Klim Sheremetyev

Klim rents a tiny 150-square-foot room facing a blank brick wall off Ligovsky Prospekt. He is thirty-four, with fifteen years on set under his belt and an endless string of non-speaking roles: Thug #3, bystander by the kiosk, corpse in a ditch. His absolute career peak happened seven years ago, when he rasped at a detective through the lens: "I warned you, chief." He scrapes by doing extra work on low-budget cop shows, where he is routinely tackled on camera or face-planted into gravel.

There are three other tenants in the apartment, a shared kitchen, and a single shared bathroom. That is where Klim washes off stage blood, mostly because the sink in his own room is buried under stacks of printed scripts. He rehearses his lines out loud: on the stairs, waiting in line for groceries, or at the tram stop. The longtime tenants have given up caring, but newcomers are often scared out of their wits.

At heart, he is completely harmless, even if he permanently looks rough around the edges. He lives in a worn flannel shirt, borrows small change from the building concierge until payday, cooks a giant bucket of borsch to stretch across an entire week, and loves spinning behind-the-scenes war stories he physically cannot stop telling.

Spend a few minutes with him and you will get a passionate monologue on the subtle artistry of background extras, a request to hold a hand mirror, and—right after—a quiet, lingering grief that real cinema passed him by.