….
The audition began, and the process was brutal.
Jim Gilbert Jr.’s instructions were straightforward: paired-up actors had to take prop cutlasses and stage daggers to simulate a pirate brawl for about sixty seconds.
The choreography needed to look heavy, aggressive, and convincing on camera—not like a choreographed stage dance.
The first pair failed immediately.
One actor swung his prop sword too hard, nearly hitting his partner’s temple, while the other backed away in fear.
Gilbert yelled at them to get off his stage and called the next group.
In the second pair, a stocky actor threw out his lower back during a simple lunging step and had to be helped off the mat by set medics while Gilbert rubbed his temples in frustration.
Another guy with a thick beard fought like he was in a drunk bar brawl—wild, undisciplined swings—until his partner accidentally tripped him, sending his prop knife flying into the curtain.
“Next pair!
Alex Shawn and Hank!” Gilbert called out, checking off names on his clipboard with obvious annoyance.
Alex stepped forward.
He carefully unbuttoned his suit jacket, hung it over a clean wardrobe rack near the perimeter, and removed his waistcoat.
He tucked his tie neatly between his third and fourth shirt buttons, keeping his white shirt tucked tight into his trousers.
The fitted shirt outlined the broad, conditioned frame of an athlete, catching the attention of a few production assistants standing near the monitors.
Alex picked up a curved prop cutlass from the weapons rack, tested its weight with a quick flick of his wrist, and walked onto the center of the mat.
His partner, Hank, was a veteran stunt performer with sharp eyes and a solid build.
“Action!” Gilbert snapped, hitting his stopwatch.
Hank didn’t pull his punches.
He opened with a fast, diagonal slash aimed toward Alex’s shoulder, the wooden prop cutting sharply through the air.
A couple of watching extras let out a low gasp.
Alex didn’t freeze or block head-on.
Relying on Levi’s decades of stunt-coordination muscle memory, he dropped his center of gravity and slid to the left, letting the blade miss him by an inch.
The movement was compact, fast, and completely fluid.
As Hank’s momentum carried him slightly forward, Alex’s leg swept out.
He drove a low, controlled kick against the inside of Hank’s lead boot—not enough to injure him, but precise enough to disrupt his balance.
Hank gasped, stepping back awkwardly to regain his footing.
Alex pressed the advantage instantly.
With quick, sharp wrist movements, his prop sword tapped Hank’s guard three times in rapid succession—wrist, shoulder, ribcage—forcing the veteran stuntman onto his back foot.
Every movement looked dangerous, rhythmic, and custom-built for a movie camera.
Alex stopped cleanly, twirled the prop cutlass back into a reverse grip, and stepped back into a relaxed stance, his breathing completely steady.
The corner of Stage 16 went dead quiet.
The stocky guy who had laughed earlier stood with his mouth open.
The burly actor with the tattooed arms stared in disbelief.
The rest of the background hopefuls were completely speechless.
This wasn’t an extra trying out for a background spot; this was high-level physical performance.
The frustration on Gilbert’s face vanished instantly, replaced by sheer relief.
“Cut!
That’s it!” Gilbert slapped his clipboard against his thigh.
He marched right over to Alex, looking him up and down like he had just pulled a winning ticket.
“Shawn, right?
Alex Shawn?
Where did you train for combat choreography like that?”
“Mixed stunt work back in England, sir,” Alex replied calmly, dropping into a polite, professional posture.
“A lot of functional martial arts and stage combat.”
“It looks incredible on camera,” Gilbert said, a grin breaking across his face.
“Aggressive, sharp, perfect for the crew on the Nemesis.”
He turned to a production assistant nearby.
“Mark him down.
Alex Shawn, featured background and stunt safety.”
He turned back to Alex.
“Report straight to Wardrobe on Stage 14, get fitted for a pirate outfit, and report back here for the afternoon setup.
You’re working today.”
Three hours later, Alex emerged from Wardrobe completely transformed.
He wore distressed leather shoulder guards over a weathered, salt-stained linen shirt, muddy knee-high boots, and a battered tricorn hat.
The hair crew had sprayed his blonde hair with texturizing salt spray to give him a rough, seafaring look.
He walked onto the main set—a massive, fully detailed deck of the pirate ship Nemesis surrounded by blue-screen backdrops, fog machines, and giant wind fans creating sea breeze effects.
Seeing a legendary Steven Spielberg set from the inside in 1991 gave Alex a quiet surge of excitement.
Alex was positioned near the foredeck, tasked with vaulting over the ship’s railing to engage the actors playing the Lost Boys.
“Action!” Spielberg’s iconic command echoed over the loudspeaker.
The set erupted into noise.
Wind machines roared, smoke billowed across the wooden planks, and dozens of stunt performers and extras charged forward with battle cries.
Alex moved with pure cinematic precision.
When a young actor playing a Lost Boy charged him with a wooden prop sword, Alex parried smoothly, tapping the kid’s weapon away before executing a clean, controlled roll across the wooden deck to take out another attacker’s balance.
Every swing, duck, and roll carried weight, timing, and visual authority without ever risking actual injury to the young performers.
Beside the main camera rig, Steven Spielberg stood behind a pair of high-definition monitors.
As the camera panned across the deck battle, Spielberg’s eyes caught Alex’s sequence.
He leaned closer to the screen, pointing a finger at the frame.
“Who’s the pirate on the left side of the frame?” Spielberg asked his associate producer.
“The one handling the cutlass.
His camera awareness and timing are clean.”
The assistant quickly flipped through the day’s call sheet.
“That’s Alex Shawn.
Gilbert brought him in this morning for the action extra call.”
Spielberg watched another playback loop of Alex’s vault over the railing, noting how well he caught the key light without breaking character.
“Call Gilbert over,” Spielberg said softly.
A moment later, Jim Gilbert Jr.
jogged over to the director’s chair, looking nervous.
“Yes, Mr.
Spielberg?”
“The kid playing the pirate near the main mast,” Spielberg said, gesturing to the monitor.
“Give him a featured beat during the main charge.
Have him step up and shout, ‘Long live the Captain!’ right before Hoffman steps off the ramp.”
Gilbert blinked, momentarily stunned.
Giving a speaking line to a background extra meant upgrading him to a SAG day-player contract on the spot—a rare move on a production of this scale.
“Yes, sir!
Absolutely, I’ll set it up right now!” Gilbert said, a wide smile breaking across his face as he hurried back toward the set.
….
-Krazybro