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Posts Tagged ‘acting’
and so it goes
I’ve been downgraded.
I got really jazzed as friends alerted me of the commercial broadcast. It’s the first union gig I’ve had and I was dreaming of romantic things like “bill payment” and “eliminating debt.” Each airing was another dollar in my pocket.
Nope. I’ll be receiving an amount equivalent to another session rate. When a budget is pre-determined and actors are intentionally edited to be unrecognizable or out of shot, SAG jumps in and downgrades your performance to eliminate those tasty residuals.
But I’ve gotten over it, and there will other commercials where I’m featured and paid many monies for delivering awkward copy. Plus, I’ve updated my headshot to ensure the utmost cast-ability. Because it’s quantity over quality in my book, and I bet this change in appearance will land me a lot of gigs. This lack of face can sell anything.
C U on the TV
Holy balls I booked the phone commercial.
up and down dates
So apparently I throw a mean fake snowball.
Today, on my day off, I did things like eat diner food, make a mess of a painting for my friend’s wedding present, and not show up for a callback.
What? No, you said it was Tuesday. Today?! I was under the impression that it was Tuesday. “They really want to see me?” Yeah, I thought it was tomorrow and I would have reserved a car… Okay, I’ll be there as soon as I can… Shit.
I felt myself turning into a superhero as I changed from the smelly ‘ol me to “The Girlfriend.” I imagined a bionic A-Team soundtrack playing as I:
Checked my balance to see if reserving a ZipCar would overdraw the account. Hopped in and out of shower. Donned pants and undies. Put shit in hair to tame mane to accomplish the Girlfriend-Do. Reserved ZipCar. Why am I doing this topless? Put on shirt. Got my hair did. This hairdryer is very near death and hazardous. Didn’t catch on fire. Cursed at the fact that I was positive the appointment was for tomorrow. Realized the closest ZipCar is half a mile away. Shook fist in air. Checked calendar to prove that I wrote down Tuesday and not Monday. Patted self on back and gloated to no one. Biked to ZipCar… Which is in a parking garage with apparently no entrance. Found the entrance. Sat in traffic and arrived at casting agency.
In the waiting room are (again) the “Real People.” Real people with interesting talents or stories. And who like to dress like cowboys and tote around guitars, apparently.
I checked in an hour and a half after my call time and noticed I’m amongst a group of Reals. There was a woman who eyed me carrying my head shot.
“We were supposed to bring head shots?”
“You’re fine. I was supposed to be here earlier. There was a mix up.”
This attempt to calm her fears wasn’t good enough. I could tell by her tone that this Real Woman probably has a head shot and wants to be an Actress, not a Real Woman. She should realize she should not only always have her head shot on her at all times, but she should be able to whip it out like a dove from a magician’s coat sleeve. Or just dress like a cowboy.
The casting director came out, saw me and apologized to the Reals for the delay.
“You all just have such interesting stories,” she said as she pulled me into the room before the others.
She excused me by jokingly saying, “She’s an actor, she’s not a real person.” I’m starting to enjoy this joke if it gets me to the front of the line.
I got into the room and realized there’s no scene partner. I’m supposed to have a snowball fight, what the hell? Then the director just asked me about myself.
Acting background? Improv and comedy.
Do you do drama? Shit… I can do drama, why didn’t I say drama? Yes, improv gives you the tools I need to just respond to the scene regardless of if it’s comedy or drama. What are you, writing a thesis?
So, you just do stage? Where are they getting this? Oh, the fact that I have no screen experience listed on my resume… No, not just stage, I do anything. Shit… I’ve done screen stuff, right? Short films in college? I’ve done some short films. Don’t mention that you booked a commercial. That’s totally not important. I normally did stuff behind the camera. WHAT ARE YOU SAYING?! YOU WANT TO ACT IN FRONT OF THE CAMERA! IN FRONT!
I started a theater company. Good! We’ve been around a year. Who cares?! Yeah, I don’t act specifically for stage, I just do what it takes to pay the bills with acting… Does that sound weird? You wanted to say, “Does that sound desperate.” Good save, dummy. Now stand there awkwardly until they dismiss you.
Aaaaand, thanks for your time.
Real (Now Self-Proclaimed Nosey) Woman saw me come out of the room after being in there for only about 3 minutes. She was either nervous for me or herself, I couldn’t tell.
“That was fast… You weren’t in there long at all.”
“Yeah, they just needed to see me. It’s for something different from what you’re doing.”
“Sorry I’m being so nosey,” she catches herself.
“No worries. It’s just for something different.”
I started driving home. Pissed that I was thrown by the non-traditional callback. I even called my agent to make I missed something from not being at the the earlier call. “No, another actress said that it was stranger than most.” Okay, I felt better. I tried to shake it off as I sat in traffic again. It’s just an audition.
Ten minutes later, still stuck in traffic, the phone rings again. The Agent tells me they’d like to see me again tomorrow. They really liked me.
What does this mean? My bank account is screaming and my hopes are up and I have to finish this wedding present by Saturday and work at the Computer Store tomorrow and go to a rehearsal tonight and find out Tupperware is possibly doing a run at a great theater come holiday time and I’m so in debt, I’m so fucking in debt and and and… They LIKED me and I have no idea what I did? What the fuck did I do?!
Deep breath. They either will like me or not. Deep breath. Don’t get any hopes up. DON’T. Let’s see how tomorrow goes and later worry about how to feasibly ask off work if this is actually booked. I hate writing about shit that might not happen, but it’s all the brain thinks about sometimes.
beer me
Well, no callback for Dove.
Guess I’m not attractive enough to be real, too normal enough to be quirky, or uh… too concerned with her appearance to be natural? Dunno. Lucky for my wavering self-esteem I don’t dwell too much on commercial auditions since your look is judged in three lines of dialogue. Just give me the opportunity to make you hate me more. I swear I can do a lot of damage in 25 seconds. Three is too little.
Tomorrow is Miller Lite. Ah, beer commercials. Where men are allowed to be fat n’ funny and women (obviously attractive, but less superior to water-booze) wonder why their men like their alcoholic beverage more than the relationship. It’s really quite obvious, ladies. Your relationship is awful because he’s just not into you and you can read a book to verify that insecurity. He’s more into fucking a beer bottle than having sex with you because you won’t let him do it in the butt. Now we know you drunkenly promised him otherwise if buys you that chocolate lab, but you have to come to terms that dog does not replace the fact that you want children and he prefers to put his weenie in a bottle.
At least this is the subtext I’m bringing to the audition tomorrow.
beauty: real talk (or) fuh realz
I did an audition for Dove today.
It’s one of those “Real Beauty” campaigns where “real women” are featured as the actors. For real.
[Optional Rant Read: Yes, beauty standards for women in this country are obscene...Girls, fo'gettaboutit, it's at a point where idols are born out of the womb with belly shirts and navel rings, sexualized as the sexy sexy zygotes they are. Women are unable to age in the public eye without inflating their lips--like a tree, their age is measured in lip circumference--and eliminate unnecessary expressions with Botox like "happiness", "anger", or "OHMYGODABEARISEATINGMYFACE!!" While men on the other hand (she says, stepping on the second tier of her soapbox, bra and lighter poised for fire-magic), can age gracefully, shifting into character roles like Rumplestiltskin or Tom Brokaw.
Models are only models after hours of prep work, a 40: 1 ratio of shit:keeper, and an army of airbrushers. I know this because me and Tyra Banks are BFFs and ANTM is [insert text-speak equivalent of "cool."] The adjective “beautiful” seems to be saved for brides and red carpet celebrities and princess parties (which I do admit are really fun). I’m slightly ashamed that I subconsciously avoid using the word “beautiful” intentionally and instead say or hear my appearance described as “sassy”, “hot” or “cute.” All wonderful words, kind, complimentary words, but WHAT HAVE WE DONE TO OUR SELF IMAGES TO REJECT CALLING OURSELVES BEAUTIFUL AT ALL COSTS?!… Eh, you can read all of this on the liner notes of an Ani DiFranco album, you get the picture.]
So back to the day.
There were women with head shots and then there were women without sitting in the waiting room. The women with head shots went into one room and sang behind the closed doors, the other women brought their moms and sisters and were wearing more comfortable shoes.
“Okay, who here are my ‘real women’?” the casting director asked and separated the lot of us. Regular Women do not make their living as actors, apparently. In her defense, the casting director did come out after the audition and said, “Okay, I know that sounded stupid.”
Real Women are still commercially attractive. If god forbid this Real Woman is not completely symmetrical in her bone structure (which can be changed and shaped at an early age, so let’s keep that in mind, mothers who say you love your daughters), her look is considered “unique”–it’s different than normal, average, homely, handsome, freakish, or ugly. Real Women can sing, often quite well, even professionally maybe if you gave them twelve bars in an upbeat tempo. Real women are friends with their mothers and/or sisters and find comfort in bounding around in their undies together. Real women are real. Unless they are actors, and then, well… uh… quick, look at their boobies!
Also, don’t get me wrong. I’d love to get a SAG gig and run around in my underwear* promoting the idea that society’s image of beauty is skewed and we need to educate and talk to our daughters before MTV sucks the self esteem out of them. But it’s still the TeeVees. It’s still the Hollywoods. And that’s okay. Because these Super Real Women are nice people and we like them. Unless they’re not nice people and then we hate them, which we tend to do by default anyway because we actually hate ourselves.
For real.
*We were not told how much (if any) under-wearing will occur in this particular ad campaign.
self-serving propaganda about the arts and how society should buy us dinner
We had a talk-back session after tonight’s Tupperware for the League of Chicago Theaters.
They have a “Theater Thursday” and we put out sandwiches in turn for them coming to see our show and stay to ask us questions at the end. Our company can talk about ourselves for hours.
One of the final conversations revolved around “Yes, we all have day jobs,” and it was phrased as this–the production and acting in general–is “play time.” It was thought of as what we do for fun. And I just find this so interesting, this concept of this being just a hobby rather than such a hard career to make a living at that it’s just thought of as “fun.” (Click on Lacy’s blog for great insights on this. She’s doing what I strive to do. She makes a living being an actor and is constantly either involved in a production, or going out on auditions, studying lines, etc. It’s terribly difficult to do, and she fucking works her ass off to be where she is and… Oh, sorry… I have a little professional actor crush on Lacy, so I get a little carried away… Lacy’s cool. Go read her shit and see her shows and some junk.)
ANYWAY. I had to hold myself back from weeping at this audience member since I constantly (and delightfully bitterly) obsess over this in my head day in and day out. A doctor gets to be a doctor. A cop gets to be a cop. An accountant gets to be an accountant. This is their career and passion. They get to do this as their job. These people are not going to do surgery after they get home from another job. They don’t work 40 hours a week waiting tables and then go off to arrest people because it’s “FUN.”
I guess if it’s easy then everyone would do it, but I shake my fist in the air a lot at the fact that I have to waste 40 hours a week rather than working on THE ART. ”Can you imagine how good this show would be if we
got to do this for 40 hours a week?” Danny said back to the audience member after I went on a 20 minute rant about starving artistry. Yes. Can you imagine.
Same rant as always. We’re all pursuing what we love in the nooks and crannies of our other lives. And it will hopefully be our full-time lives in the future with the hard work we put in now. This is particularly tough
as of late because I didn’t get the position I interviewed for at my current job (after my position was “renamed”) and I will now have to go back to the sales floor. My goal, if it is in Day Job World, is to avoid being unhappy for 40 hours a week. I will see how I can alter my emotions in order to come to terms with
this predicament.
Man, where’d all my funny posts go? I was funny when I had no job and had time to focus on my ar–HEY, WAIT A SECOND…
I’ll write the next thing off the soapbox:
I have a callback tomorrow where I get to smear pudding on my face. That’s just how good the product is. Smear it on your face good. Take that, Yogurt-Ad-Girls. If there’s one thing I do well, it’s heightening something messy.
Take this photo from circa 2003 that I sent to Amy Sedaris in a fan letter, for example.
biznazz
If I can implore you to support live theater this weekend or next, or next, or next, I would like to invite you to Tupperware. Because the theater’s really far the fuck out there and it’s a shame that we forget it’s summertime and distances are easily bikeable. I, for instance, spend my days protesting storefront theaters with poo-poo thumbs down thumbs and throw eggs at Steppenwolf. I am wrong. Don’t be like me.
Ignore the can’t-capture-live-theater-in-a-posed-press-photo:
We got a real bright future:
And hear our piece on Chicago Public Radio.
type cast as awkward
I haven’t booked enough of anything to feel quite comfortable popping in my agent’s office, but go out on enough auditions and callbacks to feel like I should stop in and say hello. That’s what actors do, right? They send chocolate or flowers or chocolate-covered flowers and then become rich and famous?
The office itself is set up like a doctor’s office with a waiting area and a window, so if you’re like me, you feel that’s the necessary porthole through which you must speak.
THERE IS NO OTHER WAY THAT SOUND CAN BE TRANSFERRED.
I’m just dropping off my new head shot.
YOU MUST SPEAK THROUGH THE WINDOW.
See? Head. Shot.
I CANNOT HEAR YOU UNLESS YOU SPEAK THROUGH THE WINDOW.
It’s like they’re in prison and they have to pick up the phone to talk to their actors. To the right is a door, a welcoming, open door that anyone can walk through to say hello. There have been numerous times that I’ve stood frozen, directly to the left of the window unsure of how to say, “Hi, friendly people who get paid a cut each time I book something and therefore are automatically pleasant to me, I wanted to just invite you all to my show.” I feel like I need to present them with my insurance card and open with, “Doesn’t this mole look funny?”
Today I had a legitimate pop-in excuse, I was dropping off flyers for Tupperware, and I stood (hid) by the elevator until a brassy-voiced actor with a kettle drum stomach left their office after visiting them like a normal person. I walked in, hovering over the ground and stared at them with my best deer-in-headlight impression, through the window, of course.
“I have a new show. I came to drop off flyers for my new show.”
“Oh, Thee-ah! I walked right past you by the elevator and I didn’t say hi!”
“Hi… I’m just gonna put these…here.”
I don’t know if I finished my sentence, really. I think I just trailed off or threw a smoke bomb to escape or something. The other girls didn’t really seem to take notice of me, or of the fact that my name was mispronounced, or the fact that I kind of left out with no official goodbye or chat session. So… Uh, yeah… Pop-in completed and flyers delivered, even though it probably wasn’t worth anyone’s time.
As long as they don’t notice I vomited on their rug, I’m golden.
spokes-jerk
This week, other than the restructuring of my department at work (also known as the popular catch phrase of 2009 , “In This Economy?”), I have an audition for one of one of those School Universites adults go to when they’re too busy to go to The School University. I’ll play a woman who considers this option after her Elevator Friend mentions the success in balancing her life, job and family, not to mention classes.
I’d have a better chance if there’s an opportunity to judge the person.
ME: How do you mange to fit in classes after work with a family?
ELEVATOR FRIEND: They work with my schedule.
ME: Ah… It still must really suck though.
ELEVATOR FRIEND: …Yup.
ME: You ever wish you didn’t have children?
ELEVATOR FRIEND: What?
ME: I mean, let’s be honest, that would make this a lot easier. School’s not gonna make you get back the life you had before you “made the decision to have children.”
ELEVATOR FRIEND: I don’t like the tone of your air quotes.
Elevator Friend leaves.
ME: (Calling after her) Well, I don’t like that you lost your figure after childbirth! And why would I care? It’s not my butt, so that must be how bad your butt is, right? HEY! Have fun at “class” tonight! Turn around! I said, “Have ‘fun’ in ‘class’ tonight!” See?! AIR QUOTES! I’m being sarcastic!
