This Old-School Pizzeria Stays Open by Playing Itself on TV

Sam’s Restaurant, a 94-year-old red-sauce joint in Cobble Hill, Brooklyn, was uncharacteristically full of life. Serious-looking women in peacoats and laminated badges typed frantically on laptops. Carhartt-clad carpenters straightened picture frames and other period-appropriate props, all jangling carabiners and nervous energy. For the past week, dozens of people had been working to turn Sam’s into a believable replica of an Italian American social club during the Great Depression.

And even though this was the 59th time that a film crew had descended on Sam’s to turn it into an idealized version of its former self, this was also the biggest-budget production to ever do so. In fact, by half past 8 in the morning on that recent Friday, more people were inside the restaurant’s wood-paneled dining room than had been for a long time — perhaps since the actual 1930s.

The only person there with no obvious task was Louis Migliaccio. “I’m here to make things easy,” he said to an electrician who was standing on top of a ladder and trying to focus on removing a period-incorrect exit sign. “I can’t just sit here doing nothing.”

Although Mr. Migliaccio made it clear that he was not afraid to get his hands dirty, no one seemed to need his help. So instead, the 67-year-old did what he normally would as the proprietor of a restaurant that now practically seems to exist to play itself in movies: He headed outside for a smoke and a survey of the street.

Up came a white-haired couple in matching puffer jackets; they had lived in the neighborhood for decades. The man was gesticulating like a character from “The Sopranos,” clearly relishing the chance to pal around with his authentically Italian American neighbor. But Mr. Migliaccio was circumspect and did not mention the production happening inside, or that “The Bride!” would feature A-listers like Christian Bale and Penélope Cruz. He was being paid $85,000 for use of his restaurant, and he considered protecting the actors’ privacy part of the gig — kind of like an on-set omertà.

Just a few feet away from Mr. Migliaccio, extras with heavily contoured makeup and double-breasted pinstriped suits were lining up outside. The woman couldn’t help but notice them. She wanted to know: “Are you going to be in the picture, too, Louis?”