Sal Pelligrino was the man. While no one ever confused him for Brando or Jimmy Dean, his rep was made as the inventor of “The Method”. Not Stanislavsky’s, but his own time tested system. A commercial actor with a knack, Sal could close the deal on any commercial/Extra work he put his mind to, not only getting the gig, but with an intuitive sense for camera angle and lens, knowing exactly where and what the shot would be, and getting his face in it.
His resume spoke for itself. “Tool Belt Man” for Ace Hardware. “Dancing Freak” for Ice House beer. His national spot for A & W Root Beer as “Thick-Headed Man” brought him nearly cult status. Remember the Thick Headed job applicant? “Mr. Dumbass, I can bring a lot to Dumbass and Dumbass! I’m a go-getter! Dumbass material all the way. So, am I your man, Mr. Dumbass.”
“The name…is Dumas.”
His latest film credit, the hostage drama THE NEGOTIATOR, demonstrated the method of Sal’s Method. For his crucial role of “Swat Team Member” Sal worked his magic—checking the shooting schedule, checking the camera setups for each upcoming shot—and making the judgement. Am I in the shot, or out? If he was out of the shot, he went into energy conservation mode.
“Never stand when you can sit. Never sit when you can lay down.” Two handy Salism’s he imparted upon a fawning newbie. Sal knew the shooting schedule cold, memorized wrap times and was sure to be the first extra back in the Holding area, changing clothes and first out the door.
Not to say his contribution wasn’t critical. In the money shot, Kevin Spacey was to race from a van as the building explodes, passing Sal who watches the carnage behind a pair of binoculars. Sal examined the scene from all angles…camera there, Spacey there, Sal here…yes!
Looking into binoculars on the call of “ACTION!” Sal dropped them as the building explodes, with a stunned expression out of the Clenched Jowl school of acting, Spacey racing by in the melee, bumping into Sal: “Who’s firing? Who’s firing?!” No lines were scripted but Sal offered up: “Don’t know! Take cover!” Improvisation being another in the master’s bag of tricks. It seems unjust Sal’s moment was left on the cutting room floor.
But what was Sal’s Method? Rule 1: “Don’t try!” Sal spilled the concept to one of his many admirers. “You work yourself into a frenzy at the audition, you set yourself up to fail. Don’t give a shit.”
Rule 2 was equally poignant: “Take the money, man. The check’ll clear.”
The take the money strategy worked best, of course, when money was coming in. Lately though, it wasn’t. Two months of nada. The dry spell would have shaken the confidence of many of his compadres, but not Sal. No, sir! Even Babe Ruth struck out now and then, thought he, fielding a page from his agent, Billy Steepanich.
Billy was a high-powered guy who picked up Sal’s $18 buck hamburger lunches at the Pump Room. Patience was not his forte. He didn’t want to hear about Babe Ruth striking out.
“I got something for you. You’re perfect. Age is right. Physical type. Ethnicity. It’s a buzzer-beater. Jordan shooting over Ehlo.”
“What is it?”
“Phisoderm. You know, the itch cream.”
“What’s the part?”
“They want a…well…you’re playing Mr. Blemish. You got any wrestling training?”
“”Sure, tons. Who doesn’t.”
“Can you find a tight red Spandex top and bicycle shorts?”
“”Sure. Who doesn’t have bicycle shorts and red spandex laying around the house.”
“Get over to 810 North State. And don’t fuck it up.”
Sal raced home, finding a pair of shorts so tight that you could tell his religion. Grabbing a lobster-red muscle shirt, out the door he went.
At 810 North State street, he was greeted by an audition greeting table, and about 20 short, dumpy “George Costanza” types in red tights. The concept was cake: Mr. Blemish wrestles Captain Phisoderm. Captain Phisoderm kicks Blemish’s ass. The universe is safe. End spot. Not a difficult premise to grasp, though looking around the room at this bunch of rejects, Sal was depressed. What was he doing here with these losers?
They paired up. Captain Phisoderms in white, Mr. Blemish’s in red. Sal caught a break, pairing with a Captain Phisoderm with wrestling training.
“Let’s give ‘em something to chew on,” suggested Sal. And so they prepared a routine. And what a routine! Sal choreographed it to minutiae, every last move: The Kansas City Twirl, Sleeper hold, climactic reversals and a “Thousand Wink” headlock, then a bam-bam-bam series of uppercuts, Mr. Blemish caught with a final pile driver, wobbling, Captain Phisoderm moving to him and…blowing him off his feet with a breath. Oh, what understatement! It was sensational!
“You got it?” Sal asked.
“Let’s Rock!” replied Captain Phisoderm.
And so came the moment of truth, called before a long table of casting agents, many of whom knew Sal well. Sal was oozing confidence, doing calisthenic warm-ups, cracking his knuckles in grand fashion, already in character. Finding places when the call came: “ACTION!”
What followed can only be described as stupendous. Captain Phisoderm raced toward Sal and BOOM! Sal was taken down in three, count ‘em, three seconds.
One of the casting agents was diplomatic, as casting agents often are in such circumstances. “Good, good…could you try to move around a bit more? Put up a struggle, Mr. Blemish.”
Sal pulled Captain Phisoderm aside, nonplussed. “What happened?”
“I went up, man! Sorry, I’ll get it right this time.”
Amateur? Scene stealer? Sal looked over this fellow in white tights a moment before shaking his head, the two actors taking their places for the second call of “ACTION!” Amazingly, Captain Phisoderm again raced in, again taking Sal down in seconds.
The casting agent was casual again. “Goooood. I like what you’re doing, but do it, like, with a thousand times more struggle. ‘K?”
Sal waved his partner over. He was apologizing before he even arrived. “I’ll get it this time, I swear.”
What could Sal do? Thinking about his dry streak, the two months nothing, his lousy luck, his leech of an agent, his July rent due and WHAT WAS HE DOING IN THIS STUPID FREAKING COSTUME ANYWAY?! Sal took his place for the third and last chance, the casting agent screaming out ACTION! Captain Phisoderm coming at him fast, like a nightmare, grabbing him hard and pulling down.
But Sal didn’t go down.
Hand on his hips, Sal thrust his leg between his opponent’s. This got a laugh from the casting agents, but was only the beginning, for Sal was “en fuego.”
“Go down! Go down!” begged Captain Phisoderm.
Something had happened to Sal. Breaking his own code, Sal tried. Picking Captain Phisoderm up, twirling him Kansas City-style.
“BLEMISH IN THE HOUSE!” Sal howled like Godzilla, twirling the fellow in white tights faster, and faster still. “BLEMISH WHIP YOU AND YOUR MAMA TOO!” And with that Sal sending Captain Phisoderm into the non-too-padded mat, pinning him hard. Rising up with ripped Rockyesque arms raised in a blood-in-the-teeth howl!
The blood drained from Sal’s face before the casting agents, whom just looked each other a moment, looked to Sal and the moaning Captain Phisoderm.
“Well great, guys! Thanks so much.”
Sal never even looked back. He hit the bricks fast, knowing: He blew it. Violation of Rule 1: Don’t try. The cold streak had rattled him. In the moment of truth, a moment all men must surely face, he had lost himself. How could things have gotten to this point? These thoughts and July’s rent on his mind when his cellphone hummed. The voice was Billy Steepanitch.
“Tell me.”
“I blew it, Billy. I don’t know what to say.”
“Yes! Thank you, ye Gods of Dead Presidents!”
“Huh?”
“Break Coffee! You got the part!” Billy was squealing by now.
“What part?”
“Break Coffee. The Jap iced coffee? They’re flying you over next week. You’re one of Satan’s Minions. Four days, 5K a day.”
“No shit.”
‘And get this…the costume…no shirt, black shorts, cat-o-nine tails whip, black leather penis hat.You get to beat up on slaves in Hell! You were born for this!”
“Sounds soft all right,” said the now beaming Sal.
High-fiving his cellphone, Billy Steepanich gushed: “You’re the MAN, Sal!”
“No shit, Sherlock. Remember that the next hitless streak.”
Sal was getting his stride back as he crossed over the Ohio Street bridge. Then he stopped at once, and wondered: Black leather penis hat?
