"All the world's a stage, and all men merely players." -- Shakespeare

Listen in on a conversation at an event and you're likely to hear dialog from "Gettysburg":

"What goes, John?"

"There's the devil to pay!"

"Can you hold?"

"I reckon I can."

At which point, someone interrupts in disgust, "God, we need another movie!"

That's been our problem. There hasn't been a great Civil War movie made in more than a decade. There was "Glory" and "Gettysburg," but both were made before 1993. Then came "Somersby," but please. Richard Gere? We want a guy movie.

So you can imagine our excitement when we heard Hollywood was filming "Gods and Generals," the best-selling novel by Jeff Shaara, and it was seeking re-enactors to be extras.

A chance to be in a Civil War movie, complete with stars, makeup, pyrotechnics and body parts? Not to mention a chance to see Mira Sorvino? Huzzah!

We couldn't wait to sign up. After all, performing is what we do. Acting is at the center of re-enacting, the root of the word itself. And a re-enactment is outdoor theater on a large scale, complete with props, audience and curtain call.

So who better to serve as extras, or rather "background artists," than re-enactors, people who spend their free time studying the period inside and out?

Friends of mine were picked for Chancellorsville, Antietam and Fredericksburg battle scenes. One young kid, thin as a rail and barely shaving, was chosen to be a Virginia Military Institute cadet. My wife and son were tabbed to be civilians in three different scenes. I was picked for the First Manassas.

We were ready for our close-ups. But first there was a matter of waiting and more waiting.

Movie-making and the military have one thing in common: seconds of action come between long periods of boredom. All excitement and hopes for fame can be dashed early on.

My first day on the set began, as it did every day, at 5:30 a.m. Hundreds of re-enactors crawled out of their tents and made their way to the catering area for a quick breakfast. We waited until about 7 a.m. when we were transported about a mile away to "wardrobe," a small city of trailers, generators and portable toilets, where we stood for another hour.

Men in my group, all dressed in Union blue, had come from all over the country with the hopes of being burned onto film. But it wasn't to be this day. A production staffer came by, finally, and said, "Sorry fellas. We don't need any more Yankees today."

Great, I thought, I traveled hundreds of miles to sit in a tent all day. But then he announced, "If any of you have rebel uniforms, grab 'em. They need more Confederates."

Luckily I had packed just about every uniform I had, including an extra shell jacket which I lent to a newfound friend. He didn't want to sit around all day either. Together, we literally became turncoats, and set off to fight for the South.

The rush to the set was followed by (what else?) more waiting, this time for makeup and hair.

You've got to love Hollywood for its devotion to detail and authenticity. How does it achieve that? Why, through things that are false, of course.

You would be amazed at all the things on a movie set that are fake. Smoke is generated by machines.

Dead horses and corpses are, of course, fake, just dressed-up pillow dummies. Some cannons are cardboard; some muskets are foam rubber.

A ground explosion is a mixture of peat moss, cork and Portland cement, minus the boom; sound is added later.

OK, that's show biz. But what got me was that even the dirt is fake! Grime for hands and face comes from an aerosol can. Sweat is applied with a deodorant stick, and dirt is dusted on with a big, powderpuff bag.

But it's not just any old dirt. It's "Hollywood dirt." No kidding. It's a special kind of soil from California that supposedly sticks to clothing and shows on the camera better than ordinary dirt, or so they say.

Having been on a movie set and seen how the "magic" is made, I can't view another film in the same way. I can't help but think about the mechanics employed in making it; how lighting is used, how sound is added later in an editing room, how actors deliver their lines over and over, not to other actors, but to an emotionless camera.

The seconds of action filmed come between long tedious periods of preparation. And they aren't shot in chronological order but are filmed as the production schedule dictates. Scenes are filmed repeatedly from different angles, using different set arrangements to produce various illusions.

Our first scene was of a Confederate brigade running through the woods to redeploy. The scene was filmed about three or four times.

After running the path, we would hike back, rearrange the order of men, and reshoot, all to make the battalion appear larger.

The next scene was of us marching out of the woods and onto the field in battle formation. We did this repeatedly until about 6 p.m. That was it for the day.

Such is the glamour of movie-making: a 12-hour day filled with waiting in order to produce maybe two minutes' worth of film. It's enough to make you want to go home. Some did. But I stayed for four more days, and as promised, the work became more interesting.

It became especially interesting concerning safety, for making this movie required us to break most of the rules we use as re-enactors.

At an event, we never level the guns at the opposing side, but angle them to shoot over their heads. Not so for the camera. We never engage in mock hand-to-hand fighting; something could go wrong. But one scene required it.

And we never, ever fix bayonets while on the line, let alone charge down a hill with them as we had to do for several takes. I don't know who was more frightened, me or the poor Yankee I was running toward.

My one brush with fame involved running with a bayonet, but at that moment I was less concerned with a piece of pointed steel than I was about the horse that was chasing me.

The scene was the pivotal moment when Stonewall Jackson orders a charge to rout the Federal troops.

About halfway down the hill, which I had run down about nine times that day (a lot for a 41-year-old fat guy), I heard hoofbeats bearing down on me and "Old Jack" yelling, "On boys. Drive 'em. Drive 'em all the way to Washington!"

Now keep in mind, I'm tired, and I'm running with this pointed object that could seriously hurt somebody, namely me if I fall. And the period shoes I'm wearing don't have the best of traction. I sure wanted to stop.

On the other hand, I'm in front of the camera, which is no doubt focused on the star of the movie, who is riding this 1,000-pound beast that is galloping and snorting right behind me!

Fear is an amazing motivator.

Whether I was captured on film is anyone's guess.

But one thing's for sure: Stephen Lang makes an impressive Stonewall Jackson, with chestnut beard, old forage cap worn forward, and an intense stare that conveyed fearlessness. He was the man, and seeing him on horseback was a moment out of time.

But then, that's what we re-enactors live for: a period rush. It's that rare transcendent moment when you're so swept up in the action and emotion that you forget your surroundings and yourself.

History and the hobby merge, and for that instant, it is real. It's only a moment, but it sends a chill up your backbone.

One afternoon, about 300 re-enactors had a collective period rush, and it made the whole movie-making experience worth the effort.

We were filming the charge on Henry House Hill, standing in a battleline that stretched more than 100 yards over rolling field when Jackson came galloping up on Little Sorrel.

"Rise up! Rise up Virginia and give them volley! Then we'll give them the bayonet! And when you charge, you scream! Scream like the furies!"

At that moment, it was 1861 and the first time the rebel yell was heard in battle. We fired and waited for the command.

"Charge bayonet!"

A banshee screech filled the air as we raced forward. Nothing could hold us back. We were high on the moment.

We filmed that scene two more times, and each take was more emotional than the last. That concluded filming for that day, but the emotion would not disappear. Lang, sensing our enthusiasm, seized the moment and made an impromptu address as Jackson.

"Today we started the job. Tomorrow, by Divine Providence, we shall finish it together! All the way to Washington!"

He rode away with his hand held aloft as cheers of "Jackson, Jackson" echoed down the Shenandoah Valley, just as they had 140 years earlier. At that moment, we would have followed him. All the way to Washington.

The next day, my last day of filming, history visited the set in a different way.

Among the guests watching were Jackson's great-granddaughter and great-great-granddaughter.

That gave the endeavor a whole different meaning. It wasn't merely a film, but became a testament to an American icon. Here were descendants of the man himself, watching a dramatization of the moment that made him a legend. They were watching, in effect, their own family history played before them.

At the end of the day, I felt compelled to speak to them, realizing how important this must be for these ladies.

I stepped over the camera track and past the sound equipment, to an area I probably wasn't allowed to be in as an extra. But I didn't care. I took off my hat.

"Thank you for coming today," I said.

"Thank you," the older of the women said. "And thank you for being part of this."

It was my pleasure.

Will I see myself in this movie? Who knows? Will snooty critics from New York and Los Angeles like it?

Probably not. After all, the Civil War isn't very sexy. But who cares? It's a story that needs to be retold.

And hundreds of us helped to tell it.

We have a new movie. And this one's ours.

Richard Young is a page designer for The Herald.