several more such parts lined up. In real life, she owns a funeral home. “We don’t have a body,” she says. “This will keep me busy until we get a death call.”

I can’t believe how many people are involved in making this movie. I talk with five people who deal only with atmosphere. There are more directors and assistant directors than there are illegal parts on Jimmie Johnson’s car. That’s one indication this movie is a big deal for NASCAR. This will be NASCAR’s biggest foray into pop culture since Days of Thunder, which was a big deal in 1990 but now seems dated and cheesy, perhaps because the star turned into a couch-jumping whack job.

When I first get on the victory lane set, I’m trapped behind a guy playing a NASCAR official. He looks just like Lex Luthor on Smallville. The small chance I have of making it into a shot is eclipsed. It could be worse. I could be behind Ferrell’s crew chief, played by mammoth Michael Clarke Duncan. Tony Siragusa could hide behind him.

After I move into better position, I’m close enough to touch the car, which looks race-used, with dings and nicks all over the back.

We run through a couple of rehearsals. I get sprayed with champagne and dusted with confetti. Between takes, random conversations go on behind me. Somebody asks, not in a joking way, “What are those chickens with fur called?” I’d ask what that means, but I don’t want to break character. The rest of the atmosphere apparently doesn’t understand the word pantomime.

This victory lane is supposed to be in Las Vegas. The assistant director asks the showgirls in the background whether they would mind taking off their coats for rehearsal. They nod that they don’t mind, and the men on the set enthusiastically offer support for that decision.

“Easy, fellas,” the assistant director says.

Next to the showgirls is a guy dressed like the track mascot. He jokes he has a perfect face for the giant dice head he wears. He hams it up next to the Vegas girls, churns butter, even talks a little trash.

A woman walks the rim of pretend photographers and primps for us. She fixes my collar and brushes what I really, really hope is lint off my shoulder.

When Ferrell arrives on set, the first thing I notice is he’s not as tall as I thought. He looked like a giant in that cheerleading skit on Saturday Night Live.

In this scene, Ferrell’s Ricky Bobby is interviewed by FOX’s Dick Berggren. After the first rehearsal, an assistant director steps in and tells the atmosphere not to laugh.

Yeah, right.

Ferrell’s victory speech gets funnier every time he does it. I won’t ruin it by telling you what he says, but each take is hilarious. Some of the material is scripted, some Ferrell makes up on the spot, some comes from director Adam McKay, Ferrell’s writing partner on this movie and Anchorman. Though the words often are McKay’s, Ferrell’s delivery and improvisation sometimes are too much. While the cameras roll, McKay bites his lip and plays mind games with himself so he doesn’t laugh. So far, McKay has ruined one take in this movie by laughing, and he ruined seven--SEVEN!--in Anchorman.

Looking through my camera’s viewfinder, I see Berggren, the back of Ferrell’s head and some of the atmosphere fake clapping. I must admit, as atmosphere, I’m quite awful. I never actually touch the shutter, and I look nothing like a photographer because I showered and shaved and ironed my clothes today. Also, real photographers don’t convulse with laughter during victory lane interviews.

They save that for hot tub scenes.