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. ;)
Sunday, January 23, 2011
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*
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)