On the cab ride over to Caligari I start to get a little nervous. Perhaps nervous is strong; I think nervously excited is a better way to phrase it. Caligari is, of course, one of Toronto’s best-known and respected special effects makeup houses and my job today is to find out why.

I’m up for it too, believe me. I’ve been a fan of horror films and blood and guts and fun stuff like that ever since I was little. I used to marvel at films like American Werewolf in London, Hellraiser, and pretty much every zombie movie. Now, in the back of a cab, fully aware they are going to make my 23-year-old face into something completely unrecognizable, I quietly say to myself – God help me if this hurts. Not exactly the bravado I had expected from myself. I pay the cabby and enter Caligari not knowing what is to become of me.

Handling the chores of making this strapping young lad into some sort of monster are Caligari owner Louise Mackintosh and makeup artist (and believe me, artist applies) Russell Cate. The two have worked together doing prosthetic makeup for nearly a decade.

Comforted by the fact that these folks are professionals, I climb into the makeup chair. I take a quick look at what Mackintosh calls her ‘instruments of torture.’ It is pretty much what I expected: a few paint brushes, silicone noses, a box of Q-Tips, a bottle of medical adhesive. Wait. Medical adhesive? That can’t be good. As I slowly look up to check out my expression in the mirror, I see Cate and Mackintosh standing behind me, Mackintosh grinning devilishly.

‘We’re going to have some fun today,’ she says.

The first thing the artists do is slick down my hair (I actually got a long overdue haircut for the occasion). They then apply a silicone skull cap that reaches from the crown of my head to just below my eyebrows. A light glue is applied to my hair and around the edges of the cap, which is soon patted down with care. The artists move away and I have already aged about 30 years.

One of Caligari’s specialties is aging its actors. Mackintosh reports that when Saturday Night Live’s Tim Meadows was in town filming The Ladies Man, she had to substantially age the comedian for a scene and says it worked very well.

The Ladies Man was a one-day job, the type of assignment Mackintosh enjoys. However, on another recent feature shot in Toronto, Bless the Child, Caligari was responsible for special makeup throughout much of the production.

‘We were called in to do tattoos and scarring on people and we were there for the duration,’ she says, adding that she enjoys feeling a part of the action. ‘You get to know everyone and there is camaraderie. Those are good in their own way.’

Cate applies a small silicone piece under my left eye. Mackintosh does the same on my right side. I have my eyes shut for most of this episode, which is strange. It’s kind of like being mildly conscious during surgery, I imagine. When I open my eyes and look at my reflection – BAM! – instantly another 20 years. I begin to try to figure out who I look like but cannot – not yet, anyway.

Wrinkled and weathered

Mackintosh tells me Caligari has been using self-stick silicone since 1996 on projects like Cube and the Goosebumps series.

‘There is foam latex which is the standard in the industry and it has actually been improving over the last few years,’ she says, explaining how different materials are used for different projects. As far as Mackintosh is concerned, though, ‘Silicone mimics human skin the best.’ That’s what they are using on me. She adds, as an afterthought, ‘Some people’s skin can react if you have to put it in prosthetics all the time. It can be hard on the skin.’ I reflect on her words as they apply the nose piece.

Once it’s fastened, I take a good hard look at myself in the mirror. I finally figure out who I remind myself of.

‘Good God, I look like Telly Savalas,’ I say in horror, gazing at my silicone bald head, eye bags and big honkin’ nose. You don’t know the meaning of terror until you look at yourself and see Kojak staring back at you.

They apply a silicone neck piece to make my neck appear wrinkled and weathered. Add 20 more years folks, if you’re keeping score. Staring at my new self, I realize I have forgotten what I really look like. The only thing still familiar about me is my damn smile. I can’t stop smiling, half out of amazement at the sight of myself, and half because I am having so much fun.

But Mackintosh and Cate are barely even warmed up.

As they start to add some much-needed liver spots, bushy eyebrows and extended earlobes, I try to discuss some of my favorite horror movies with the pair, in keeping with the situation. Mackintosh, speaking for herself, says that although she enjoys a good slasher flick, she isn’t accustomed to making a beeline for the horror section at her local video store. However, when she is working, she admits nothing gets her creative juices flowing more than working in the grotesque.

‘The ones with the blood and the gore,’ she says. ‘I hate to admit it, but I kind of find those more fun.’ There’s that devilish smile again. ‘The ones where there are limbs missing – the dirty work. It’s fun and exciting and everyone on set is going ‘Eeeeewww, gross’ – those are the fun jobs.’

Man without a face

Not to give the wrong impression about Caligari. The folks there have worked on a number of projects that don’t involve blood, guts or severed limbs in any way. Caligari has worked on such projects as The Two of Us, the mow about a fictional meeting between John Lennon and Paul McCartney.

As Cate fixes me up with some gray, stringy hair to combat my sideburns, I ask Mackintosh about George Romero, whom Caligari recently helped out with his new film Bruiser.

‘This thing with Romero was quite a challenge because he wasn’t sure what he wanted to see,’ she says. ‘He said, ‘I want the guy to have no face,’ and I said, ‘What do you mean by that?’ He said, ‘I don’t know.’ ‘

Mackintosh says after reading the script a number of times, and even giving Romero some whipped cream to try and sculpt the face he wanted, Caligari came up with one faceless face – and then another one he liked.

‘We didn’t want to have ‘No Face’ from the Dick Tracy movie,’ she says. ‘We went to camera with something he liked and started filming. Then two or three days into filming he said, ‘You know what guys? I think your original idea was better. If we stop now how long do you think it will take to get it back?’ ‘

Mackintosh laughs as she recounts the process of getting the original face they had worked on back and says, ‘Bruiser was a challenge because it was not a lot of time and there was not a lot of money…’.

So here I am – staring into a mirror at a complete stranger. A bald head, sad and tired old eyes, a huge nose, long earlobes, a gray frizzy hair style that wraps around my head like a horseshoe, liver-spots, a gray tuft of chin hair – and now it is time – time to get my devil horns. I feel so proud, like I am graduating from some surreal university – or a wax museum in Niagara Falls. As they apply them, I sigh. I am complete.

Taking it to the streets

As any guy who looks like a devil should, I venture out onto the streets to meet and greet the damned of Toronto. And like any true devil, I take a sign which reads ‘Your Mediocrity Sickens Me.’ Sadly, the streets are empty, except for one lady walking her dog. She doesn’t look impressed by my appearance, and looks even less impressed when she reads my sign. But I don’t care. I’m the devil, dammit, and I feel like a new man. It is a truly defining moment of my life – and sadly, ‘moment’ is the key word. After a few quick snapshots, I am quickly whisked back into the chair and my new identity is stripped from me.

I am a little disappointed as my makeup comes off. I can’t explain why – I mean I am happy to see myself again, but I feel that without my makeup there is a part of me missing that I never really got a chance to explore. So don’t be surprised if somewhere on the darkest street corner in Toronto you see a little man with homemade devil-horns, wielding a sign and screaming like a maniac. Don’t be frightened either. It’s only me.