Paul Gross, above, may have been the star of H20, the political mini-series filmed in Ottawa, but he didn't get to do the things that extras like Klaas van Weringh got to do -- like playing several different characters in several different scenes. CREDIT: Simon Hayter, The Ottawa Citizen

The telephone rang a couple of weeks ago. It was a woman telling me I'd been selected as an extra in the miniseries H20, starring Paul Gross.

To be an extra, one doesn't need to audition, or to read or even speak. I only needed to stand still while someone took my photo. It may have also helped that I had a good suit. Generally, extras supply their own costumes.

The woman asked me to come to the Chateau Laurier for 8:30 a.m. Monday. I was asked to wear my suit and bring a few changes of clothes, as I would be different characters in several scenes. So I arrived at the Chateau with my sandwiches and several hangers of jackets, pants, ties and freshly ironed shirts.

A wing of the Chateau was taken up by the production company, and I spent most of my 11 hours that day in the "extras holding room," along with 40 or so colleagues. We sat at big round tables at one end of the room: in the other corner were two fairground tents for costume changes. There were long racks of clothes, and a table with coffee urns, styrofoam cups and two huge bowls of chocolate chip cookies and Cheesies.

We checked in, and then waited -- chatting, reading, waiting more. Several assistant directors -- "ADs" -- wandered around with cordless headsets, loudly giving us instructions, and every now and then interrupting themselves to say "copy that" into their mouthpieces. There was a flamboyantly dressed costume lady, with a floppy hat that never came off, who judged whether our clothes were OK before each scene.

The film is about a prime minister, so the holding room was full of "journalists," "cameramen," "politicians" and "security." We even had a "Governor General," an elegant looking woman of 50 or 60. The costumes were convincing: whenever a "policeman" approached, I instinctively looked innocent.

I was told I'd be a member of the "American delegation," and appear in more than one scene. This made me a "continuity extra." On the first day I was also to be a Quebec legislator and a "guest." We four "Americans" were told by the casting director to inform the ADs to keep us in the background in other scenes.

At about 9:30 a.m. an announcement told the Americans to be ready for the next scene, but 20 minutes later it turned out the delegates wouldn't be needed. I went back to waiting, and changed into my brown corduroy jacket -- my costume as the Quebec legislator.

A woman I knew told me that a film approved by ACTRA (the union) must use a certain percentage of union members, who are paid $20 an hour -- compared to my $8.50. ACTRA members also get lunch. I had my sandwiches.

I waited and then waited some more -- until past noon, when the Quebec legislators were called.

A woman and I were told to walk from point A to point B during the scene. I told the AD that we'd been told to stay in the background, so he moved us to the side. I apologized to the woman for passing on the message that made our characters less visible: She talked about how hunky Paul Gross was. Then someone decided that since she was a "journalist," she couldn't be in the scene at all.

So I walked alone between A and B -- through some 12 takes. A blue and white flag transformed the hall into the Quebec legislature. While a camera soared above on a huge boom, six soldiers came rushing in and stormed up to a man in a suit. ("Get on the floor! Get on the f---ing floor!") The man was thrown down, handcuffed, his papers flying while guns were pointed in all directions. My task was to walk behind the arrestee as the soldiers came in.

Twelve times I walked forward to the sound of "Action!" and 12 times, seeing soldiers running toward me with guns, I picked up my pace to get out of their way, halting in alarm when they threw the man down. The guns were very disconcerting, and I'm sure I looked convincingly disconcerted. I'm also sure I was out of camera range.

But I did see Paul Gross, although he wasn't in the scene. He walked by and smiled at me. I thought of the woman who'd been taken out of the scene, and how happy she would have been.

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Still more waiting, a lunch break at 2 p.m., then back at 3:15 for more waiting. After a while I was chosen to stand in a group of Quebec legislators watching a scrum in which an angry politician threatened imminent Quebec separation. I kept my face partially hidden for three takes, lest I be recognized as a U.S. delegate. Then we all went back to the holding room to wait again. At about 5 p.m., an AD read out a number of names. Those people were "wrapped" and could go. They collected their money and left.

That's when things started to get interesting. We were to be guests at the Governor General's mansion (goodbye corduroy jacket, hello snappy suit) for the swearing-in of the new prime minister. In front of the camera stood a man of Gross's size. We "guests" were arranged to fill the seats seen by the cameras. Behind us were a lot of pretend TV cameras and journalist extras.

One guest extra was called forward and given a Bible to hold toward Gross's stand-in. The Governor General sat in the front row. Two real actors came in and sat down. ("Holy cow, there's Martha Henry!") Then the real Paul Gross came in. He saw two military uniforms and cracked, "Ah, my army! Where's my tank? Never mind, guys -- plenty of money next year."

Gross recited his oath. It was like being at a wedding, without the kissing. He repeated it two or three times, each time a bit differently. I kept my eyes focused on him. We'd been told not to look into the camera, but it was moving around behind him, and you really have to concentrate to stop yourself from looking at it.

Since I'd now been a Quebec legislator and a guest, I figured I was done for the day. But back at the holding room, all the guys in suits were lined up against the wall being scrutinized by the AD. The AD saw me and said, "Hold it! You just got here did you?"

"Yes."

"You come with me."

Wow! I decided it was my great suit paying off again.

The floppy hat lady gave me a different tie, and back I went, with another extra, to the room I'd just left. We were to be "distinguished gentlemen."

The room had changed. A long table with a white cloth stood on a platform. An actress was sitting at the table. I was instructed to sit to her right in front of a large map. The camera was to our left. Oh dear, it looked like I was going to be a bit visible. I wondered if an American delegate should be doing this, but I was a little distracted, for the woman beside me was Kate Hurman, a well known actor in Ottawa.

"Hi," I smiled, "aren't you Kate Hurman?"

We chatted until she started reciting her lines to herself, and I stopped babbling. Other extras came in to be the audience. The director told them to act with their backs. He told me to take notes, to look at Kate occasionally, and look at the audience now and then.

I have a friend who's considerably more experienced at this sort of thing, and he'd advised me, "If they ask you to walk somewhere, just walk. For God's sake don't try to act." But I had just received acting directions from the director.

The scene had Kate reading a few sentences from a speech, then the director told the audience to react as if one of her statements was shocking. So I timed my performance to stop taking notes and look at her somberly as she delivered the very important line, and then slowly scan the audience to gauge their reaction. I was really starting to get into it. Bring on the next take, I'm ready!

But we were done.

The director was smiling, clearly happy with what Kate and I had done. "That was great, Kate, thanks."

He didn't look at me.

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Finally, I was done for the day. While the casting director counted out my $83, I confessed that I, a US delegate, might have done something in my last scene that was just maybe not quite invisible. I might have "acted."

She looked me straight in the eye: "Didn't you tell the AD you were supposed to be in the background?"

"Um, well, not exactly."

My ears felt hot. I stammered that by the time I realized what I was doing, it was too late. I hadn't had the nerve to stand up in front of the director, the ADs, the cameramen and Kate Hurman and tell them all to stop the scene.

"Don't worry," she said, "you're still in."

All week I wondered if I was still a continuity extra. I was reassured by a phone call a few days later telling me the second U.S. delegation scene was also cancelled, but the later scenes were still scheduled.