Earth Day? Try Colin Firth Day.

It is a truth universally acknowledged – well, I don’t know about universally, but a great many people agree, anyway – that Colin Firth is the perfect definition of Mr. Darcy.

However often Mr. Firth may claim, in interviews and so forth, that he is more than ready to leave Mr. Darcy, his sideburns, his horse, and his pond behind him once and for all and move beyond his most famous and beloved role, the brilliance of his performance as Darcy is so well-fixed in the minds and hearts of all his fans that he is considered as the rightful property of anyone who has ever let her mind wander into a Regency fantasy (or two). And I, dear readers, am no exception.

Let me say right up front, I’ve had a few (as in very, very few) brushes with celebrities. I’ve been to an off-Broadway Opening Night party attended by Meryl Streep and Liev Schreiber. I’ve met Hilary Hahn. I’ve been close enough to touch (sadly, not talk to) Yo-Yo Ma. I had my picture taken with Darrell Green and the Olympic torch in 1996. And when I worked in D.C., I often spotted famous politicians and journalists at events on or around the Hill.

At none of these times did I feel particularly fluttery or lose my cool (though I came closest with Yo-Yo Ma. God, I love that man). I have very few raging celebrity crushes. In fact, I’d be hard-pressed to name a single one as long-standing or fiercely loyal as my crush on Colin Firth. There is just something about the man that makes me feel like a fourteen-year-old girl – maybe because that’s how old I was when A&E first aired the BBC Pride and Prejudice miniseries starring him and Jennifer Ehle.

We didn’t have cable, so my aunt had taped the series for me and my mother. At the time I had read P&P twice, and was determined to make my way through Mom’s complete box set of Austen novels. I had already commandeered her “I’d Rather Be Reading Jane Austen” sweatshirt. We sat together on the couch in our living room, popcorn within arm’s reach, and watched all five hours of the miniseries straight through. The production is famously excellent, and it made me want to live in Jane Austen’s world in a way that, up to that point, even her novels had not done. Like most everyone else of the female gender who watched the miniseries, I came away from it completely enraptured by Colin Firth. He was, I thought, the perfect Mr. Darcy.

Of course my mother and I bought the six-volume video collection as soon as it was released, which I then stole when I went to college (it was not easy, finding room for six big clunky videotapes in my suitcase, but I managed somehow. I had to leave the box behind). In college I eventually upgraded to the comparatively slim two-DVD box set, which I later bought for my mother as well, thereby atoning somewhat for my earlier theft. I’ve watched it more times than I can count, and could probably recite most of it from memory.

All this to say that there are many, many actors I enjoy, many I would be thrilled to meet. But if I had to pick just one, out of all the actors in the world, I probably would choose Colin Firth. You need to know that going into this story, because you have to understand how very, very few people in the entire world would have warranted my impulsive foray into the world of show business and the somewhat crazy, dramatic, and somewhat embarrassing behavior that ensued.  What follows is the true story of my one and only day as a movie extra – and my close encounter with Mr. Darcy.

* * *

One of my local Twitter friends mentioned a few weeks ago that Colin Firth (and Orlando Bloom, and others) were shooting the movie Main Street in our humble little town. Colin Firth and I are living in the same city! I thought, ecstatically. We are waking up and going to sleep under the same little piece of sky!

Every time I thought about it, it made me smile. It was a little ray of sunshine on cloudy days. “Aren’t you excited,” I said – probably too often – to Dan, “about the fact that we are in the same town as Colin Firth, albeit temporarily?”

“It’s very exciting,” he replied. But I wasn’t sure he meant it. Eventually I took my Firth-ranting to Twitter because Dan is many excellent things, but sadly not a girl, let alone a fourteen-year-old girl.

I wondered if I would see him. I was determined to try. Yet I had to admit that odds were stacked against me. The filming schedule had been posted online for long enough for local bloggers to reprint it, but it was vague at best, and I knew the locations were likely to change day to day. It seemed highly unlikely that I would spot him just hanging around downtown. On the other hand, it also seemed ridiculous and unjust that Colin Firth could really spend weeks on end in my own small town and I would miss him completely. A just God, I felt, would not let that happen. I just need a plan, I thought.

It was my friend Amber who told me that a woman named Maxann was casting extras for Main Street. I emailed her on Monday and sent a photo as requested. She said she thought she might be able to use me this week. I called the next day to follow up.

“Nicole…Nicole…you’re the Asian one?” she asked.

“Uh, I’m Asian, yes.”

“I love your look!” she exclaimed. (Did not respond. Felt sure this was just a showbizzy thing to say.) “I think I can use you,” she went on. “You’re different.”

(Token Asian, at your service, Hollywood.)

A few hours later Maxann’s assistant called me back, with instructions on what clothes to bring (an assortment of office/business casual), where to be dropped off (near the film’s base camp), and my call time: 10:30. “That means you should be here, with paperwork filled out, by 10:00,” she told me. “Filming could take eight hours, twelve hours, fourteen hours. If you come, you have to be able to stay all day. And no cameras.”

I felt strange about Dan taking a day off school for something so frivolous, but he assured me he didn’t mind. So it was with some trepidation but no guilt that I accepted the job as an extra, just for one day.

On Wednesday morning I dressed in a blue cardigan, a black pencil skirt, and my comfiest heels, and tried to remember how to put on makeup. Dan, Abby, and I drove downtown to the address I’d been given. I’ll skip the details, in case the film people would rather not have the location of their “base camp” publicized; suffice it to say that it was a strange, rundown-looking building, almost deserted when I arrived, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to walk in there alone.

Fortunately, while on the inside the warehouse did not look like any place that ought to be associated with the making of a major motion picture, it also did not look like a place where people hid a lot of dead bodies. At the far end, there were several vehicles, which, I later learned, were being used in the movie; there was a big catering cart, where people were already at work prepping for lunch; there were long folding tables and chairs set up as a makeshift cafeteria; and strewn all around were random, dangerous-looking piles of junk and scrap metal and other things you’d expect to see in a seldom-used warehouse.

Maxann and her assistant greeted me and set me to work filling out paperwork. One by one, the other extras trickled in. Most of them already knew Maxann, and wasted no time in regaling each other about past movies, shows, and commercials they’d done. I sat there feeling like the world’s biggest poser. When one of them asked me if I was with “Talent One,” I shook my head and said this was my first time as an extra. I didn’t see fit to mention that I was only there to catch a glimpse of Colin Firth. That would have seemed quite disrespectful to all these aspiring actors and actresses, who were clearly serious about The Craft.

Eventually all the extras arrived, a dozen of us in all, male and female, black and white (and Asian), short, tall, plump, skinny, all carting bags and suitcases containing various office clothes. For over an hour we sat around, waiting for something, anything, to happen. (That was, incidentally, how most of the day went, with a few exceptions.) I began to miss Abby, and regretted ever signing up for this gig. The warehouse was drafty, and there was a smell I couldn’t and didn’t care to identify.

Finally a young, red-haired, frazzled-looking production assistant appeared, introduced herself as Lauren, and loaded us all into one of the shuttle vans to be taken to wardrobe. We were all quiet on the ride, and she commented how strange that was, for actors. I think everyone was just cold, as the van was air-conditioned to the point of being almost arctic.

As it turned out, “wardrobe” was set up (temporarily) in a small parking lot near a local restaurant, where a scene had just been filmed. Little kids at recess at a school across the street waved at us, and we waved back. “I want to be famous!” they screamed. “Put us in your movie!”

People from wardrobe helped us choose clothes from what we had brought. And then we just stood around, waiting to be told where we would go next. We stood there for nearly two hours. It would have been a nice day to be outside, were it not for the chilly 30-mile winds and all the pollen in the air. People were soon putting on extra layers and sneezing, and other people began talking about how hungry they were and wondered when they would let us eat lunch, and my skirt and thin cardigan were not really keeping me warm, and I thought, for the dozenth time that day, how kind of sucky show business was, and how much I would rather be with Abigail. The “real” actors in our little group of extras complained about the general disorganization, of course, at the same time acknowledging, “it’s always like this. That’s show business!” (I was like, did you really just say that?) They all seemed to have far more patience for it than I did.

Eventually a shuttle van took us back to base camp, but we were only there long enough to eat lunch. Extras ate last. I loaded up my tray – hey, it was all free, and I didn’t know when I’d get to eat again – and Mark, one of the other extras, appeared duly impressed when I tucked it all in. “I didn’t think you were going to be able to finish,” he said. (I don’t know why people are always underestimating me.)

As we ate, rumors were flying among the extras about who would be in our upcoming scenes. One woman insisted it would be all three leading men: “Someone told me that Orlando Bloom, Colin Firth, and Andrew McCarthy are in our scene!” People seemed very excited about this, but I didn’t believe it for a second. I was feeling increasingly pessimistic about my chances of seeing Colin Firth at all – it was just my luck – the cast was huge, and what were the odds he’d be in any of the scenes at our designated location?

After lunch they wrangled us back into the van to head to our filming location, finally – one of the civic buildings downtown. It was supposed to be posing as a law office, although of course the lobby did not look anything like the lobby of a law office. Lauren shuttled over with us and shepherded us to the set so the assistant director could place us at various points around the cavernous lobby for a background scene.

It took me an embarrassingly long time to figure out that the super-skinny brunette with the rather pinched-looking mouth was Amber Tamblyn, one of the film’s stars. It turns out her face was pinched because her shoes, as she explained to us in a few well-chosen words, were extremely uncomfortable.

Another young woman and I were the first to be grabbed by the assistant director, just because we were standing near the front, I think. He placed us at the bottom of two large flights of stairs in the lobby and told us we would be walking up together, discussing where to go for lunch, and Amber would walk by us. The propmaster handed me a cup of coffee and a briefcase. He fixed me with an intense stare and said, “These are your props. When the scene is over, I need both of them back. You don’t give them to anyone but me, understand?” I assured him that I wasn’t going to steal his briefcase, but he didn’t look convinced.

The assistant director placed the other extras around the lobby, one behind the reception desk, several near the elevators, one on a bench with a newspaper, one handing a file to the receptionist. Various employees who worked in the building all stood around gawking and grinning at us. It was surreal to be looked and pointed at as if I were a legitimate person of interest.

We walked though the scene once or twice, then filmed it a dozen times. When the director said “background,” we all began moving, and continued through “action” until we heard “cut.” It was a little tedious to walk up and down the stairs so many times, but I was just glad to finally, finally be doing something. And I was glad that my shoes, unlike Miss Tamblyn’s, were comfortable.

When the lobby scene was over, Lauren let us hit up the snacks and beverages table, and then she herded us all into a very cold room to wait for later scenes. Minutes later she took me and several others to an upstairs set to see if the director wanted any of us for an office scene with Amber Tamblyn and a character named Rita. An actor named Mark and I were selected to do a couple of random walk-throughs, but then one of the crew objected to the color I was wearing.

“She’s got on almost the exact same blue as Rita,” she said. “You need to get someone else.”

The director took the time to give me a helpless, half-apologetic look, and then he grabbed another extra, Catherine, for the scene instead. I was a little disappointed, but I really didn’t mind too much – I’d already been in one scene, and it was interesting for me just to watch the filming and see what was going on. I knew that being in actual scenes meant far more to a real actress than it could to me. Plus, Andrew McCarthy walked right by me a couple of times – I mean, he brushed my elbow once – and that was mildly exciting. That man really has not aged in like twenty years.

Eventually nature called, and so I went downstairs to find a restroom and then hit the snack table again. I returned to the room with all the other extras, where everyone pounced on me to ask what happened, who I saw. There wasn’t much to tell.

“Amber and Andrew McCarthy are filming an office scene,” I told them. “And I didn’t get to be in it because I’m wearing the wrong color blue.”

After what seemed like hours, Lauren came back to get a few more extras. “Who’s in the scene they’re filming now?” I asked.

“Same people, Amber and Andrew,” she said. “And Colin is here. He just came in a few minutes ago.”

Colin Firth. On set. Upstairs! My little one-track mind was racing.

I figured I was still wearing the wrong color, but I went upstairs with Lauren and a handful of other extras. It was almost five o’clock. We sat in a little waiting area, just beyond the elevators, while they filmed in an interior office somewhere down the hall. It was very hot, and we couldn’t see much of what was going on.

“I heard Colin Firth was here,” I whispered to Mark.

“Yeah, too bad you missed him,” he said teasingly. Mark had already heard, once or twice, that I was rather fond of Colin Firth.

“You actually saw him?” I exclaimed.

“Yeah we saw him. Couldn’t really miss him, he’s like eight feet tall.”

I sat back in my chair, feeling crushed, and opened my bottle of water. A caterer came by with a big plate of meatballs, and Mark raised his eyebrows in surprise when I refused one. I was beginning to feel forlorn, not to mention a bit desperate. Colin Firth was so close to me! Just down the hall! But how to get to him? Time was running out!

The assistant director reappeared. “These three can go home,” he said, pointing at me and two others. He told Lauren to keep Mark, Catherine, and a couple of others, and to “wrap” the rest of us.

My heart sank. I had no choice; I had to follow Lauren downstairs. Here I had spent the entire day being looked at like a prop, spoken about as if I wasn’t there, rushed from place to place, at the mercy of the most disorganized people I had ever met. I had used disgusting bathrooms, I had stood more often than not, I had face and hands chapped from the wind and miniscule grains of pollen in my eyes, and most of all, I had missed my daughter all day. Sure, I had some fun times, some interesting moments; I met some cool people. But the primary goal – the only goal, really – had not been met. I had just missed seeing Colin Firth.

I had come so frustratingly, heartbreakingly close. And now I was being sent home.

I called Dan to tell him I was done, gave Lauren my timesheet, and said good-bye to the other extras. We had all gotten to be quite friendly during the day, and I found myself both wishing we could keep in touch and knowing that we wouldn’t. They all gathered their things and boarded the shuttle back to base camp, where their cars were parked. But since Dan had dropped me off at the warehouse that morning, I asked Lauren if I could just stay on location and have him pick me up there.

“That’s fine,” she said, and turned to leave with the others.

“Uh – Lauren?” I hesitated, then decided to ask, figuring I had nothing to lose. “Would it be okay if I went back upstairs for a bit – just to watch?”

She considered me for a moment. “Sure,” she said at last. “Tell them you’re waiting for your ride, and that I said it’s okay.”

I hurried back upstairs, trying not to get my hopes up. I had twenty minutes, maybe less, before Dan and Abby would show up. But maybe, maybe that would be enough time, maybe I’d get to see him – just for a second. That was all I wanted, I thought, to see him walk by.

I sank into one of the empty chairs in the little waiting room with the few remaining extras, who all looked at me questioningly. “I’m waiting for my ride, Lauren said I could watch,” I explained. I grabbed yet another bottle of water and tried to prepare myself for further disappointment.

But I had only been sitting there for a moment or two when suddenly a tall, curly-haired, very familiar man appeared in the hallway beyond. I sat up a bit straighter, heart hammering, as he approached.

And then he was there, standing right in front of me – close enough to reach out and touch – wearing a white shirt, jeans, and a light-colored blazer, listening and nodding as someone from the crew talked to him. He glanced around the room and caught me staring at him. We made eye contact. And then he gave me a little nod of acknowledgment…and a smile.

Colin Firth is smiling at me!

I almost died, like, right there.

Then someone told him that a van was waiting downstairs to take him somewhere – back to base camp, or to the hotel, or on to another location; I didn’t catch where. “Right, thanks,” he said, and turned and walked through the glass doors to the elevators.

“See ya,” I said to my fellow extras, before grabbing my things and following him.

Out by the elevators, I saw him talking to a member of the crew, a heavyset bearded man wearing a Tar Heels t-shirt. “I’m just going to take the stairs,” he said. Oh! I thought. He cares about the planet! (I mean, I’m sure he does, but he was probably taking the stairs because that building had some of the slowest elevators on earth.)

He was right there. In front of me. This was my chance.

I approached him slowly, feeling a bit lightheaded, fully aware that this, this right here, this was one of those incredibly rare, miraculous, once-in-a-lifetime opportunities. Colin Firth wasn’t busy, he wasn’t out on the town with his family, he wasn’t shooting a scene, he wasn’t talking to someone about something important. If he were doing any of those things, of course I couldn’t and wouldn’t have interrupted him, but as it was, it was literally just him and me – him and me! – well, him, and me, plus a random crewman who wasn’t even paying attention to us anymore.

“Excuse me, Mr. Firth?” I think it’s possible my voice was shaking. Just a little.

“Yes?” he said, encouragingly.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m a huge fan, and I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoy your work,” I said, all in a rush. (I think I managed not to sound as though I’d been sucking helium on set, although frankly it was hard to hear my own voice over the faint roaring in my ears.)

“Thank you. That’s very kind of you.” He smiled. Again. It was kind of a tired smile, also a little wary, but it was still wonderful. My knees felt distinctly weak.

“Would it be too much trouble to ask you to sign an autograph?” I asked, trying to rummage in my bag for a pen and my Moleskine without breaking eye contact with him.

“Of course,” he said politely, and watched me forage for something to write on.

“Here’s a pen,” said the crewman, who was probably pretty amused by this time.

“I have a pen,” I answered, distractedly. Argh! I am keeping Colin Firth waiting! Why are there suddenly fifty million unimportant things in this bag? Should I have him sign my copy of Northanger Abbey?

Both men either took pity on me, or realized they had only one chance of getting rid of me this century, and began hunting in their pockets for something to write on. It was all becoming fairly ridiculous when Colin suddenly said “Here,” and tore off a piece of paper that had been taped to the front of his manila envelope. He flipped it over to write on the back, and I handed him my pen and Northanger Abbey to use as a hard surface.

“Right. What’s your name?” he asked me. …For the restraining order.

Colin Firth just asked for my name! “Nicole!” I supplied quickly.

“To…Nicole…” He paused for a second, and I could almost see the wheels turning in his handsome curly head: Hmm, what to write to this total stranger who has accosted me on my way out the door?

While he wrote, I think I said something inane about being one of the extras, just for today, and he said something like “ah, very good. Hope you enjoyed the experience.” He finished scribbling, signed his name with a practiced scrawl, and handed paper, book, and pen back to me.

“Thank you,” I said, and smiled what was, for me, considering the moment, almost a normal smile. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your time in North Carolina.”

“Thank you,” he said, and shook my hand with one last smile. “Good luck to you.”

He turned and pushed open the door to the stairwell, while I put his autograph inside my book and put book and pen back in my bag. He realized I was following him to the stairs, and held the door open for me.

Colin Firth is holding the door for me!

I said thank you.

As we walked down to the first floor, I tried to keep a few steps behind him, maintaining a respectful distance so he wouldn’t think I was about to attack or something.

Colin Firth and I are alone in a stairwell!

At the bottom of the stairs he paused, and held the door for me again.

I said thank you.

He stood to one side and kind of waved me into the lobby. I decided to assume he was doing it to be a gentleman, and not because he wanted to be able to see my hands/watch me for any sudden movements. I said thank you for the hundredth and last time, and wished him a good evening as he walked through the revolving doors and out to the van waiting at the curb. Several loitering crew members said good-night to him, all cool and nonchalant and “bye Colin, see you tomorrow.”

I watched him go, clutching the bag that now contained his autograph.

The real receptionist had left for the day, and the night security guard was seated at the front desk. I gave him a huge grin, like, hey, total stranger, I just had one of the best days of my entire life. He smiled back at me, no doubt thinking I was a special person. Felt sure Colin Firth would agree.

I turned back to the doors, looked at the spot where I had just been standing with Colin Firth, made sure none of the crew were looking, and then I hopped up and down a few times. Just a few. My feet were really hurting by now.

Outside, the sun was shining and the wind had died down; it had turned into the perfect early spring afternoon.  Perfect, of course, in more ways than one.

I called Dan en route and filled him in. I called my mother. I called Kathleen, my college roommate, with whom I have watched the entire Pride and Prejudice miniseries on more than one occasion, and left her a long, rambling voicemail that steadily escalated in both pitch and volume.

It wasn’t until much, much later, as I was getting ready for bed last night, that I remembered to thank the God I now, more than ever, believe in for indulging me in this one tiny thing.

Thank you, I thought, with a tired, dreamy smile. If you had anything at all to do with today, that is. Probably you were busy elsewhere. But if it was you, it was really, really nice of you.

Really, really nice. Just like Colin Firth. What a gentleman.