Recently, I've been dabbling behind the scenes in the chaotic and often arbitrary world of commercial casting.
And, let me tell you--I've never seen sooooo much time wasted on such complete meaninglessness. I mean, just...utter, absolute, gravity-defying, soul-devouring, inconsequential poppycock.
That being said, this new job of mine has been keeping me out of the food stamps line, and I appreciate the irony of a job that thrives on insignificance providing me with something of utmost significance: grub-a-dub-dub and a consistent place to crash.
Some might term this type of lifestyle, wherein one works for a cause only to cast wicked spells upon it once home, "hypocrisy," or, "whoring oneself out."
I like to call it, "survival," because, let's face it, most of us aren't fortunate enough to be loving what we do for a living. (Excepting porn stars and food critics, of course).
Here's how it all works. A company, let's call it, Diana's ReLaxatives, wants to make a commercial advertising their superior products. So, they hire a casting director to do their bidding. The casting director (henceforth referred to as, 'the CD') will search high and low to find a perfect match to meet the company's meticulous specifications regarding the actors they want for their commercial. In this case, a "real" woman (which only means 'slightly less attractive than a Victoria's Secret model'), between the ages of 30-40, with at least three years of improv comedy training, who is having serious trouble with constipation and irregular bowel movements--no fakers! Oh, and also, must know how to do parkour.
The CD will post this role description up on a number of websites and receive hundreds (if not thousands) of submissions from agents and actors themselves. After sorting through the masses, the CD will narrow down his/her selections and send these lucky ducks a casting notice inviting them to audition for the part.
The first round of auditions is generally grueling. The CD will pack in as many actors as possible in order to maximize the number of people the client can see in one day. As a lobby assistant (the person who signs everyone in and gets them situated) or a camera operator (the person who records each audition and uploads them to a link for client viewing), a dream schedule would be seeing one actor every ten minutes. Usually, it's one actor every five minutes. Or, if you're going to be seeing multiple actors at a time, there could be up to five people scheduled for every five minutes.
Of the lot who show up, more than half will have lied about their age/appearance, improv training, parkour abilities and/or bowel movement schedule. A great majority will disregard their scheduled appointment and just show up whenever they please, causing build-up in the lobby which commences a chain reaction of grumbles from actors who have somewhere else to be and must now go add coins to the meter, which puts massive stress on the lobby assistant, who must now skillfully avoid eye contact with an overflowing room full of impatient onlookers itching to start an uprising, which in turn causes the camera operator to have a silent panic attack upon the realization that after four hours straight of being stuck in a small room with hot lights, s/he must...hold it...a little...longer....as there will be no bathroom break in sight.
During these types of auditions, actors have to show 'em what they've got in 60 seconds or less. It's in and out, and that's about as much time as it takes for the client to decide whether they like you or not. It's either love or disinterest at first sight. After sorting through hundreds of auditions, they'll trim the fat and let the CD know whom they've chosen to see again for a callback.
And the callback is a most interesting experience indeed. At the very least, the director of the commercial will be there to spend a little more time with each actor and guide them this way and that. At the very most, the room will be packed like sardines with the director, producers, important people from the ad agency and production company hired to make this commercial happen, representatives from the product's company itself, and numerous assistants thereof.
Nervous 30-40 year old "real" women will enter the room and perform their hilarious constipation testimonials whilst jumping off blocks and flipping off walls, trying desperately to ignore the fact that not one of these seemingly very important people is paying her any attention; they're too busy typing away on their laptops or laughing quietly at the most viewed YouTube video of the day.
Then, the actress is done and goes about her day as the very people who barely noticed her when she was in the room proceed to critique, analyze and rip to shreds every single detail of her existence. They'll pick on everything from her skill level ("Her jumps are precise but she looks a bit monkey-ish when she does them"), to her likeability factor ("Eh"), to the validity of her stories ("I'm not sure if I believe her when she says she used to pray for explosive diarrhea"), to her looks ("I'm a bit confused about the shape of her nose"), to unimaginably minute elements such as the way she picks up the product ("I wish she'd grip it with more oomph"), to the way she turns her head with her mouth slightly agape ("Reminds me of a drooling infant").
The clients will spend hours upon hours deliberating until they until decide on the actress they want for the job. But they won't have chosen her for any obvious or logical reason, such as attractiveness, humor, or qualifications. Nope. It was the fact that she just really had this...this...chocolatey, marshmallowy, strawberry-y feel to her. They can't put their noses on it, but they really like her above alllllll the rest for this vague and inexplicable reason. And everyone knows that chocolate, marshmallows, and strawberries sell (alone or in various combinations)--so ba-zing! She's booked.
A month later, you're surfing through channels and happen upon the 30-second spot you helped become a reality. You experience a fleeting rush of pride and accomplishment as you see all the hours, hard work and effort you poured into this project on the casting end culminate in something so...disappointing. Not that the commercial isn't awesome--which it is.
It opens on a bustling, big city street. Ms. Choco-Marsh-Berry walks amidst an endless crowd of people trying to get to work, then stops suddenly in her tracks, causing major pedestrian traffic build-up. "Hey! What's the big deal?" people groan in the background as we focus on our heroine, clutching her stomach is despair.
"Constipation used to really slow things down for me," she explains. Then, she looks to the sky as what seems to be a shooting star zooms by overhead. She throws down her coat and chases after it, jumping over cement blocks, sliding down railings, rolling through car-filled streets and flipping off buildings to make a spectacular catch.
As it turns out, it wasn't a shooting star after all, but an extra large bottle of constipation-aid. She gazes at the bottle lovingly, then turns her head and looks to camera. "But now, I use Diana's ReLaxatives to keep it flowing." She winks and flashes a brief smile before the next commercial comes on. (It's for heartburn medication. I must have landed on the Food Network...)
So, what's so disappointing about this highly entertaining piece of advertisement? Well, it's mainly my problem with commercial casting in general. The high-flying parkour action? Stunt woman. The one-liner about how the product improved her life on the john? Scripted. Her brilliant smile that's supposed to get viewers off their couches and into the store to buy Diana's ReLaxatives? Lasted for one measly second--if that.
Why is sooooo much weight placed on finding an actor with such specific qualifications if they're barely even going to be in the spot, and if they're hardly even going to put any of those qualifications to use? Why all the countless hours of searching and debating over the perfect person? Would we as viewers really notice the difference between Choco-Marsh-Berry Delight and any other woman that they might have chosen? Would we have been any less likely to aid our constipation with Diana's brand if they'd bypassed the casting process altogether, closed their eyes and pointed to a random woman in the street? Or if they had used a robot, for that matter? (One with irregular robotic bowel movements, of course).
Don't get me wrong--there are definitely commercials out there that put an actor's charm in the spotlight (ie: Old Spice guy, hahaha). However, a lot of commercials these days are similar to the hypothetical spot mentioned above. In which case, I believe a lot of time and hassle could be saved by not being so unbelievably picky, flipping through the phone book and voila!
But who am I kidding? That would put a whhhooolllleeeee lotta people out of a job, (including me!). So, for as long as companies continue to infuse meaning into such silliness, I'll continue to gather valuable lessons that can be applied to my own acting [non-]career while dulling my senses and sensitivity in the wonderful world of casting.
Top Five Most Interesting Commercial Casting Experiences...(So Far)
5. At a callback, clients watched as adorable little boy after adorable little boy filed in the room and did adorable little things. At first, the clients "awwwed" excessively at the displays of cuteness. But gradually, as the day wore on, they became immune to such charm, staring at each little boy as if he were a history textbook. At the end of the day, even if a singing kitty wearing a baby bonnet had jumped in and snuggled their faces, they wouldn't have cracked a smile. It's inevitable; after seeing hundreds of people a day, your eyes begin to suffer from pulchritudinous overload and even the cutest kids or most appealing adults of the bunch simply blend in with all the rest.
4. After auditioning a tall, beautiful woman, the director I was working with turned to me as soon as she'd left asking if I, too, thought she was a transvestite. The woman he'd selected as his number one choice? Nowhere near as "attractive" in the commercial sense of the word as the supposed shemale, and even a bit, dare I say, frumpy. (Score one for us normal people!) Later, he auditioned a woman who was just as non-model-like as his #1 and could not stop making rude comments about her weight--an example of just how objective this field can be.
3. On a busy day booking extras for a shoot, an overworked member of the production company we were working with decided to relinquish all selective control over to yours truly, stating that he trusted my judgment. (I wonder if he'd still have said that if he'd known my room was once a Hanson shrine or that I used to think old, dirty sneakers went well with fancy dress shirts...). So, there I sat, sorting through pictures, trying to choose who'd be the best matches for the job. Granted, it was for extra work, but I still had the undeserved power of determining who would earn money and who wouldn't. As a result, I no longer feel as dreadfully deflated each time I don't book a job--after all, a mere assistant with questionable taste could've been in charge (or at least I keep telling myself that).
2. One job involved pairing a guy and girl together who had never previously met and, without any prior warning, asking them to make out in the audition room (this was a non-union job, of course). To say the least, I was surprised at this audition's nature and at the casualness with which those working with me handled it all. Once in the room, the camera operator explained to the actors quite calmly, "Okay, so you two are making out on a park bench. Ready?" as if this were a completely commonplace and unawkward situation. But that wasn't the most surprising element--that award goes to the fact that most of the actors did what they were told without protest. If you ask me, the camera operator might as well have been saying, "Good day! I know we didn't mention this before, but now that you're here, would you kindly let me film you exchanging saliva with this gentleman you've just met, who might've been eating earwax before he got here for all we know? Lick it all up!" Uh...no thanks.
1. By far, the weirdest thing I've had to do in the field of casting is take strapping young men to the back room, ask them to remove their shirts, and snap pictures of them. This has happened more than once, and each time, neither I nor the actors knew that this was going to be part of the audition process that day. Surprise! At least they were adults. Oh wait...there was that one time I had to ask little boys to take off their shirts and film them while they pretended to shower (it was for a soap commercial--I swear!). I never wanted to add "sleazy pervert" to my sad little resume, but I suppose it beefs it up a little, at any rate.
That's it for now, though I'm sure there'll be plenty more casting adventures to come my way in the near future.
*gulp*
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Networking Notworking
Okay, so I lied. I only chose the title because it made a cute pun.
In reality, I have no idea if networking is not working, because I try my hardest not to partake in such a reckless activity.
Unfortunately, networking is one of the most integral parts of the entertainment business. It's all about who you know--(or, more accurately, who you don't want to know but pretend to like because you plan on using them).
The rudiments of networking are as follows: you have something that I want (position, power, access, skills), and in return, I have something useful to offer you (let's face it, in most cases: boobs, butt cheeks, or a whole lotta of moola). With our powers combined, we'll make magic happen! (Either that, or summon Captain Planet.) Yeehaw!
Sounds easy enough on paper, but its application doesn't always go smoothly. When I was younger and full of pesky optimism and dreams, I whored myself out like a dummy. Any old chump or chumpette was a golden ticket in my eyes. I'd brazenly start up a conversation with anyone.
"Hi, I'm Diana!...N-no...with an 'a' at the end, like the Princess. Yeah! Anyway, I'm special. You should know me because I'm going places and if you help me get there I'll help you right back!" *wink*
Then, as I got older and wiser, I realized that most chumps and chumpettes were in the same small, pathetic boat that I was in, rowing their hardest against an impossibly strong current. What I needed to do was hop on someone's luxury, high speed yacht. So I got smart about it. I got selective about it. I'd only target those who didn't appear to be of the chump variety.
"Hey, I'm Diana! No, it's DianA...with an 'a'...you know what? Not important. Anyway I love your work! Here's my business card...picture's a little old and I need to update it but, it's...uh...wait, where are you--? Hey! You forgot to take my card!"
Now that I'm even older and (arguably) even wiser, I understand how categorically stupid I used to be. Like when Adam and Eve first became aware that they were giving a free show--only worse. It's as if they not only realized they were naked, but not very well-endowed, at that.
There I was, strolling through parties, chatting it up on sets, striking up conversations in classes, all the while completely oblivious to my less-than-impressive entertainment-business-nudity. I thought I'd been "working out," you know, beefing up my resume, gaining valuable work experience, becoming a more well-rounded psuedo-artist, but in reality, I stood there, prepubescent, with nothing to show except my love handles of inexperience and unconcealed newbie cellulite.
After this grim realization, I immediately altered my networking approach. This is what my conversations have sounded like henceforth:
"..............................."
Yes, that's right. Silence. Because I've learned through much embarrassment that this is the best way to network.
And, being the hardened old turkey I am now, I look back on my lively spring chicken days with amusement.
Exactly how I mustered up the courage back then to advertise myself like one of those sign-spinners on the side of the road is beyond me. Pardon the cliche, but in my case, ignorance definitely was bliss.
The traditional way of networking takes gall and balls that I now clearly lack. It works on a number of assumptions:
My new, improved networking technique boasts better, more intelligent assumptions:
A. You are NOT the next big thing (thinking so is a classic rookie mistake)
B. If your target wants to engage in conversation with you, they will--no point in forcing yourself on anyone
C. You are as necessary to them as an appendix to a human body
By following these recommended guidelines--
1. Only speak when spoken to
2. When spoken to, play it cool
3. Burp sparingly
--you will create an air of mystique and importance and thus effectively fool passersby into thinking that you're not actually a desperate, penniless nobody only at the party for the free hors d'oeuvres, but in fact, a smart and talented up-and-comer with whom they should rub elbows.
If you are able to successfully make a new contact (and with the prevalence of Facebook these days, it's easier than ever), who knows when the supposed benefits of your relationship will take effect?
In most cases, it's like getting your annual physical exam at the doctor's office (up to you whether or not you conduct an actual physical exam with your new buddy *wink wink*). You rarely see each other, but 10 years down the line you'll discover it paid off to keep up your regular visits when s/he realizes what's wrong with you and refers you to one of the best specialists in town. Your sexual dysfunction is finally cured and you find yourself in the best shape of your life! It'd be like staying chummy with another actor for years when he's finally able to help you out by giving you a strong recommendation to a top-tier agency.
Other times, the benefits roll in a bit more quickly, like going to the doctor's to treat a sprained ankle. There is a specific purpose to be fulfilled, and once the visit's over, you make an appointment for a follow-up but then get lazy and ditch it in favor of some alone time eating twinkies and watching Family Matters reruns. Like when a small-time producer is in dire need of more bodies for a music video and begs for your help. After 12 grueling overnight hours of pretending you're having an awesome time sleep-dancing next to strange, sweaty men in your 4-inch stilettos, you leave with their promise that you were amazing and they will be in touch with you in the near future for more fantastic projects. As it turns out, you never speak to or see this person again--and you wouldn't have it any other way.
Of course, the very best way to meet someone of importance is also the least likely. It'd be like walking to your car in the Kmart parking lot and getting knocked unconscious by a wayward shopping cart, right in front of an experienced (and apparently cheap) doctor who promptly performs CPR, thus saving your life. You can attend a million mixers, casting director workshops, and even stroll aimlessly down Hollywood Blvd. in the vain hopes of being "discovered," but nothing beats being accosted by a well-known casting director with your mouth full of cheeseburger at an obscure gas station on the way to Bakersfield. She's been searching high and low for the perfect fit to a starring role in a major motion picture and by golly it's you! What a lucky coincidence that she stopped for gas on the way to visit her dear Aunt Millie. Your life has just been forever altered--and all because you were too irresponsible to fill up your tank beforehand like your mom told you to do.
So, yes, networking can be a valuable tool in getting ahead. Just be patient--most of the time, its effects, if any, might not be seen for years to come. What you should truly be aiming for is continuing on your path of pseudo-artistry excellence by conducting your usual routine of bettering your craft. Who knows? You just might end up getting ridiculously, mind-blowingly lucky by being in the right place at the right time. Keep in mind, however, that this can only be accomplished by being your underachieving, misguided, screwed-up self.
So go forth and try your best to notwork--you'll be amazed at the results.
In reality, I have no idea if networking is not working, because I try my hardest not to partake in such a reckless activity.
Unfortunately, networking is one of the most integral parts of the entertainment business. It's all about who you know--(or, more accurately, who you don't want to know but pretend to like because you plan on using them).
The rudiments of networking are as follows: you have something that I want (position, power, access, skills), and in return, I have something useful to offer you (let's face it, in most cases: boobs, butt cheeks, or a whole lotta of moola). With our powers combined, we'll make magic happen! (Either that, or summon Captain Planet.) Yeehaw!
Sounds easy enough on paper, but its application doesn't always go smoothly. When I was younger and full of pesky optimism and dreams, I whored myself out like a dummy. Any old chump or chumpette was a golden ticket in my eyes. I'd brazenly start up a conversation with anyone.
"Hi, I'm Diana!...N-no...with an 'a' at the end, like the Princess. Yeah! Anyway, I'm special. You should know me because I'm going places and if you help me get there I'll help you right back!" *wink*
Then, as I got older and wiser, I realized that most chumps and chumpettes were in the same small, pathetic boat that I was in, rowing their hardest against an impossibly strong current. What I needed to do was hop on someone's luxury, high speed yacht. So I got smart about it. I got selective about it. I'd only target those who didn't appear to be of the chump variety.
"Hey, I'm Diana! No, it's DianA...with an 'a'...you know what? Not important. Anyway I love your work! Here's my business card...picture's a little old and I need to update it but, it's...uh...wait, where are you--? Hey! You forgot to take my card!"
Now that I'm even older and (arguably) even wiser, I understand how categorically stupid I used to be. Like when Adam and Eve first became aware that they were giving a free show--only worse. It's as if they not only realized they were naked, but not very well-endowed, at that.
There I was, strolling through parties, chatting it up on sets, striking up conversations in classes, all the while completely oblivious to my less-than-impressive entertainment-business-nudity. I thought I'd been "working out," you know, beefing up my resume, gaining valuable work experience, becoming a more well-rounded psuedo-artist, but in reality, I stood there, prepubescent, with nothing to show except my love handles of inexperience and unconcealed newbie cellulite.
After this grim realization, I immediately altered my networking approach. This is what my conversations have sounded like henceforth:
"..............................."
Yes, that's right. Silence. Because I've learned through much embarrassment that this is the best way to network.
And, being the hardened old turkey I am now, I look back on my lively spring chicken days with amusement.
Exactly how I mustered up the courage back then to advertise myself like one of those sign-spinners on the side of the road is beyond me. Pardon the cliche, but in my case, ignorance definitely was bliss.
The traditional way of networking takes gall and balls that I now clearly lack. It works on a number of assumptions:
A. You have something to offer that's different from all the other thousands of schmucks in this town
B. If your target actually engages in conversation with you, they're interested in you for your talents in the field and not your talents in bed
C. You are successful enough that you don't need to network (when the whole reason you're doing this is precisely because you're so desperate)
This method simply requires way too many things that I loathe:
1. Direct eye contact
2. Feigned interest/enthusiasm in what the other person is saying
3. Talking to strangers (from childhood I was told this is ill-advised)
My new, improved networking technique boasts better, more intelligent assumptions:
A. You are NOT the next big thing (thinking so is a classic rookie mistake)
B. If your target wants to engage in conversation with you, they will--no point in forcing yourself on anyone
C. You are as necessary to them as an appendix to a human body
By following these recommended guidelines--
1. Only speak when spoken to
2. When spoken to, play it cool
3. Burp sparingly
--you will create an air of mystique and importance and thus effectively fool passersby into thinking that you're not actually a desperate, penniless nobody only at the party for the free hors d'oeuvres, but in fact, a smart and talented up-and-comer with whom they should rub elbows.
If you are able to successfully make a new contact (and with the prevalence of Facebook these days, it's easier than ever), who knows when the supposed benefits of your relationship will take effect?
In most cases, it's like getting your annual physical exam at the doctor's office (up to you whether or not you conduct an actual physical exam with your new buddy *wink wink*). You rarely see each other, but 10 years down the line you'll discover it paid off to keep up your regular visits when s/he realizes what's wrong with you and refers you to one of the best specialists in town. Your sexual dysfunction is finally cured and you find yourself in the best shape of your life! It'd be like staying chummy with another actor for years when he's finally able to help you out by giving you a strong recommendation to a top-tier agency.
Other times, the benefits roll in a bit more quickly, like going to the doctor's to treat a sprained ankle. There is a specific purpose to be fulfilled, and once the visit's over, you make an appointment for a follow-up but then get lazy and ditch it in favor of some alone time eating twinkies and watching Family Matters reruns. Like when a small-time producer is in dire need of more bodies for a music video and begs for your help. After 12 grueling overnight hours of pretending you're having an awesome time sleep-dancing next to strange, sweaty men in your 4-inch stilettos, you leave with their promise that you were amazing and they will be in touch with you in the near future for more fantastic projects. As it turns out, you never speak to or see this person again--and you wouldn't have it any other way.
Of course, the very best way to meet someone of importance is also the least likely. It'd be like walking to your car in the Kmart parking lot and getting knocked unconscious by a wayward shopping cart, right in front of an experienced (and apparently cheap) doctor who promptly performs CPR, thus saving your life. You can attend a million mixers, casting director workshops, and even stroll aimlessly down Hollywood Blvd. in the vain hopes of being "discovered," but nothing beats being accosted by a well-known casting director with your mouth full of cheeseburger at an obscure gas station on the way to Bakersfield. She's been searching high and low for the perfect fit to a starring role in a major motion picture and by golly it's you! What a lucky coincidence that she stopped for gas on the way to visit her dear Aunt Millie. Your life has just been forever altered--and all because you were too irresponsible to fill up your tank beforehand like your mom told you to do.
So, yes, networking can be a valuable tool in getting ahead. Just be patient--most of the time, its effects, if any, might not be seen for years to come. What you should truly be aiming for is continuing on your path of pseudo-artistry excellence by conducting your usual routine of bettering your craft. Who knows? You just might end up getting ridiculously, mind-blowingly lucky by being in the right place at the right time. Keep in mind, however, that this can only be accomplished by being your underachieving, misguided, screwed-up self.
So go forth and try your best to notwork--you'll be amazed at the results.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
The World's Most Coveted Roles
Just some of the most amazing parts I sift through in my inbox on a daily basis...
Fifty bucks to have my clothes ripped off in a chick fight? Exposing my bestiality obsession on national TV? Yes and yes! Big break, here I come!
Fifty bucks to have my clothes ripped off in a chick fight? Exposing my bestiality obsession on national TV? Yes and yes! Big break, here I come!
Casting Notice
Project Name: Untitled Music Video Project Type: Music Video Rate/Compensation: $50-120
Project Name: Untitled Music Video Project Type: Music Video Rate/Compensation: $50-120
Role | Role Type | Gender/Age/Ethnicities | Description/Note |
Contestant 1 | Lead | Female / 16 to 30 / Caucasian, Ethnically Ambiguous, Hispanic, Mixed, Multi-Ethnic | Bleach blond, pop diva type. MUST be comfortable with skimpy clothing, and full nudity. The nudity is very brief and at the very end of the video. You will not be fully visible as you will be fighting with the second actress and we intend to have many fast paced cuts throughout. **nudity: Will have clothing ripped off during the fight, and her musical numbers are more on the sultry/pop side (THINK SEXY BRITNEY) |
Casting Notice
Project Name: Animal Fetishes Project Type: Documentary Rate/Compensation: $400 if chosen for project
Project Name: Animal Fetishes Project Type: Documentary Rate/Compensation: $400 if chosen for project
Role | Role Type | Gender/Age/Ethnicities | Description/Note |
Person with Real Animal Fetish | Other | Male or Female / 18 to 99 / All Ethnicities | Documentary-style TV pilot (may or may not air) for an award-winning cable network is looking for people with REAL animal fetishes. We're looking to explore how these fetishes impact people's lives and relationships. If you or someone you know has a genuine animal-related fetish, please contact us ASAP. Our show has a serious tone and the subject matter will be approached in a tasteful manner. There is compensation if chosen for the pilot. **PLEASE ONLY SUBMIT IF THIS IS SOMETHING YOU ARE COMFORTABLE WITH. IF SO, PLEASE NOTE YOUR STORY AND INTEREST** |
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
iShy
Being unemployed has its perks. For example, I've been "thinking" a lot lately (watching TV). While lost deep in "thought" (food coma), I stumbled upon an epiphany: Perhaps I've been more struggling than actress these past three years because of a debilitating disorder I've struggled with my entire life.
Yes, it's true--whip out the Kleenex (or the generic 99¢ version of it...just not Puffs--anything but Puffs). I was born with a disability--the shame and embarrassment of which have prevented me from discussing this with any of my friends. But who am I fooling? I'm sure many of you have already made judgments or assumptions; after all, it's not like I'm very good at hiding it.
Maybe acknowledging it is the first step on a long road to overcoming this life-threatening affliction of mine. I think I'm finally ready to come out and say it.
Okay then, here goes. *exhale* I suffer from...........(shyness).
Oh God, I can't believe I just said that...I mean, I have a hard time saying anything without turning beet red and then fleeing like a frantic wildebeest. I guess I'm getting better already.
For those of you who aren't familiar with this donation-worthy disease, shyness is a disorder that renders its victims utterly useless in social situations--something not to be taken lightly. You've probably spotted a shy person or two hundred in your life--the little boy in a fetal position in the corner of the classroom...the girl eating lunch under the lunch table...the guy who chokes on his own spit when attempting to ask out the girl of his dreams...the fully grown woman spinning in circles singing lullabies to her shoes...actually, that last one was me, and I suppose that behavior in particular can actually be attributed to the fact that I'm a teeny bit mentally unstable--another problem in need of your charity. Hey, it's expensive popping all these pills!
But back to the issue at hand. The adverse effects of this condition are both mental and physical. And what's worse, shyness is often a package deal with two other serious illnesses: nervousness and awkwardness. In addition to the emotional stress of constantly dealing with self-doubt, I can't tell you how much I struggle with the humiliating physical manifestations of these nasty afflictions: sweaty palms, squeaky voice, stomachaches, overactive bladder, uncontrollable bodily noises, and gas.
So there you have it folks, a triple whammy. If that doesn't cause your wallet to involuntarily whip open then I don't know what will.
But seriously--your pity is greatly appreciated. Cash donations may be sent to my home address. Food is also accepted.
Look. I know what you're thinking--a shy actor? Isn't that an oxymoron? What was I thinking entering into a business where you're emotionally (and sometimes literally) naked in front of the camera?
Well actually, though they may be few and far between, shy actors do exist. What usually happens to 99% of people like me is that their inner performer lays dormant inside of them until a camera is pointed their way and suddenly they come alive in a magnificent, Oscar-worthy display.
The other one percent? Well, that's occupied by little old me, breaker of molds. I suppose if a video camera were pointed my way for an actual shoot the above might be true. But it's been so long since I've gotten any cinematographic action that I've forgotten what that feels like.
Auditions just aren't the same. I find it hard to completely let go and sob my snot out over my drug-dealing husband T.J.'s lifeless, invisible body on the dirty, carpeted floor of a casting studio. Can't we just skip that process altogether? I'm a fairly decent psuedo-artist--you can take my word for it, I swear.
And even before I get in front of an audition room camera, there's another camera I have to survive--a headshot photographer's. Due to the lack of responses I receive when submitting for auditions, I think it's safe to assume I don't fare very well in photographic situations. After all, the key to taking the perfect picture is to be the opposite of shy.
Here's someone you might recognize. It's what I normally look like when a camera is pointed my way:
Presenting the Diana we all know and love (or at least don't hate for 67% of the time). The bumbling, insecure f*ck-up who whiles away her time eating Cheez-It Snack Mix and mangoes and bumping into tables.
A stark contrast to what I should look like (or a sad attempt at it anyway) whenever a photo is snapped:
The above are intended to be representative of a person who is oozing self-assurance and has her act together. However, since I have no experience in those fields, I drew inspiration from girls on Facebook who post daily vanity shots of themselves. Because who's more confident than someone who needs constant reassurance that her t*ts are perky and her booty's bangin'?
*brain gears working*..............................Oh. So maybe I didn't exactly choose the best role models....
At any rate, if I want to go anywhere in this field, I need to get over my fear of cameras. They're like pesky hurdles I need to jump over to get to the finish line...and unfortunately, my legs aren't very long.
But being camera shy only stems from my overall social impairment. So why exactly am I so f*cking shy, anyway?? My best guess is years of public embarrassment. After spending most of my developmental years looking like Cousin Itt and peeing in my pants, I learned to keep my mouth shut. I guess that would make the part of my brain that deals with confidence underdeveloped, which qualifies as a disorder--and dammit, there should be a walkathon for people like me.
But in all seriousness, no amount of walking or cash and food donations (still accepting), can help me. I'm waging a war against myself and so far, I'm losing--or, um, most of me is losing while the shy part is winning, that is. And if shyness doesn't equal victory in the real world, I'm certainly not going to let it take over my body and mind (the aliens have already done that).
Let's face it--being shy sucks. I'll never be the girl dancing free of care in the club, networking up a storm at that mixer or engaging in direct eye contact (eek!). However, certain things just have to change if I don't want to end up penniless on the streets--or crashing on your couch (I swear I don't wet the bed anymore). The next time I don't get a part, it'd better be because I make a total fool of myself giving it my all instead of making a total fool of myself holding it all back.
I'm long overdue for a software update, so I think I'll finally install some confidence and restart myself before it's too late. First step? Jumping over the headshot hurdle, which could possibly lead to jumping over the audition hurdle which could possibly mean crossing the paying gig line! (Gosh, I'd better do some stretching...) Here's to hoping my new headshots scream 'choose me!', 'i believe in myself!' and 'i am so not desperate right now!' instead of portraying me as a frightened peasant woman, as they usually do.
Hope all your career endeavors are going swimmingly! (All two of you, that is.) :)
Yes, it's true--whip out the Kleenex (or the generic 99¢ version of it...just not Puffs--anything but Puffs). I was born with a disability--the shame and embarrassment of which have prevented me from discussing this with any of my friends. But who am I fooling? I'm sure many of you have already made judgments or assumptions; after all, it's not like I'm very good at hiding it.
Maybe acknowledging it is the first step on a long road to overcoming this life-threatening affliction of mine. I think I'm finally ready to come out and say it.
Okay then, here goes. *exhale* I suffer from...........(shyness).
Oh God, I can't believe I just said that...I mean, I have a hard time saying anything without turning beet red and then fleeing like a frantic wildebeest. I guess I'm getting better already.
For those of you who aren't familiar with this donation-worthy disease, shyness is a disorder that renders its victims utterly useless in social situations--something not to be taken lightly. You've probably spotted a shy person or two hundred in your life--the little boy in a fetal position in the corner of the classroom...the girl eating lunch under the lunch table...the guy who chokes on his own spit when attempting to ask out the girl of his dreams...the fully grown woman spinning in circles singing lullabies to her shoes...actually, that last one was me, and I suppose that behavior in particular can actually be attributed to the fact that I'm a teeny bit mentally unstable--another problem in need of your charity. Hey, it's expensive popping all these pills!
But back to the issue at hand. The adverse effects of this condition are both mental and physical. And what's worse, shyness is often a package deal with two other serious illnesses: nervousness and awkwardness. In addition to the emotional stress of constantly dealing with self-doubt, I can't tell you how much I struggle with the humiliating physical manifestations of these nasty afflictions: sweaty palms, squeaky voice, stomachaches, overactive bladder, uncontrollable bodily noises, and gas.
So there you have it folks, a triple whammy. If that doesn't cause your wallet to involuntarily whip open then I don't know what will.
But seriously--your pity is greatly appreciated. Cash donations may be sent to my home address. Food is also accepted.
Look. I know what you're thinking--a shy actor? Isn't that an oxymoron? What was I thinking entering into a business where you're emotionally (and sometimes literally) naked in front of the camera?
Well actually, though they may be few and far between, shy actors do exist. What usually happens to 99% of people like me is that their inner performer lays dormant inside of them until a camera is pointed their way and suddenly they come alive in a magnificent, Oscar-worthy display.
The other one percent? Well, that's occupied by little old me, breaker of molds. I suppose if a video camera were pointed my way for an actual shoot the above might be true. But it's been so long since I've gotten any cinematographic action that I've forgotten what that feels like.
Auditions just aren't the same. I find it hard to completely let go and sob my snot out over my drug-dealing husband T.J.'s lifeless, invisible body on the dirty, carpeted floor of a casting studio. Can't we just skip that process altogether? I'm a fairly decent psuedo-artist--you can take my word for it, I swear.
And even before I get in front of an audition room camera, there's another camera I have to survive--a headshot photographer's. Due to the lack of responses I receive when submitting for auditions, I think it's safe to assume I don't fare very well in photographic situations. After all, the key to taking the perfect picture is to be the opposite of shy.
Here's someone you might recognize. It's what I normally look like when a camera is pointed my way:
Presenting the Diana we all know and love (or at least don't hate for 67% of the time). The bumbling, insecure f*ck-up who whiles away her time eating Cheez-It Snack Mix and mangoes and bumping into tables.
A stark contrast to what I should look like (or a sad attempt at it anyway) whenever a photo is snapped:
The above are intended to be representative of a person who is oozing self-assurance and has her act together. However, since I have no experience in those fields, I drew inspiration from girls on Facebook who post daily vanity shots of themselves. Because who's more confident than someone who needs constant reassurance that her t*ts are perky and her booty's bangin'?
*brain gears working*..............................Oh. So maybe I didn't exactly choose the best role models....
At any rate, if I want to go anywhere in this field, I need to get over my fear of cameras. They're like pesky hurdles I need to jump over to get to the finish line...and unfortunately, my legs aren't very long.
But being camera shy only stems from my overall social impairment. So why exactly am I so f*cking shy, anyway?? My best guess is years of public embarrassment. After spending most of my developmental years looking like Cousin Itt and peeing in my pants, I learned to keep my mouth shut. I guess that would make the part of my brain that deals with confidence underdeveloped, which qualifies as a disorder--and dammit, there should be a walkathon for people like me.
But in all seriousness, no amount of walking or cash and food donations (still accepting), can help me. I'm waging a war against myself and so far, I'm losing--or, um, most of me is losing while the shy part is winning, that is. And if shyness doesn't equal victory in the real world, I'm certainly not going to let it take over my body and mind (the aliens have already done that).
Let's face it--being shy sucks. I'll never be the girl dancing free of care in the club, networking up a storm at that mixer or engaging in direct eye contact (eek!). However, certain things just have to change if I don't want to end up penniless on the streets--or crashing on your couch (I swear I don't wet the bed anymore). The next time I don't get a part, it'd better be because I make a total fool of myself giving it my all instead of making a total fool of myself holding it all back.
I'm long overdue for a software update, so I think I'll finally install some confidence and restart myself before it's too late. First step? Jumping over the headshot hurdle, which could possibly lead to jumping over the audition hurdle which could possibly mean crossing the paying gig line! (Gosh, I'd better do some stretching...) Here's to hoping my new headshots scream 'choose me!', 'i believe in myself!' and 'i am so not desperate right now!' instead of portraying me as a frightened peasant woman, as they usually do.
Hope all your career endeavors are going swimmingly! (All two of you, that is.) :)
Monday, February 7, 2011
The Waiting Game (worst game EVAR)
As much as I hate sucking @$$ at auditions (which is usually the case), there's one thing I hate even more: doing kinda okay.
Why does doing kinda okay suck way more than completely sucking at an audition? Because when you do kinda okay, you automatically become a player in this really difficult game called the Waiting Game (think chess and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles for the NES combined). Chances of winning are highly unlikely; it's a big payoff, but, like a down-and-out old beer-bellied gambler, you can waste away your entire life (and life's savings) for a taste of sweet victory. And, as in the case of a down-and-out old beer-bellied gambler, winning one round of the Waiting Game does not ensure success in subsequent rounds.
The rules are fairly simple. Rule #1: Don't f*ck up at your audition. Rule #2: At the end of your audition, vacate the room with haste before you say something stupid and f*ck it up. Rule #3: Drive home through bumper to bumper traffic in amazement that you didn't f*ck it up. Rule #4: Sit and wait for an indeterminate amount of time for that ever-coveted phone call from your agent congratulating you for not f*cking it up and for actually booking something (for once).
And on the game goes. Weeeeeeeee!! It's as fun as getting socked in the stomach by an overgrown third grader.
The waiting...the waiting will kill you. In terms of agony, it ranks just above pining over your current crush and just below waiting to see the results of your latest pregnancy test. During this dreadful waiting period, you'll find that you've never checked your phone so many times, bitten more nails, or distracted yourself with more generic brand cheese puffs in your life.
In all these seemingly interminable seconds, minutes, hours and days, concentration and sanity go out the window and a fresh gust of stress rushes in. What if you get the job but the shoot dates conflict with your schedule? What if they put you on avail but don't end up using you and in the process prevent you from working on another job? What if you book the job but then they decide they've made a mistake and send you home paycheck-less? What if they choose you but then your herpes starts acting up the night before the shoot???
There are just way too many things that can go wrong in a situation like this. You'll soon discover that your entire life's happiness hangs in the balance as you wait for this elusive phone call. You, my friend, are at a fork in the road. In most cases, you're waiting for the toll both operator to open the gate arm to one path specifically: the one that leads to fortune, fame, success and all the gourmet quesadillas you could ever want at your fingertips. The other path requires no toll (except for the one on your mental health) and will take you down a road of desperation, desolation, failure and more Taco Bell quesadillas than you care to digest.
On occasion, however, there are two toll booths guarding two equally desirable paths. The first will take you down a road of career-boosting excellence, while the second will lead you on a journey of sheer happiness, personal enrichment, and a much-needed break from it all-- i.e. a vacation. But every actor knows that booking a job and living a non-miserable existence are two mutually exclusive events.
How old is the universe again? Like 13.7 billion years or something? Is that right? Because it feels more like a 13.7 year old bully who likes screwing with your emotions.
In this business, the ability to cancel plans and put life on hold with the snap of a finger is a must. Do not be caught off guard and do not leave yourself vulnerable to attack or your punishment will be swift and severe. Phone battery died for five minutes? Guess what job opportunity you just missed out on! Scheduled a surgery to get rid of that pesky hemorrhoid? If you'd kept the hemorrhoid and simply used Preparation H and avoided bowel movements instead, you could've paid rent for a year with a commercial you missed auditioning for while "recovering" (puh! weakling. no pain no gain!).
An opportunity can rear its slimy little head at any moment and if you're not prepared, you'll surely lose it. Who knows where you'll be when you receive the call? At the supermarket? On the john? At your wedding???
EXT. BRIGHT HOPE WEDDING CHAPEL - DAY
YOU and your HUSBAND-TO-BE stand nervously at the altar, waiting to be united in matrimonial bliss. Suddenly, your cell phone vibrates. You curse yourself under your breath for choosing the wedding dress with pockets. The MINISTER rambles on as you discreetly hide the phone in your bouquet and answer the call from your overworked, aggressive AGENT.
The wedding hall erupts in gasps and murmurs. Husband-to-be chokes back tears and calls out to you angrily as he flees the altar.
But you're getting ahead of yourself. Firstly, a wedding implies that there's someone out there who actually wants to marry you. *chuckle* And secondly, this is assuming you're actually going to receive that all-important call. Remember, the waiting game does not usually yield winning results.
What will most likely happen is you will go through the five stages of grief:
Stage One: Denial
Psh. So what if it's been a week and a half? They're going to call. They probably just changed the shoot date or something. Yeah.
Stage Two: Anger
Those thumb-sucking dimwits!! Why haven't they called yet? How could they not choose me?! I did kinda okay at that audition! GAHHHHHHH!!!!!
Stage Three: Bargaining
Okay universe, I know I've called you names in the past, but if you just let this work out this one time I swear I'll stop wiping my boogers on other people's carpets. I swear!!!
Stage Four: Depression
*sigh*
Stage Five: Acceptance
Oh god, I'm such a loser.
So, there you have it. A career in [pseudo-]artistry is akin to a death in the family. I suppose being a player in the Waiting Game is more exciting than sitting back and watching from the sidelines--but it can drive you mad nonetheless. So, be sure to divide your eggs amongst numerous baskets (isn't Easter more fun that way?) and to have back-up plans spanning two alphabets. Because when Plan Z falls through, it's always nice to have Plan Й to fall back on.
Happy gaming! :)
Why does doing kinda okay suck way more than completely sucking at an audition? Because when you do kinda okay, you automatically become a player in this really difficult game called the Waiting Game (think chess and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles for the NES combined). Chances of winning are highly unlikely; it's a big payoff, but, like a down-and-out old beer-bellied gambler, you can waste away your entire life (and life's savings) for a taste of sweet victory. And, as in the case of a down-and-out old beer-bellied gambler, winning one round of the Waiting Game does not ensure success in subsequent rounds.
The rules are fairly simple. Rule #1: Don't f*ck up at your audition. Rule #2: At the end of your audition, vacate the room with haste before you say something stupid and f*ck it up. Rule #3: Drive home through bumper to bumper traffic in amazement that you didn't f*ck it up. Rule #4: Sit and wait for an indeterminate amount of time for that ever-coveted phone call from your agent congratulating you for not f*cking it up and for actually booking something (for once).
And on the game goes. Weeeeeeeee!! It's as fun as getting socked in the stomach by an overgrown third grader.
The waiting...the waiting will kill you. In terms of agony, it ranks just above pining over your current crush and just below waiting to see the results of your latest pregnancy test. During this dreadful waiting period, you'll find that you've never checked your phone so many times, bitten more nails, or distracted yourself with more generic brand cheese puffs in your life.
In all these seemingly interminable seconds, minutes, hours and days, concentration and sanity go out the window and a fresh gust of stress rushes in. What if you get the job but the shoot dates conflict with your schedule? What if they put you on avail but don't end up using you and in the process prevent you from working on another job? What if you book the job but then they decide they've made a mistake and send you home paycheck-less? What if they choose you but then your herpes starts acting up the night before the shoot???
There are just way too many things that can go wrong in a situation like this. You'll soon discover that your entire life's happiness hangs in the balance as you wait for this elusive phone call. You, my friend, are at a fork in the road. In most cases, you're waiting for the toll both operator to open the gate arm to one path specifically: the one that leads to fortune, fame, success and all the gourmet quesadillas you could ever want at your fingertips. The other path requires no toll (except for the one on your mental health) and will take you down a road of desperation, desolation, failure and more Taco Bell quesadillas than you care to digest.
On occasion, however, there are two toll booths guarding two equally desirable paths. The first will take you down a road of career-boosting excellence, while the second will lead you on a journey of sheer happiness, personal enrichment, and a much-needed break from it all-- i.e. a vacation. But every actor knows that booking a job and living a non-miserable existence are two mutually exclusive events.
How old is the universe again? Like 13.7 billion years or something? Is that right? Because it feels more like a 13.7 year old bully who likes screwing with your emotions.
"Aww, poooooor baby. Been stressed out? Yeah? You want some happiness? You want some?"
*wags chocolate bar of wonder in your face*
"Come on, come get it, come get some of this good stuff. Yeah, that's right, a little closer...a little closer...that's it. Here you g--OHHHH REJECTED!! GORPGUHKGOOGLUMP!!!"
*gobbles up chocolate bar like a ravenous beast*
"HAHAHA! I EAT YOUR HAPPINESS AND POO IT OUT! ...AND THEN I EAT IT AGAIN BECAUSE I'M SICK LIKE THAT!"
*burp*
F*cking c*ck tease universe.
In this business, the ability to cancel plans and put life on hold with the snap of a finger is a must. Do not be caught off guard and do not leave yourself vulnerable to attack or your punishment will be swift and severe. Phone battery died for five minutes? Guess what job opportunity you just missed out on! Scheduled a surgery to get rid of that pesky hemorrhoid? If you'd kept the hemorrhoid and simply used Preparation H and avoided bowel movements instead, you could've paid rent for a year with a commercial you missed auditioning for while "recovering" (puh! weakling. no pain no gain!).
An opportunity can rear its slimy little head at any moment and if you're not prepared, you'll surely lose it. Who knows where you'll be when you receive the call? At the supermarket? On the john? At your wedding???
EXT. BRIGHT HOPE WEDDING CHAPEL - DAY
YOU and your HUSBAND-TO-BE stand nervously at the altar, waiting to be united in matrimonial bliss. Suddenly, your cell phone vibrates. You curse yourself under your breath for choosing the wedding dress with pockets. The MINISTER rambles on as you discreetly hide the phone in your bouquet and answer the call from your overworked, aggressive AGENT.
YOU
Hello? Oh hi, Jerry. Yes, sure, I remember the biggest audition of my life from last week...but, um, I'm kinda in the middle of something here....
AGENT (ON PHONE)
Good news! You booked it! Do you think you can make it to the fitting tomorrow morning at ten?
You're about to answer no, but your husband-to-be nudges you to pay attention to the oh-so-insignificant thing called a wedding ceremony taking place before you.
MINISTER
Do you take this man to be your--
YOU
(to minister)
I do!!
AGENT (ON PHONE)
You do think you can make it to the fitting tomorrow? Great!
YOU
(flustered; to agent)
No, WAIT! I meant, I do NOT!
HUSBAND-TO-BE
You wishy-washy bitch!!!
AGENT (ON PHONE)
You're gonna make me alotta money on this one, kid. We're talkin' big bucks!
YOU
Yeah well, tomorrow morning at ten I was supposed to be en route to my honeymoon, but uh...
(looking around at the angry/shocked faces of everyone around)
Yep. That's definitely not happening anymore...so let's do this!
The End.
But you're getting ahead of yourself. Firstly, a wedding implies that there's someone out there who actually wants to marry you. *chuckle* And secondly, this is assuming you're actually going to receive that all-important call. Remember, the waiting game does not usually yield winning results.
What will most likely happen is you will go through the five stages of grief:
Stage One: Denial
Psh. So what if it's been a week and a half? They're going to call. They probably just changed the shoot date or something. Yeah.
Stage Two: Anger
Those thumb-sucking dimwits!! Why haven't they called yet? How could they not choose me?! I did kinda okay at that audition! GAHHHHHHH!!!!!
Stage Three: Bargaining
Okay universe, I know I've called you names in the past, but if you just let this work out this one time I swear I'll stop wiping my boogers on other people's carpets. I swear!!!
Stage Four: Depression
*sigh*
Stage Five: Acceptance
Oh god, I'm such a loser.
So, there you have it. A career in [pseudo-]artistry is akin to a death in the family. I suppose being a player in the Waiting Game is more exciting than sitting back and watching from the sidelines--but it can drive you mad nonetheless. So, be sure to divide your eggs amongst numerous baskets (isn't Easter more fun that way?) and to have back-up plans spanning two alphabets. Because when Plan Z falls through, it's always nice to have Plan Й to fall back on.
Happy gaming! :)
Sunday, January 23, 2011
The Magnificent Power of Instant Repulsion
Folks, there isn't a feeling quite like that of walking into an audition room and experiencing an instant temperature drop--not because of some air conditioning malfunction, mind you--but because of the collective cold shoulders of everyone seated before you.
Now, don't get me wrong, being judged is part of an actor's daily regimen. Some people like you; some people don't; some are rooting for you; some want to continually knock you in the head with regulation whiffle balls. It's just the way things work.
A rare occasion it is indeed when you can somehow sway the entire room in one direction. Preferably, your undeniable wit and charm will win those bastards over, but it's equally as interesting when you somehow manage to make every single one of them wish you were never born.
It's a love dis-connection, and its effects are as instant as a glorious cup-o-noodles. You already know you're in trouble when they keep the girl who went in before you for a suspiciously long time. Thanks to the annoyingly paper-thin walls of the audition room, you hear them laughing merrily, fawning over her, and giving her more than two chances to nail the lines. Breathe in. Breathe out. The pressure's on, but you can do better than that smelly, unsophisticated hag in there, right? You're YOU, after all.
But then again, you're YOU, after all. The door opens and Little Miss Popular steps out, all smiles, and gives you the "top that" look with a devilish gleam in her right eye. (The left eye's not offensive to you at all.) Whatever. No sweat. You've got this, chica. You've got...
...to be kidding. They're so busy gushing about the previous actress that they don't even notice you've entered the room. You awkwardly try to assert your presence by coughing, shuffling around loudly and leaning over the table to "hand them your headshot" (really just trying to flash your cleavage). Nothin' doin'. When they finally notice you're not an inanimate object, they glance at you dismissively and seem to mutually conclude through telepathic means that you're about as fit for this role as a plate of five day old chicken liver.
Ouch. And it's not just one of them. Not even just two or three of them. It's all five of them. Now, everyone has their preferences and pet peeves--these are things you can't control. Some may instantly dislike you because you have big teeth, or a squeaky voice. Some might hate the fact that you're pigeon-toed or have long nails. Usually you'll really only push a couple people's buttons and the rest will either be indifferent toward you, like something about you, or pity you (usually the latter). But to set off five pet-peev-adars all at once? Without even trying? Bravo, my dear. Brav-o. Too bad you can't earn a degree in this.
Your confidence is sweating out of your underarms and you could desperately use a glass of gin right about now. You try to salvage the situation with some clever small talk and mildly amusing one-liners--all of which fall hopelessly flat. The silence is deafening. Where are those pesky crickets when you need them?
They spare you any further humiliation by allowing you to carry on and read your lines. So, you audition your little heart out. You infuse meaning into every single scripted word, you let your personality shine through, you give the role your own little twist, and--most importantly--you don't fart. Not even once!
And now for the moment of truth. The five judges seated before you will now confer with one another to decide if you deserve another go. Nevermind the fact that, for all you know, two of them are high school dropouts, you could outplay two of them in a game of Go-Fish, and one of them is a rapist. These are the people who hold your career's progress in the palms of their hands. If they give you a second chance to read the lines, with different direction, it's a good sign.
So what's the verdict? A no-go, of course. They thank you for your time, smile cordially, and send you off. Once the door closes you just know they're going to have the time of their lives ripping you to pieces. It's like getting your legs waxed at a Vietnamese salon (I have no idea what 'đồ lồn qu' means, but it sure as hell doesn't sound like, "What a lovely girl!").
You sulk off to your car (which took 17 minutes, 4 U-turns, 3 middle fingers and 7 quarters to park), and cry like the little baby you are. This is just like middle school all over again. "Why doesn't anybody like meeeee?" *sniffle, sob, hiccup. repeat*
But then you think about it. Hmmm. Why doesn't anybody like me? That's an interesting question. You walked into a room and disappointed everyone in it, including yourself--something only a select few people have the ability to do. That sounds like a pretty cool power if you ask me. It's like you're a freaking X-man! (is there a singular version? Or is it just one X-men, two X-men, like one fish, two fish?) Just think of all the grimaces and eye-rolls you could cause across the nation by merely being you--a weapon of mass disappointment. If Russia knew about you, you'd be a top secret project hidden away in some Siberian bunker. And you know what? That feels pretty good.
This is a magnificent accomplishment indeed, and hopefully, a repeat performance will be hard to come by. So savor the moment, revel in it, and enjoy the two hour drive back to your apartment, (which is only five miles away). And lord help the poor chump who tries to cut you off. You've got magic inside of you and you're not afraid to unleash it. ;)
Now, don't get me wrong, being judged is part of an actor's daily regimen. Some people like you; some people don't; some are rooting for you; some want to continually knock you in the head with regulation whiffle balls. It's just the way things work.
A rare occasion it is indeed when you can somehow sway the entire room in one direction. Preferably, your undeniable wit and charm will win those bastards over, but it's equally as interesting when you somehow manage to make every single one of them wish you were never born.
It's a love dis-connection, and its effects are as instant as a glorious cup-o-noodles. You already know you're in trouble when they keep the girl who went in before you for a suspiciously long time. Thanks to the annoyingly paper-thin walls of the audition room, you hear them laughing merrily, fawning over her, and giving her more than two chances to nail the lines. Breathe in. Breathe out. The pressure's on, but you can do better than that smelly, unsophisticated hag in there, right? You're YOU, after all.
But then again, you're YOU, after all. The door opens and Little Miss Popular steps out, all smiles, and gives you the "top that" look with a devilish gleam in her right eye. (The left eye's not offensive to you at all.) Whatever. No sweat. You've got this, chica. You've got...
...to be kidding. They're so busy gushing about the previous actress that they don't even notice you've entered the room. You awkwardly try to assert your presence by coughing, shuffling around loudly and leaning over the table to "hand them your headshot" (really just trying to flash your cleavage). Nothin' doin'. When they finally notice you're not an inanimate object, they glance at you dismissively and seem to mutually conclude through telepathic means that you're about as fit for this role as a plate of five day old chicken liver.
Ouch. And it's not just one of them. Not even just two or three of them. It's all five of them. Now, everyone has their preferences and pet peeves--these are things you can't control. Some may instantly dislike you because you have big teeth, or a squeaky voice. Some might hate the fact that you're pigeon-toed or have long nails. Usually you'll really only push a couple people's buttons and the rest will either be indifferent toward you, like something about you, or pity you (usually the latter). But to set off five pet-peev-adars all at once? Without even trying? Bravo, my dear. Brav-o. Too bad you can't earn a degree in this.
Your confidence is sweating out of your underarms and you could desperately use a glass of gin right about now. You try to salvage the situation with some clever small talk and mildly amusing one-liners--all of which fall hopelessly flat. The silence is deafening. Where are those pesky crickets when you need them?
They spare you any further humiliation by allowing you to carry on and read your lines. So, you audition your little heart out. You infuse meaning into every single scripted word, you let your personality shine through, you give the role your own little twist, and--most importantly--you don't fart. Not even once!
And now for the moment of truth. The five judges seated before you will now confer with one another to decide if you deserve another go. Nevermind the fact that, for all you know, two of them are high school dropouts, you could outplay two of them in a game of Go-Fish, and one of them is a rapist. These are the people who hold your career's progress in the palms of their hands. If they give you a second chance to read the lines, with different direction, it's a good sign.
So what's the verdict? A no-go, of course. They thank you for your time, smile cordially, and send you off. Once the door closes you just know they're going to have the time of their lives ripping you to pieces. It's like getting your legs waxed at a Vietnamese salon (I have no idea what 'đồ lồn qu' means, but it sure as hell doesn't sound like, "What a lovely girl!").
You sulk off to your car (which took 17 minutes, 4 U-turns, 3 middle fingers and 7 quarters to park), and cry like the little baby you are. This is just like middle school all over again. "Why doesn't anybody like meeeee?" *sniffle, sob, hiccup. repeat*
But then you think about it. Hmmm. Why doesn't anybody like me? That's an interesting question. You walked into a room and disappointed everyone in it, including yourself--something only a select few people have the ability to do. That sounds like a pretty cool power if you ask me. It's like you're a freaking X-man! (is there a singular version? Or is it just one X-men, two X-men, like one fish, two fish?) Just think of all the grimaces and eye-rolls you could cause across the nation by merely being you--a weapon of mass disappointment. If Russia knew about you, you'd be a top secret project hidden away in some Siberian bunker. And you know what? That feels pretty good.
This is a magnificent accomplishment indeed, and hopefully, a repeat performance will be hard to come by. So savor the moment, revel in it, and enjoy the two hour drive back to your apartment, (which is only five miles away). And lord help the poor chump who tries to cut you off. You've got magic inside of you and you're not afraid to unleash it. ;)
Monday, January 3, 2011
Stage One of Stage Name
New decade, new year, new underwear, new me.
For a while now, I've been ignoring the advice of many in regards to a name change. But after three years of stubbornly clinging to my birth name and not making as much progress as I'd like to have made, I've caved in to the pressures of Hollywood to adopt a more desirable moniker.
Protests of "But this is who I am!", "I'm going to make it as myself or not at all!" and "I don't want to take a bath!" (whoops...don't know how that one slipped in there), have faded away, ushering in a new perspective on the way things work.
A name just isn't a name in this business. It's an image. It's a package. I've been told that people don't quite know what to think of me or where to place me because I don't look the way my name sounds. If I enter the room as Gukka Stinklestein then dammit!--I'd better be hilarious. Likewise, if I market myself as Trixie Lixalot--I'd better have the eye-popping, private-stimulating cleavage to show for it.
Is my name hurting my career? It's hard for me to admit, but I've personally experienced bias in the audition room due to my surname before. Who knows how many times the very opportunity to audition has passed me by because of my ethnic-sounding name? It could be lots of times, or I could be deluding myself into thinking that casting directors don't take one look at my headshot and grimace at the sight before even noticing what I call myself.
Whatever the case may be, I felt it was time for a change. A girl can only take so much watching others attain their goals before she determinedly grabs for a piece of that action herself. I was comforted in my decision by the fact that many of Hollywood's greats go or went by a stage name. If they can get used to this foreign feeling on the tip of their tongue every time they say it and the unsettling notion that they're being a fake...well, then I can too!
This might be a step in that direction, or it might not make a difference at all. The only way to tell is to live it, so this whole year will be one giant experiment to see if people are more receptive to me with my shiny new stage name.
A couple things, however, are for sure. 1. I no longer will be mistaken for one of O. bin L.'s harem girls and 2. People will no longer fear me plotting to take out their studio apartments with an explosive device.
After a full month of researching, questioning, testing and junk food binging, one name in particular met all my requirements of ethnic ambiguity, melidiousness, and singular ownership. So, without further ado, allow me to introduce my-new-self: Diana Valure.
*fingers crossed*
For a while now, I've been ignoring the advice of many in regards to a name change. But after three years of stubbornly clinging to my birth name and not making as much progress as I'd like to have made, I've caved in to the pressures of Hollywood to adopt a more desirable moniker.
Protests of "But this is who I am!", "I'm going to make it as myself or not at all!" and "I don't want to take a bath!" (whoops...don't know how that one slipped in there), have faded away, ushering in a new perspective on the way things work.
A name just isn't a name in this business. It's an image. It's a package. I've been told that people don't quite know what to think of me or where to place me because I don't look the way my name sounds. If I enter the room as Gukka Stinklestein then dammit!--I'd better be hilarious. Likewise, if I market myself as Trixie Lixalot--I'd better have the eye-popping, private-stimulating cleavage to show for it.
Is my name hurting my career? It's hard for me to admit, but I've personally experienced bias in the audition room due to my surname before. Who knows how many times the very opportunity to audition has passed me by because of my ethnic-sounding name? It could be lots of times, or I could be deluding myself into thinking that casting directors don't take one look at my headshot and grimace at the sight before even noticing what I call myself.
Whatever the case may be, I felt it was time for a change. A girl can only take so much watching others attain their goals before she determinedly grabs for a piece of that action herself. I was comforted in my decision by the fact that many of Hollywood's greats go or went by a stage name. If they can get used to this foreign feeling on the tip of their tongue every time they say it and the unsettling notion that they're being a fake...well, then I can too!
This might be a step in that direction, or it might not make a difference at all. The only way to tell is to live it, so this whole year will be one giant experiment to see if people are more receptive to me with my shiny new stage name.
A couple things, however, are for sure. 1. I no longer will be mistaken for one of O. bin L.'s harem girls and 2. People will no longer fear me plotting to take out their studio apartments with an explosive device.
After a full month of researching, questioning, testing and junk food binging, one name in particular met all my requirements of ethnic ambiguity, melidiousness, and singular ownership. So, without further ado, allow me to introduce my-new-self: Diana Valure.
*fingers crossed*
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