THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Tuesday, July 19, 1994 TAG: 9407190038
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY MIKE D'ORSO, STAFF WRITER
LENGTH: Long : 132 lines
IF THIS STORY were a Hollywood script, it would begin with Jay Ross behind the bar at the Dumbwaiter restaurant, slinging martinis and dreaming of his big break, hurrying home night after night, punching the button on his answering machine and praying there'd be a message from his agent that he had a part, any part.
Lord knows he'd take any part. After all, hadn't he once driven to Kitty Hawk on his own dime, suited up in a bad hat and a fake moustache and pretended he was Orville Wright for a Japanese crew taping a piece for Tokyo TV?
Hadn't he spent hours in the living rooms of local acting coaches, gathering something to go with the theater classes he'd sat through on his way to a degree from Old Dominion? Hadn't he spent the past three years copping gigs at Regent University's film school, doing whatever they asked, and doing it for free, because he figured someday, somehow, it would pay off with the rise of a real career?
Wasn't he dreaming of that career back when he was running the projection booth at a drive-in off Route 17, showing ``Slumber Party Massacre'' and Cheech & Chong flicks six times a week, watching the credits roll night after night and thinking, ``If they can do it, why can't I?''
Never mind that he was a no-name from Newport News, a literal lightweight in high school, where he wrestled at 98 pounds and came no closer to the stage than the seat he took during morning assemblies. Never mind that he was a quiet, pleasant guy with nothing much to set him apart except his shoulder-length hair and shiny blue eyes.
In fact, it was because of the shyness that he felt the burn to get in front of a camera, to express himself in a way he never could in what he calls ``real life.''
Real life. He'd tried that for a while up in D.C. Took a job with an audio-visual outfit taping corporate meetings and realized if this was what real life was, he'd rather go back to tending bar and beating the bushes for bit parts.
Which is where he was a year ago when the phone rang, and it was his agent asking if he was game for an audition the next day. Come dressed as a Vietnam vet, he was told. That was it. Nothing about who this tryout was for. Just be ready for two minutes of improv.
What Ross knew about Vietnam could fit in a shot glass. He was 4 when the United States entered the war, 7 when the Tet Offensive began. But he knew about the vets. He'd seen enough of them over the years, even met one or two. He thought about the street people he passed every day down on Granby Street, and the homeless characters he played in a couple of those Regent University films, and he figured that should be enough to carry him through this audition. Which it was, because a month later his agency called again, telling him he had the part if he hadn't cut his hair.
He hadn't. So he was called in to see the script, and still he had no idea what this was for. It was a movie, he knew that much. And when he got to the agency and was shown his line - one line - he saw it was in a scene with the main character, a guy named Forrest Gump, and he thought, well, that's not bad.
Then he flipped to the front of the script and saw who was playing the main character. He just about went numb because even the neighbors in his apartment building over in Ghent who wouldn't know an actor from a bartender knew who Tom Hanks was.
That was in August. Two months later, the day before Halloween, Ross was at the wheel of his beat-up Fiat headed toward D.C. for three days of shooting on the set of Paramount Pictures' hush-hush hit in the making. Three days of work at the union scale of $465 a day, plus a room at the Wyndham Bristol Hotel and three meals a day catered on location. Definitely a step up from sushi at Kitty Hawk.
The first day, they fitted him for his costume. His hair was long, but not long enough; He wound up in a wig. The next day was rehearsal, on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, with Hanks and director Robert Zemekis acting just like regular folks, treating Ross and the rest of the hired hands like old friends. Ross even sat beside Hanks in the makeup trailer, chatting, reading the paper, just a couple of pros getting ready for a day of work, although Ross wasn't sure if he'd still be around after the scene's first run-through.
His part was to walk behind Gump at a peace rally, ushering him to an outdoor stage where Gump would join Abbie Hoffman in front of a roaring throng of war protesters. As Ross followed Hanks up the steps to the stage, Zemekis told him to give the star a shove, which Ross did, nearly knocking Hanks off the steps. The look Hanks gave him said the star was not totally amused, but Ross' name was still on the list the next morning when the bus arrived at the hotel to carry the actors to the set for the actual shooting.
His first scene lasted 30 seconds. His line was simple. ``Hey buddy,'' he said to the bewildered Gump, who had just stepped out of the White House, where Lyndon Johnson had handed him the Medal of Honor, ``we could use your help.''
The next scene lasted another half-minute, with Zemekis urging the actors to ad-lib. Ross wound up tossing off two more lines: ``What you're doin' is good,'' and, ``Go on, man, you can do it.'' And that was it. The scene was a wrap, and Ross was back in his car, headed home.
Other than getting his check in the mail, he didn't hear a thing until April, when the studio called to ask if he could fly out to L.A. for a day. It turned out crowd noise had drowned out his first line and they needed to retape it. Next thing Ross knew, he was in a first-class seat on an American Airlines jet, flying out to Paramount's post-production studio, where he spent a morning relooping his line and an afternoon taking snapshots from the balcony of his 14th-floor room at the Century City Marriott.
Then it was back to Norfolk, wondering what the movie would look like, not knowing when it would come out or even if it would come out. He was in front of his TV the night of the Oscars, just about punching the ceiling with joy when his man Hanks took the Best Actor prize for ``Philadelphia.'' That's when he began to believe this Gump movie might really turn into something big.
Which it has. By the time Ross settled into his seat opening night at the Newmarket South theater with his dad beside him and a box of popcorn in his lap, ``Forrest Gump'' was splashed across the pages of every newspaper and magazine in the country. When the lights went down, Ross was wound tight, so anxious about his scene he could hardly follow the first half of the film.
Then, there he was. The Lincoln Memorial, the Reflecting Pool, a thousand roaring extras multiplied by computer into tens of thousands, and Ross in a ``two-shot'' with Hanks - a close-up showing just him and the star. The year that had passed since his audition had come to this, one minute in the movie. A good minute, but still just a minute.
If this story were a Hollywood script, it would end with Jay Ross wiping that bar for the last time, hugging his friends goodbye and heading to L.A. for a lead role in Bob Zemekis' next film.
But this story is not a script. Jay Ross is still mixing Manhattans at the Dumbwaiter, still picking up any part that comes his way, still hoping to hit the big time and still glad to be just where he is.
And that's a happy ending. ILLUSTRATION: Color photo
MARTIN SMITH-RODDEN/Staff
Photo
Dumbwaiter bartender Jay Ross plays a Vietnam vet in ``Forrest
Gump.''
KEYWORDS: PROFILE BIOGRAPHY by CNB