We've all heard about people who suffer for their art. Normally, that doesn't apply to me. As an overpaid speaker, I talk for a living. That may be a little bit tougher than breathing for a living, but not much. As a writer, the closest I ever get to suffering is when I open my royalty statements.

However, when Bette Midler and I made "The Rose", suffering was part of the process. The film was a huge hit. You may have seen it. You may not remember me in it. Bette Midler and I made "The Rose" in the same sense that Warren Buffett and I invest in Apple. He's got $67 billion in it. I own a mutual fund that has a few Apple shares. Like Bette, Warren never consulted with me on the experience.

As for "The Rose", a friend of a friend worked for a movie studio and told us Bette Midler was performing in a film, and they needed an audience. Basically, we'd be paid for attending a concert. Why not?

So, we drove to Long Beach, land of dreams and enchantment. There, various movie types — much like actual people but with fancier jeans — crammed hundreds of us into the world's most uncomfortable bleachers. We were packed in so densely that if we hadn't been sweating on each other, we couldn't have moved at all.

Eventually, the director appeared on the make-shift stage and explained that — faceless horde that we were — we were nonetheless key to the success of the film. And as soon as our short scene was "in the can" — movie talk — a grateful Ms. Midler would be performing a concert just for us.

He ran us through our lines, such as they were: Cheer! Scream! Screech! Groan! Gasp! Repeat. And repeat. And repeat, as the bleachers grew ever more uncomfortable. Then he filmed us doing it. Interminably. The guy beside me said he'd spent four years studying acting at Juilliard. This was his first paid gig. ($15.) He did project professional-sounding, eardrum-shredding screeches. His gasps, however, seemed unfocused. Maybe he'd been out sick when they covered gasping.

I was pondering the possibility of a butt transplant, when the director finally brought out Bette. Genuine cheers and relief. Another reminder of the impending concert for motivation, a little more direction, then, "Action!" "The Rose" (Bette), drug-addled and confused, dies in front of a live audience (us).

Bette nailed it. First-rate. Not that playing drug-addled and confused is tough. Thousands of junkies do it believably every day. My guess is Juilliard doesn't even bother covering it. Or maybe Drug Addled and Confused shares a half day freshman year with Pretending to be Asleep.

Still, the director — the Raja of Repetition — had Bette do it again. And again. Forever. Maybe 80 takes. Each one slightly different from the one before, but basically all interchangeable. In the audience, we were in actual pain. I'd have left, but we were jammed in so tightly it was impossible. Plus, I wasn't sure my legs would move. A Hell's Angels type behind me muttered, "Any more takes and I'm killing her myself!"

Someone else suggested, "Murder the damn director!" That may have been me. The dying continued. Then suddenly the stage was empty. Many of us escaped the bleachers, but everyone waited for Bette to return and perform as promised. It never happened. Too bad they didn't need footage of an angry mob. It took three days before my legs functioned normally.

I just checked and, in the film, that death scene takes two minutes and sixteen seconds, including exactly two shots of the audience, lasting a total of nineteen seconds. The director was nominated for an Oscar. And while he might not have suffered for his art, the rest of us certainly did. Plus, the S.O.B. still owes me a concert.

Suggest stories or sign up for the Slightly Off-Kilter newsletter at www.barrymaher.com.

To find out more about Barry Maher and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

Photo credit: davide ragusa at Unsplash