Reality Bites

On my first paid acting gig, I earned £50 for a full day working on a “TV pilot”. It sounded exciting – six characters living in trendy Hoxton. We’d be filming all day. Sure £50 wasn’t a lot, but there was the hope that future work, at Equity rates, would be forthcoming.

Unfortunately, when I turned up I realized we were being paid to do the writer/director’s work for him. He had no script, no plot – just the idea for some characters based on his friends. He wanted us to improvise as these “characters” all day. I wondered if we’d get paid wages for writing as well as acting. He didn’t even have the characters flushed out beyond a two-sentence description.

He was some rich guy that invented a technology for creating customized jeans and apparently he now had some money to burn. I had to give him credit, at least he was paying the actors something, but it seemed wrong somehow for us to do all the creative work for him in exchange for less money than a house cleaner’s wages.

So I spent the day dealing with a loud actor whose idea of improvising was to make lewd remarks to the female characters and laugh at his own jokes, and other actors who ranged from befuddled to obnoxious.

After this experience, I was a bit skeptical when my agent told me that she had an audition lined up for another show. But I checked the details she’d emailed to me. This one was for real. It was already commissioned by Channel 4 and it was being produced by Endemol. I re-read the e-mail. This could be it – THE break.

I got up early on the day of the audition and did a little warm up at home. I tried to get in the right mental state. I visualized.

I was greeted at Conway Hall by two production assistants: one who gave me a contract to look over and showed me to the craft services table, and one who sat behind a desk, looking trendy.

I was trying to mentally prepare, but I had to take care of business so I read through the contract. The audition was going to be filmed (standard) and I had to agree that they could use any of it in the final broadcast. (Was this going to be like American Idol?) For the use of my audition material, I had to agree that £1 was fair and equitable pay. Yes, right there in the contract I had to agree that the value of my time was £1 per day. I’m sure I could earn more begging on a street corner. In fact, I could probably just find more on the sidewalk if I looked around for a few hours. But that’s not as glamorous as auditioning for Channel 4.

Furthermore, they would not disclose anything about the show: the name, the genre, the format. It was “highly unique” and had “never been done”. Everything’s been done. But what could I do? Here I had a chance to audition for what could be a big break, not to mention a real paying gig.

I walked into the audition room. It was a large theatre space. All the chairs had been cleared out, making the stage look like a gymnasium with a stage. The audition panel sat behind a big, long desk, Flashdance style. The event was being filmed by two cameras at different angles. The panel asked me some questions then had me do a few improv exercises. They laughed at first (a good thing) but mid-way through I was sure I’d misunderstood the instructions and I basically threw a theatrical air ball. I hoped for mercy.

“Am I supposed to keep going,” I asked. I wasn’t sure if they were going to call scene or if I should carry on ad infinitum. I noticed a third camera aiming down from the catwalk. Great.

There was an afternoon group session as well. I felt I really redeemed myself and performed better than most, but in my gut I knew it wouldn’t be enough.

For weeks, I was haunted by images of my horrible audition being used in ads for the show, like the American Idol parade of idiots. They could slice and dice my audition in editing and make it look even worse! I’d have to ask all my friends to keep their TVs off for a week…or plan a last-minute group holiday – to somewhere remote – and invite everyone I knew.

When the show finally aired, I was relieved they didn’t use anyone’s audition material. I was not disappointed about not getting the gig, as the show was a horrible reality show where the actors trick the “real” people into thinking they’ve gone into space. The show, like the contract, was laughable – and not in a good way.

I never did get my £1.

Back to School

Every few months, an actor needs to put something new on her résumé to show she’s been active, engaged in the industry and is thus employable, i.e. not a lazy couch-surfing wannabe who’s hoping for her big break to fly through the window.

I was well overdue for a résumé refresh, but short on time, so I signed up for a few one-day courses at City Lit. An interview was required to get a space so I assumed the class standard would be high.

The first course was called Casting Day. In the morning session, we met with two agents who covered basics like headshots, not paying up-front fees, always keeping your agent apprised of your schedule, etc. They also said to be aware of your “type” because all of your early career work will be “with type”. One of the class members, who had a thick Italian accent, launched into a half-hour debate about how she didn’t want to be pigeon-holed and that she should be considered for the part of, say, an English housewife. The agents couldn’t seem to make clear to her that the show’s writers would then need to alter the script to explain how an Italian immigrant ended up in Cornwall married to a local fisherman. After awhile, the rest of the class gave up hope of having any time left to get their questions answered. We were all just watching the clock in anticipation of our lunch break.

The afternoon session was run by two casting directors who gave a handful of helpful tips. They confirmed my suspicion that audition monologues are only needed for drama school and The Actors’ Centre and occasionally for getting an agent. (Thank goodness because my monologues are getting seriously rusty.)

The casting directors emphasized that you need to be passionate about your chosen career. Bizarrely, a couple of people in class argued this point, again eating into class time with pointless polemics. As it’s not polite to blurt out “YOU’RE WASTING EVERYONE’S TIME”, the rest of us just thought it instead.

The other course I took was Acting for the Camera. We did various exercises focusing on precise repetition of movements, hitting marks, etc. Then we did an Uta Hagen exercise in which you do an activity for two minutes that you would normally do alone at home. The focus was on specific movements, making it look natural, etc. Even in doing two minutes of “nothing”, there is something going on. For instance, we could often infer what time of day it was, whether the person lived alone and what their relationship was with the objects around them (all without any dialogue from the actor).

We all had our two minutes of stage time followed by 10 minutes of discussion about the two minutes. I thought I did pretty well, but nevertheless got a few notes from the teacher. One of the girls, apparently in her first ever acting class, took 20 minutes for her two-minute scene. Worse, she sang along to two stanzas of some insipid song on infinite repeat. I thought about sending the recording to Guantánamo – I know I was ready to confess anything to make the music stop. Later, she happily declared she’d written the song. Eee-gads.

As we worked throughout the day, I started thinking about the tedious parts of acting for the camera. So much of this business is so technical. Could I really be passionate about it?

Towards the end of the class the rookie actually asked the teacher “so, do you think I can act?” The teacher replied with as nice of a non-answer as anyone could muster, but it was enough encouragement for the rookie who declared “well, acting’s not as hard as I thought it would be”. No one seemed willing to burst her bubble.

My bubble has been burst many times, but every so often a little hope is breathed back into it. Like when, after class, the teacher asked me to stay behind. She wanted to explain that she gives really positive feedback to the beginners but always gives more critique to her best students, and that I was one of the latter. I floated out of class.

I might not have learned all that much in those classes, but I got a bit of the passion back, and that was enough.

Six Days Seven Nights

Everyone knows the only way to get a tan without causing wrinkles is to use self tanner. So being in an ageist industry and having a Nicole-Kidman-like pallor, I naturally chose this route to becoming a bronzed summer beauty (as advertised on the bottle).

Shortly after the first appearance of the British sun, when most of the population had pink-tinged skin from their annual first-burn-of-the-season ritual, I decided to try the new L’Oréal self-tanning spray. It would give me enough time to build up a nice color before my date with Marcus the following week.

Self-Tanning Mission – Day 1
“Not too much,” I warned Cheri who had volunteered to spray my back. “The can says if you feel wetness, it’s too much.”

“Relax,” she said, “what’s the worst that could happen?”

Visions of her blonde yarmulke rushed to my head. “Okay, but not too much on my lower back. I don’t want it to drip down and look like, well, you know…”

She finished my back and relinquished the can so I could spray my arms and legs – up the arms and down the legs as per the instructions. After standing in a squatty body builder pose to let the stuff dry, I got dressed and waited for the magic to happen.

Self-Tanning Mission – Day 2
Surprise! I had so many stripes I could audition for a part in the London Zoo. I unsuccessfully tried to shower some of the color off, and then went for a long run – long enough to get a bright red sunburn on my shoulders.

Self-Tanning Mission – Night 2
“Okay, this should be simple. Just point the spray can and fill in the gaps,” I thought. I did the body builder thing, then went to bed.

Self-Tanning Mission – Day 3
Impossibly, the “tan” was now 10 times worse. I looked like I had a skin disease. Luckily, I thought, my calves were okay and lower arms were passable with judicious use of bracelets as distraction.

As soon as I got to the office, I noticed a brown spot on my ankle. Then I noticed the inside of my calves was much whiter than the outside. I had to keep finding excuses to use the elevator (best mirror in the building) so I could see how the different spots were developing throughout the day.

I rode home on the tube and tried extra hard to avoid eye contact with anyone. As I walked toward the exit, I heard people laughing behind me. I was sure they had spotted my multi-colored calves and were snickering. I half expected Marcus to be there when I turned around to check. But he wasn’t, and they weren’t laughing at me.

Self-Tanning Mission – Day 4
My self tan wasn’t fading, and I was running out of long-sleeve tops. In desperation, I looked up “self-tan disaster” on a search engine and found they now have products specifically made for situations like this.

I sped to SuperDrug and grabbed a foaming can of disaster relief, and a Nivea self-tan wipe. I figured it would help fill in the gaps.

Self-Tanning Mission – Day 5
I was now two tones of fake tan, white in patches and red in the shoulders. I’d gone from pinstripe suit to patchwork quilt.

I ran to Topshop and bought three more long-sleeve tops.

Self-Tanning Mission – Day 6
I was seeing Marcus the next day, so I had to get my skin back to semi-normal. I decided to get a professional spray tan to get a darker color sprayed all over. I found a little place off Regent Street that would hose me down with golden brown after work.

I walked out feeling covered in grease and hoped no one would sit next to me on the number 19 home. The color seemed even, except my ankles. But when I got home I noticed the liquid had adhered to the root of every hair on my arms and seemed to collect in every pore on my body. I looked like a George Seurat painting.

A few showers before tomorrow ought to do the trick.

Self-Tanning Mission – Night 7
Just when I got the color evened out enough to be seen in public, Marcus called to cancel.

Splash

When London’s summer finally arrives, a shared joy spreads across the city. Moods are improved and people are friendlier and less hurried. Bars and pubs from Angel to Soho to Clapham have people spilling out of them onto the sidewalks and streets, taking the rare opportunity to enjoy a pint in the great outdoors.

When it gets too hot however, trouble begins. Bus rides become sticky and getting on the tube is like stepping into a high school weight room: stale heavy air tinged with the smell of fresh sweat. The city isn’t equipped for extreme heat – most flats don’t have air conditioning and even the cinemas and grocery stores can’t quite crank it up high enough to provide respite for the masses.

It was in these conditions that I set off for my first audition with the BBC: Crime Watch. I was told I’d be auditioning for the part of the victim and, as I have an American accent, I assumed either the vic was American too, or the role was non-speaking. I thought they’d just show me being shoved into a car or something – piece of cake. I can get shoved with the best of them.

I like to arrive at an audition the standard 15 minutes early. This gives me the chance to get a look at the script (often not provided in advance). If I get there too early, there’s a chance I’ll get called in before my appointment, negating the benefit of early arrival. So when I realized the Central line had “severe delays” due to God knows what weather-related excuse, I decided to jump in a taxi to White City.

I made it to the audition early as planned, only to find out that it was a group audition and everyone else was late due to the tube delays. Plus, they weren’t handing out scripts.

As I sat in the waiting area with nothing to do but delete old text messages from my mobile, in walked what I ascertained to be my competition: blonde hair, pale skin, similar height. She was a bit plump but that might have been a good for the part – you never know.

We had a friendly chat as we waited for the others to arrive. I found out she lived in Brighton and made the long trek to London very time she had an audition. I went to the water cooler for a drink and offered to get her one too. When I brought back our cups of water, she seemed more distant. Mental preparations for the audition, I assumed.

Then I sat down. In a puddle.

“Oh my God, this chair is wet!”

“Is it?”

“Yeah, I was just sitting here. It wasn’t wet before—”

“Well maybe you were only sitting on the edge.”

“I don’t think so…” I spied the half-empty cups on the table from the morning casting session. “Well good thing this skirt dries quickly.”

I knew it would because the last time I had worn it, I got soaked on my way to the Royal Albert Hall and had to stand under the bathroom dryer before the show so I wouldn’t be sitting in a puddle for two hours while trying to enjoy Romeo & Juliet as a ballet.

I moved to stand by the wall and madly flapped my skirt dry. “That fat Brighton bitch won’t get the better of me,” I thought.

Finally the two guys in my audition group turned up. As we walked into the audition room, I knew I would not get the part. With my modest Kenneth Cole heels on, I was about 5 inches taller than both of the guys. It’s not very victim-like, on TV anyway, to tower over your attacker.

At least I went into the audition with a dry skirt – and a clear conscience.