There are shooting days when you move from scene to scene, rehearsal to rehearsal, take to take. And there are other days when you wait. For a long time. A very long time. Then, finally, you step onto the set, receive a rapid-fire series of directions, complete a small espionage mission in a matter of minutes and hear: “Good. We got it.” That is part of an actor’s job too.
A brief appearance in the world of Classé secret
I made a short appearance in Episode 7 of the second season of Classé secret, titled À gauche du boum. Directed by Stéphan Beaudoin and produced by Duo Productions, the series takes place in the murky world of Canadian intelligence, filled with double agents, state secrets, covert missions and characters whose loyalties are never entirely clear.
The cast includes Mélissa Désormeaux-Poulin, Paul Ahmarani, Andreas Apergis, Gabriel Arcand, Madeleine Péloquin, Leila Thibeault-Louchem and many other remarkable performers.
I played a spy with one very precise assignment: quietly infiltrate the offices of a major newspaper and slip a burner phone into the coat pocket of journalist Théo Dumont, played by Benoit Drouin-Germain. The phone would allow Jacques Thomassin, Paul Ahmarani’s character, to contact him without leaving an obvious trail.
A stealth mission. No dialogue. A few seconds on screen. And, as so often happens in this profession, considerably more work and precision than the length of the scene might suggest.
My call time was noon. By an interesting coincidence, that was also the first time I met Jean-René Moisan, a colleague I would work with several times afterward. He played Théo’s newsroom editor. During one of our later jobs together, I gave him that classic actor line: “I know you from somewhere, but I have no idea where.” We meet so many people on sets. We can somehow memorize pages and pages of dialogue, yet the names of colleagues we may have crossed paths with for a single scene can vanish completely. It took me a few days after meeting Jean-René again to realize that Classé secret was where we had first worked together.
Anyway… my call was at noon, and my scene was originally expected to shoot around 2:30 p.m.
True to form, I arrived at 10 a.m. I like being punctual. Extremely punctual. I have always preferred being one or two hours early to being one minute late. On a set, punctuality is not only about arriving at the stated time. You need time to find the entrance, check in, understand how the location works and settle in without anyone having to wonder where you are.
I introduced myself to the team, was shown to my holding room, settled in… and waited.
As the afternoon went on, I learned that the schedule had been reorganized. One actor needed to finish earlier because he was performing in a play that evening, so production moved several sequences around to accommodate him, including mine. No problem. That kind of adjustment is simply part of the reality of a film set. A shooting day is a huge living mechanism. You are constantly balancing actors’ availability, location changes, light, technical constraints and the unexpected things that inevitably happen. One change to the schedule sends a whole series of little ripples through everything else.
So I kept waiting…
Meditating instead of counting the minutes
I could have spent the afternoon watching the clock move. 2 p.m. 3 p.m. 4 p.m. 5 p.m. 6 p.m… But staring at a clock while you wait is probably the best possible way to make every minute feel three times longer.
So I decided to meditate.
For a good part of the afternoon, I stayed quietly in my room, breathing, clearing my head and conserving my energy. Rather than letting the wait make me heavy, I tried to use it to become more present. That decision ended up being very useful. At 6:45 p.m., after more than six hours on location, someone finally came to get me.
“Okay, Martin. You’re up.”
On the call sheet, my entire mission took up about an eighth of a page. Scene 17.38, in the offices of the fictional newspaper L’Autre Vérité: “Someone puts a cellphone in Théo’s pocket without his knowledge.” My character was number 451 and carried the wonderfully evocative name Homme au burner — essentially, the Burner Phone Man.
On paper, it was almost nothing. One line among the ten scenes scheduled that day. But that one line still required an office full of employees, a stack of paper, a coat, a phone, a camera and precise choreography so the action would remain visible to the audience while going unnoticed by the characters.
An avalanche of directions
When I arrived on set, director Stéphan Beaudoin quickly walked me through the scene. The basic idea sounded simple: I would pick up a stack of white paper and cross the office as though I were merely carrying it to a photocopier. I had to look completely ordinary. But alert. As soon as the employees had their backs turned, I would put down the paper, move toward a coat hanging at the far end of the office and quietly slip a phone into one of its pockets.
Stéphan then handed me the famous phone.
Then the directions became more specific. Go here. Then there. Around this desk. Around that person. Do not cross here because the camera loses you. Wait for this exact moment. Put the paper down here. Then move toward the coat. Slip the burner phone into the pocket. Leave naturally, without ever looking like you have just completed a covert operation.
“Got all that?”
Yes.
Fortunately, I had spent much of the afternoon meditating. I was rested, focused and completely present. I had listened to every instruction and could visualize the entire path in my head. The stack of paper. The movement of the other actors. The glances to avoid. The exact moment to put down the paper. The coat. The phone. The exit.
Everything was clear.
One take
The camera rolled. I entered the office carrying my stack of paper as though I had done it every day of my life. I followed the route. Waited for the right moment. Put down the pages. Quietly checked that nobody was watching. Then I went to the coat, slipped the phone into the pocket and left.
“Cut!”
The scene worked. One take.
The next shot was an insert, a much tighter frame focused only on the action. I simply had to approach the coat, place the phone in the pocket with my right hand so the camera could clearly see the movement, then leave.
Again: one take.
Afterward, two crew members gave me a thumbs-up, and one technician came over and quietly said:
“Wow, man… with all the directions he gave you, I thought we’d be doing four or five takes at least. You got everything and did it all perfectly the first time. Thanks — there are a few of us who really don’t feel like doing overtime today.”
I’ll admit it: that kind of comment feels good. Not only because it recognizes the work, but because it reminds me how important it is to be ready. Every minute counts on a set. One extra take involves the entire crew: camera, sound, lighting, continuity, directing, actors, background performers and technicians. Getting a scene quickly is therefore not only about giving a good performance. It is also about respecting everybody else’s time and work.
It all came down to intention
On screen, the scene is extremely short. I do not say a word. I simply appear to be carrying paper through a newsroom. Internally, however, my character is doing much more than walking across a room. He is watching the employees. Assessing risk. Waiting for an opening. He knows that one person looking at him a second too long could compromise the mission. The coat is hanging at the far end of the office. The phone has to go into its pocket. Nobody can notice the gesture.
So everything rests on intention. I have to be alert enough for the audience to sense that something is happening, yet natural enough that the people in the room suspect nothing. Too relaxed and the tension disappears. Too nervous and the spy immediately looks suspicious. The acting lives in that narrow space between the two: calm on the outside, vigilance on the inside.
And of course, even though the role lasted only a few moments, I still took the time to build a past for the character. A family. A way of walking. The same sort of work I would do if he were a much larger part of the series.
The episode title, À gauche du boum, evokes that same idea: acting before the explosion, in the space where everything still depends on anticipation, observation and prevention. My character was only a tiny cog in that machinery, but his small action helped move the entire plot.
Six hours for five minutes
I arrived at 10 a.m. I stepped onto the set around 6:45 p.m. A few minutes later, it was over. It was “in the can,” as the expression goes. So the day can be summarized fairly neatly: six hours and forty-five minutes of waiting for a few minutes of filming and a few seconds that survived the edit. But those few seconds are every bit as much a part of the profession as the hours spent in front of a camera.
Being an actor is not only about acting when the camera rolls. It is arriving prepared. Adapting to changes. Preserving your energy. Staying available. Listening carefully. And when someone finally opens the holding-room door and says, “You’re up,” being able to move instantly from waiting into action.
An entire afternoon to prepare. One take to complete the mission. Then the phone disappears into the coat pocket, the spy leaves, and the enormous machinery of production keeps moving.
Mission accomplished.
Production details
Series: Classé secret, Season 2
Episode 7: À gauche du boum
Role: Homme au burner / Burner Phone Man
Scene: 17.38
Filming: March 15, 2023, day 36 of 54
Director: Stéphan Beaudoin
Written by: François Pagé
Production: Duo Productions
Original air date: November 29, 2023 on addikTV
Episode available on: TVA+
