Diary of a Milk Extra

The movie Milk, which opens nationwide in December, tells the story of the life and tragic death of the late, great Harvey Milk, the first “out” gay politician in America. The filming of Milk earlier this year was a massive production, and it needed the help and support of the city to make it happen. “From the moment Gus Van Sant walked into my office and said he wanted to shoot Milk here, I was determined to make it happen,” Mayor Gavin Newsom told me recently. “There is no other place that would properly serve this movie. It had to be filmed here.”

The Castro is very much a character in Milk. “Shooting here, hanging out here, gave me a true sense of Harvey’s world,” says James Franco, who plays Scott Smith, Milk’s partner early on in the film. “It was a little easier to walk in Scott’s shoes knowing that he walked these streets. He lived, worked and played with Harvey here, and here we are—telling their story, shooting it in their neighborhood. For an actor, a real location with history and a true connection to the story is a bonus.”

When the production’s local publicist put out the call for extras in January, I knew I had to be involved. This was a chance to relive a part of San Francisco history, a piece of gay history. I wanted to in some way get a sense of Harvey Milk—community organizer, father figure, political activist, gay-rights pioneer. And of course, a little part of me was eager to get, perhaps, a second of screen time.

February 4, 2008
The note sent out for extras asked that we all come dressed in appropriate attire: ­no modern jeans or designer jackets. The uniform for many at that time was Levi’s, plaid or denim shirts, plain T-shirts and leather or denim jackets. I dig through my closet and come up with something that resembles an outfit from the ’70s: Levi’s, a check shirt and a corduroy jacket. It worked, just.

There’s a buzz in the air by evening. The night is clear but a bit chilly. It’s a trip to be surrounded by hundreds of others, all dressed in ’70s getup, as if we’re all on our way to a Swinging ’70s theme party—and in a way, we are. We’re here to be a part of three different scenes. The first is Harvey Milk’s rally at the corner of Castro and Market in response to Anita Bryant’s anti-gay activities in Florida. We wait around for an hour; at around 7 p.m., we’re assembled. Lead actors will be up front, featured extras next and the remaining nonfeatured extras will be “filler.”

Studio folk walk through the crowd to make sure our outfits are appropriate and authentic. A gal next to me is asked to remove her iPod: “Hello,” she’s told, “it’s 1977, not 2008.” She’s not alone—a number of extras are sporting iPods to relieve the boredom in between takes. I hope that Sylvester, the Village People and other ’70s stars are the downloads of choice.

“Set!” the assistant director shouts as we’re preparing for our first scene. Sean Penn, playing Harvey Milk, is within feet of us. The likeness is startling. His frame is a tad smaller than Milk’s, but with the addition of the prosthetic nose and chin, it’s as if Harvey is here. (Harvey’s pal and campaign co-coordinator Anne Kronenberg, the lone lesbian in his group, later tells me, “Many times, Sean would pass by me on the set and [I’d do] a double-take. For a second or two, it felt like Harvey was back.”)

Penn has a bullhorn and is rallying the crowd: “I am Harvey Milk, and I am here to recruit you!” We’re told to roar when he utters that line. And we do—not once, but about 20 times. Sean Penn nails the scene in three takes. However, we have to do many more, so as to cover all angles. A few of us get wise to the format of the evening. When the director shouts, “Reset!” that will mean a 15-minute turnaround to reset the scene. We step into 440 Castro (renamed Toad Hall for the shoot) for a shot of whiskey between takes—each time, in fact, we hear the word “reset.” It helps kill the boredom and take the chill out of our clothes.

Emile Hirsch, playing Cleve Jones, leads the way for our second scene, rallying the crowd and encouraging a march to City Hall. The real Cleve is watching the scene go down from Twin Peaks, a bar on Castro at Market. “This is something else,” he tells me when he steps out for a cigarette break. “I always hoped this day would come. The time is here. We are actually making this film.”

At 1 a.m., my seven-hour duty as a Milk extra comes to an end. It was not glamorous nor terribly exciting. However, it’s brilliant to have played a part in a film about one of my heroes—an icon, a pioneer and a guy who through his own courage changed the world.

October 28, 2008
Tonight, Hollywood takes over the Castro again, this time for the world premiere of Milk. Just blocks from my house, the world’s eyes are on my neighborhood theater for what I believe will be the movie of the year. As I walk toward the Castro Theatre, where a 40-foot-tall Milk poster featuring Sean Penn hangs, I can hear a chorus of chants: “No on 8. No on hate.” The massive crowd, all holding “No on 8” signs (referring, of course, to the ballot initiative to ban gay marriage), is gathered behind police barriers. They are loud and visible and getting out a message that Harvey Milk would have been proud of.

Politicians past and present stride alongside community personalities and movie stars for the 90-minute red-carpet extravaganza. Flashbulbs go into a lightning frenzy as each new limo pulls up. And as the parade of stars walks the line, the chants of “No on 8, No on Hate” echo down Castro. I speak to Josh Brolin, who plays Supervisor Dan White. He says, “It’s perfect that we are here tonight, screening the film where much of the movie was shot. It’s perfect.” On playing Milk’s murderer, he says, “I wanted to get a sense of who he was, why he did what he did. When I first arrived on set, Cleve Jones gave me a look I won’t forget. It was enough to tell me that I had done my work.”

As we wrap up our interview, a roar fills the air. It’s the man of the hour, Sean Penn, arriving with his wife, Robin Wright Penn. The crowd goes nuts, and I, along with every other interviewer on the red carpet, turn my attention to Penn. He signs a few signs, high-fives a lucky few and then marches quickly down the red carpet, taking no questions from reporters. He’s the one guy who will not be talking to us on this night.

By 7:30 p.m., the parade is over. Everyone is now inside for the world premiere. The high-priced screening will raise money for gay and lesbian youth charities around the Bay Area. I have no ticket, but as I get ready to head back home, a doorman at the Castro shouts, “Hey, Liam—the movie’s about to start!” Without missing a beat, my partner, Rick, and I dash inside and upstairs to the balcony, hoping to get a seat. The theater is packed. We happily perch on a step at the very back. The lights go down, the audience hushes and Milk begins.

After the film ends, the mayor leaves the theater with tears in his eyes, saying, “I am speechless.” Everyone is speechless. Milk has hit home—it’s touched each and every person in the house. How could it not? Gus Van Sant has stayed true to the facts; he’s done Harvey justice. He’s delivered the movie I had hoped to see, a movie filled with hope and heart. I have to believe that the late, great Harvey Milk would have approved.

Liam Mayclem is host/producer of the CBS 5 program Eye on the Bay, which airs weekdays at 7 p.m. You can watch Mayclem’s special report about the movie Milk at cbs5.com/eyeonthebay.