- Cape Rolling Out Bloomfield Road Art Trail (8/21/19)1
- Donors Pledge Almost Two Grand To Replace SEMO's Possibly Sentient ‘Gum Tree' (8/16/18)
- SEMO and The Will To (Become A Consultant) – Part 2 (6/14/18)
- SEMO and The Will To Do (You Really Want To See That Legal Notice?) – Part 1 (6/4/18)
- Judge, Jury... Trashman (6/1/18)
- Diary of Cape Girardeau Road Deconstruction (5/11/18)
- Trying To Save A Tree From City “Improvements” (4/30/18)2
The Back Story For My 'Gone Girl' Character
I was an extra in the movie Gone Girl playing a member of the media and I was not alone.
There were lots of extras playing media in the movie -- TV reporters and producers, camera and sound boom operators, bloggers, print journalists and, what I played, still photographers.
Playing someone in the media was not much of a stretch for me. While I've never been a professional journalist or photographer, I have worked in the newspaper business for over 25 years so just by sheer proximity I've absorbed some of the cynicism that my brethren tend to wear as their cologne of choice after decades in the industry.
I knew I could scowl and pretend to take pictures.
Or walk, then scowl, then pretend to take pictures.
Or run, pretend to take pictures, then backup while still pretending to take pictures and scowling.
There was one scene I'm not sure I pulled off. The director wanted a large group of media to appear dumbfounded. While I thought that was a stretch of my acting skills, my wife assures me that I've got that look down cold.
Speaking of looks, while I dressed myself most days for the movie without the ladies in wardrobe altering my appearance, they did accessorize me. On my second day of shooting, but my first day portraying an actual still photographer, they put me in an Orvis vest with at least 16 pockets. The props department then came around and stuffed its nooks and crannies -- paper towels, a scrunched up Dixie cup, batteries, bags of Fritos -- basically anything to make me look like I carried everything I could possibly need for days on end in that vest.
While at first I mocked the item, referring to myself as "the photographer in a vest who really likes salty snacks" I became rather attached to it. An inner pocket was great at stashing water bottles during hot day shoots, a package of batteries came in handy when my camera's flash gave out while we were doing an evening scene, and a bag of those Fritos saved me one night seven hours after our lunch. I guess I should reimburse the movie company 69 cents for eating one of the props. I couldn't help it. I was famished.
So after I got the vest -- and was told by one of the women in wardrobe that it was "My Thing" and should wear it whenever I appeared in a scene -- I started thinking about My Character. While he doesn't speak and is just one of the nameless media horde that hover around practically every chapter in the book, it doesn't mean that I couldn't give My Character a name and a back story.
What motivates him? Why does he do what he does? Who is he? Where did he come from?
At first I thought Pappy Razzi -- an obvious play on paparazzi -- would be a good name, but decided I needed to be about 20 years older and a lot grayer to pull that off.
Instead, I looked to the vest for inspiration. It was khaki, so I decided that My Character's unofficial name was Brownie F. Staupe and this is his story:
Felix Edward Staupe, the only son of Fredrick and Melba Staupe, was born May 24, 1967. He was raised in West Hannibal, Missouri. His mother's brother -- Erik Toste -- played a key role in young Felix's future career. Erik was an award-winning free-lance photographer who had covered everything from D-Day to the fighting in the jungles of Vietnam to greeting climbers as they reached the summit of Mount Everest to the inauguration of presidents.
He'd seen it all, done it all, and been everywhere, and the stories he would tell completely mesmerized his young nephew. On Felix's sixth birthday his Uncle Erik gave him a child-sized photographer's vest and a Brownie box camera.
Tragically, not more than a year later, his beloved uncle died in a freak accident while covering a ribbon cutting at the grand opening of a Denny's in nearby North Carthage as a favor for Shanks McGruber, the photo editor of the Marion County Independent Democratic Republican News. His death devastated Felix, but also made him realize that he wanted to continue on his Uncle's legacy as the Best Damn Photographer In The World. From that point on, Felix would only answer to the name Brownie.
Brownie became one with the vest. He was never seen without it. At little league, in class, at prom, all through college, even at all 3 of his weddings and subsequent divorce hearings, he ALWAYS wore the vest. When one wore out, he'd retrieve a fresh one from the closet that contained dozens of khaki vests.
Brownie often slept in the vest and nothing else. Legend has it that one time Brownie left his house so fast in the middle of the night to go take photos of a nearby burning orphanage that he failed to put on any other clothes.
It is hard to say what traumatized the orphans who survived the disaster more: waking up to find their home engulfed in a raging inferno or seeing Brownie completely au naturel except for the vest, his rapidly-clicking camera and an obsession to get The Perfect Shot that was so dense he didn't realize he was butt-naked until a couple hours later when the lady at a nearby Waffle House informed him that the No Shoes, No Shirt, No Service sign also -- by default -- included no pants.
Taking pictures came natural to him, as if he was possessed by the spirit of his beloved uncle. He trained rigorously to be ready to get The Shot. He could shoot with either hand and both feet. While a lot of fellow photographers pooh-poohed Brownie for bothering to learn how to control his camera with his toes, he reasoned that some day he might be tied up and that would be the only way to operate his trusty Nikon. Surprisingly, this training paid off in the late 1980s when he found himself bound to a stake in New Guinea where he was trying to get photos of a long lost tribe of headhunters. His nimble feet both got The Shot and helped him escape.
Brownie rarely came back to West Hannibal, but happened to be visiting his parents in early July 2012 when Amy Dunne disappeared from nearby North Carthage. His boyhood friend Spanks McGruber -- the oldest son of Shanks -- and now the photo editor of the Marion County Independent Democratic Republican News-Tribune begged him to cover the story for the paper after the intern he sent to take pictures was mauled by a rampaging TV news crew from CNN and had to be hospitalized with PTSD.
Brownie, who barely survived a BBC news team gone berserk while trying to get footage of The Queen and her corgis in 1989, agreed to take the assignment for the honor of still photographers everywhere.
So there you have it.
While Brownie F. Staupe may not be credited in the movie and he may only be visible for 5 or 10 seconds when Gone Girl is released next October, I'll know HIS story and now so do you.
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