What’s it like to be the back of a celebrity’s head?

The life of a stuntman is a relatively thankless one. Taking on all the risk, none of the adulation and a small percentage of the pay. I would make that our official credo if only I knew Latin.

Yeah but you’re a stuntman! Isn’t that cool?

In fact, my job usually equates to hours of boredom in constant discomfort, interspersed with moments of pain and sheer terror. At a moment’s notice, we are required to run onto set surrounded by flames, galloping horses, sword fights, and gunfire instantly performing death-defying action without dying… So yeah, it is cool.

Stunt professionals or stunties as they’re usually — although less than affectionately — referred to in New Zealand, are an interesting mixed breed of people. They’re somewhere between professional cage fighters, special ops soldiers and circus clowns. Lazily moseying onto film sets like gun-slinging cowboys, their revolvers loaded with false modesty and over-exaggerated war stories.

The majority of us are quite highly trained martial artists or ex-military. A gaggle of A-type personalities handpicked and thrust together in a constant one-up battle with each other. We continually push the limit of physicality even though most of us have no more skin left on our teeth to be saved by. Yet somehow we continue to defy the law of averages, jacked up on painkillers and ego.

Most of the celebrities I have had the chance to stunt-double or teach are incredibly hardworking and gracious. They seem extremely appreciative of our help in making them look like an action hero. These actors are an absolute pleasure to work with. However, every once in while we are introduced to sociopathic, delusional, only children that make not tearing their throats out a constant battle. They are few and far between but trust me, they are out there.

Like you can imagine, when wandering back into a filmed battle, knowing that you are — yet again — going to purposely lose the fight, it can get a bit old. It is strange and disheartening to spend the majority of your life becoming the best in the world, only to enable you to convincingly make someone else, look like the best in the world. You then limp home with an average paycheck — in my country at least — along with a plethora of new scars and injuries. It requires a definite personal perspective adjustment to watch yourself on screen, kick the ass of 50 people, flip over cars and fall from buildings on fire. Only to then watch someone else gather, world recognition, accolades, awards, and more work by taking all the credit for your physical sacrifice. I understand that this is how it works though at times it is a hard pill to swallow.

A skill I learned over the decades was being able to fight the incessant boredom of being locked in a holding room. It mainly consisted of sitting/leaning/laying down for hours in relative silence, wearing horribly uncomfortable, wool and leather costumes and your skin painfully glued to itself with fake blood. Given the filming schedule of US productions combined with our southern pacific location, we tend to film winter scenes in summer and summer scenes in winter. This usually means we end up in five layers of leather, a wetsuit and itchy mask made out of what feels like Nana’s blankets, while it’s 34°C outside. Conversely, in a 5°C situation, we are more than likely found sporting a g-string made from pine needles and hate, while being sprayed with a mixture of iced tea carcinogens and K-Y Jelly.

Film crews, in general, are odd. So often they play unconsciously to their supposed stereotypes, that sometimes I feel I’ve been tricked into playing an unwitting character in a badly acted amateur play. Not enough to look around, attempting to find the hidden cameras, but very close. Most of the time organizing a crew is like herding cats, albeit quirky, eccentric cats that all believe they are individually the most important cog in the machine. In some ways, they are right if only it wasn’t for the ever-present, passive-aggressive threat, “There are a dozen people out there lining up to do your job”. I often wonder where these people line up, as I’ve never seen them; also is lining up a prerequisite of being considered? Why can’t they just meander about in a small space so you still know where they are?

With all that said — most of it in jest — as a career martial artist, I have limited options, in terms of using my physical skill base in a “normal” job. I would rather continue to be punched in the face by foppish actors than have one of those dreaded things. The professions a person with “ninja skills” could do — which I say in melancholic jest — is limited, to say the least. I have tried the majority of my options in the past 20 odd years with varying results and very little job satisfaction.

I have been a bouncer, which seemed to require me to become a sociopath and stand near a door. Most of the time this job involved me trying to reason with or fight people far too drunk to see reason or fight.

I’ve operated martial arts schools, providing training for spoilt, angry children with aspirations of killing their fathers. Along with doing my best to dissuade adults from the delusional belief they could use “Chi” to knock out their workmates from a distance.

I’ve even provided private security to celebrities which equated to no excitement whatsoever and elicited about as much emotion from me as Kevin Costner portrayed in his bodyguard role.

After that, I tried professional fighting where despite not losing any of my fights, I did, however, lose my money to the promoter; leaving me wishing I had spent less time doing cardio and more time learning about the fine print.

My remaining career choices — outside of joining the special forces or becoming a hitman — were back in film and television; so that is where I went.

Being a stuntman, I have been blessed with the opportunity to perform as and train with SAS soldiers, Navy SEALs, firefighters, pilots, racing drivers, spies and dozens of other professions that a young boy would lay awake at night dreaming of doing when he “grew up”. I’ve now done all of those things but am still running from the expectation of growing up.

As I said, we are an interesting breed. Wandering about wearing our crew gift T-shirts like a badge of honor. Quick with a dick joke and even quicker with a character assassination. In this industry built — quite cleverly though less than ethically — around independent contracting, your compatriots are also your direct competition. This breeds many laughs but also quiet dissension in the ranks which is usually controlled by heavy-handed fear-mongering from the higher patriarchy. Mistakes are used as a weapon, so the buck gets passed pretty darn quick in this industry, like a hot potato filled with asbestos and AIDS.

The part that amuses me as I think about it is, I would still to this day, unwaveringly trust my stunt associates with my life; but not my money, girlfriend or reputation.