Giving a Crap

Well, it seems it’s still a lean period for me. I must be too Anglo / Irish / white / whatever for today’s multi-ethnic market-place, at least in the eyes of advertising people. 

Anyway, I’ve only had three auditions so far this year and it’s nearly August. One I botched, two I did well. No work out of them but the third audition was only a couple of days ago so digits crossed. I will keep the door of hope open for as long as possible, defying both reason and reality. (Is it optimism or desperation?)

Things haven’t been too bad, though. Despite my takes-one-to-tango disaster last year (Strictly Balls-up), I actually got a call back for the lead! Didn’t get the job but I did score a TVC later in the year for the same company (Chemist Warehouse)—different product. That was my poo ad, as I affectionately call it. (At least it wasn’t incontinence pads)

So the not-so-great audition was for a radio program. Took me several takes to get the lines right, even though I knew them, and the poor guy playing my husband and I didn't really get a rhythm going until our last try. Oh well. I did do a lovely version of a primary school teacher for a car ad audition, if I do say so myself, but of course they cast a much younger person. And my latest audition was for a mum. Chemist Warehouse again. (They must be doing well.)

As usual, when I get into my car after each audition, I look in the rear view mirror, repeat the line or expression and think, ‘I should have done it differently.’ I do the same thing in the bathroom mirror at home. This time, I do it after the call back as well. I do it after I shoot the ad. I even do it after I see myself on TV. Especially after I see myself on TV.

So. The poo ad. 

The role involves reacting to my husband’s comically euphemistic announcement that he’s off to have a bowel movement. Lovely. There are four different scenarios but mine is the only one where the onscreen actor doesn’t have a line. I don’t mind. The fee’s the same. I tell myself to go for it in the audition and it seems to pay off as I get a call back. It’s with the director, same guy as the dancing commercial. Nice to know he likes me. This time I do a variety of reactions from mild amusement to disgust (doing a Stanislavski and drawing on real life experiences for the latter) then I get a chance to do a few different lines about heading to the loo for a number two. I tell the director that I love the script (oh, what a try-hard) and even mention a line from work: I’m off to log a job. When I tell my daughter that I’ve got the poo commercial, she says, ‘I always knew you had it in you.’

Anyway, it’s a reasonably relaxed shoot in an inner suburban house. Again, I film the reaction and then do a range of lines. After each group of takes the director heads off to confer with the client. It’s a little unnerving knowing they are analysing my performance via a link up in the next room, but I try not to think about it too much. My scene will only be on air for about 5 seconds but it’s amazing how many different combinations of expressions and head turns are required to get it perfect. After all that though, when I see the TVC, the timing isn’t quite right. 

Damn. I should have done it differently.

Strictly Balls-up

I used to joke that one day I’d be doing TV commercials for incontinence pads but I didn’t expect to get the offer quite so soon.

Fortunately, this was one audition I was able to turn down without my agent disowning me. The money was very tempting but not enough to outweigh the humiliation of announcing my bladder problem on national television.

It was my first offer in ten months. I was beginning to wonder whether last year’s Coles Car Insurance ad and my face being plastered all over supermarkets across the country had ruined my career but happily I didn’t have to wait as long for the next call.

This audition is also for a chemist product, but nothing quite so embarrassing. In fact, it’s a fun scenario about a dancing competition. The audition involves some improvisation, lots of facial expressions and dashing out of shot. I’ve finally taught myself to make it snappy and strong; there is no time for subtlety or lingering looks in 30 second TV commercials. The brief tells me I’m up for one of three non-dancing, featured roles but I think to myself, I could do the lead. So when it’s over, I tell the casting director I can dance. The audition has gone well, she seems to like me, so what have I got to lose? She says she’ll make a note of it. I'm feeling pretty good. Then, after a quick visit to the Ladies, she catches me on the way out, and asks me to audition for the other role.  Another casting director, a dancer apparently, joins us. I do it all again, with some extra direction and then have to improvise a dance… to slow tango music. What have I got myself into? I think back to my ballroom days, trying to come up with some moves that will look good, but how do you tango on your own? How do you tango, full-stop? I can barely remember the steps. If only it was a rumba!

‘Just have fun with it,’ she says. ‘And maybe you could finish with a turn and a pose.’  I do my best to ham it up but my first turn is clumsy. In my second attempt, the sole of my shoe catches on the thick carpet. I try again but I know my grand finale looks like an amateur anti-climax. On the fourth take I finish with an ungraceful flourish and a huge smile. The room is silent. They are both looking at the screen. I know what they’re thinking. This woman said she can dance. Who is she trying to kid?

My anticipation of success evaporates on the drive back to work. An optimistic prognosis has become a regretful post mortem. I should have quit while I was ahead. Now their last impression of me is of a desperado with delusions of dancing grandeur. I’m pathetic. I’m an idiot. They probably won’t even consider me for the first role now.

Fingers crossed, though. Call backs next week.  

Seeing Red

I've just been recycled in a supermarket TV commercial. Three years ago, I had a big red hand. This time it’s a little red car.

Around March I get shortlisted for a role as a Mum in an Easter campaign by the supermarket. Don’t get the gig. Then a month or so later I am one of just a few select actors asked to audition for what seems to be the same ad. I say, ‘No, I don’t have any food allergies’ and promise to eat anything they give me—except mushrooms. Don’t get the gig (the mushrooms?). Then I get a call saying I’ve been shortlisted for another ad (same company) and don’t have to audition. Nice. Then I get a call saying they don’t want to cast me in that ad, they want to cast me in a different ad (same company). No eating, a bit more money. Nice. Then they ask me to audition. That day. So at 3.30 pm I shoo my Year 8s out the door, jump in the car and drive for 75 minutes to a five minute audition where I am told they have asked for me especially. Nice. But still no guarantee.

However, the job is confirmed and it’s good to get one of those rare-to-the-point-of-extinction ‘You’ve been cast!’ calls from my agent.

A few days later I spend eleven hours on a rooftop car park. At 6.15 am I’m in wardrobe and make-up and after about thirty minutes of meticulous hair-doing I end up with… a pony-tail! And some eye drops. Apparently they don’t want my five-hour-sleep eyes to match the cars in the ad.

The day consists of standing next to little red cars, sitting in little red cars and singing about ‘little red quotes’. (Two of the guys get to drive little red cars, but not me.) My four fellow cast members (an assortment of friendly blokes) can’t quite manage to sing and gesture in time. What we need is a conductor. And someone to say ‘cut’, as we never know when to stop miming our riotous conversations about car insurance. The director is quite a character but most of his attention is on the lead. She has a heap of lines, lots of smiling to do, two wardrobe people keeping her warm between takes, waterbottles on her feet and a much nicer ponytail than mine. Meanwhile, I’m in flimsy little shoes which barely cover my feet and no socks. In the middle of winter. I jog between takes to stay warm. We mime with joy and deliver our ‘testimonies’ with joy and have literally hundreds of stills done. More joy. They are really getting their money’s worth out of us.

Then as the light fades and the stunt drivers steer their little red cars in joyful synchronisation into the sunset, I steer my medium sized white sedan out of the car park and off home.

Dial M for Marlene

December 2016

Well it’s been another year of auditions, of low paid hits and high paid misses. One memorable flop was my audition for a painkiller ad.

The brief I receive is for a mother-in-law who is ‘colourful’ in both personality and appearance, down to her purple lipstick. I dress accordingly and on the drive there psyche myself into a loud and energetic character. However, the woman running the audition wants me to tone it down and tells me my improvised dialogue is too fast. Her direction actually has me wondering whether she’s got the same brief as me, but of course I go with what she says.

Sometime later I see the ad. It’s as per the brief I was given, purple lipstick and all. However, the woman in 'my' role has the added advantage of a big pair of groovy, red glasses, so I probably never stood a chance. Oh well.

I also have a callback for an air show TVC. In the initial audition I know I’ve nailed it but in the callback I know I’ve sort of... screwed it up. (Not an entirely consistent metaphor but you get the idea.)

It’s the end of a work day, at the end of the school year, at the end of a long drive. I’m pretty stuffed but I go in feeling positive. From my eavesdropping on the opposition I know what I have to do but for some reason I’m in my head instead of ‘in the moment’. I do okay with the line but the tape would have shown me listening to the other ‘character’, with a dumb look on my face. It’s not just that I don’t do my best that gets me, it’s that I already know my four hours of driving is a waste of time. I can’t even hope for a congratulatory phone call from my agent. Ah, those phone calls.

These two jobs are reasonably well paid but the two jobs that I do get are at the lower end of the scale. Of course, I’m in it for the love of the art but…

Actually I do wonder why I'm in it sometimes. Still trying to fulfil that childhood dream probably.

Anyway, I do have the thrill of playing the wife of a murder victim in one of those true crime stories for TV. No scripted lines, just improvised dialogue that will probably, at most, provide a background to the voice over. It’s a low budget affair and there’s a few hundred dollars at the end, rather than a few thousand. However, it’s dramatically challenging and I love it. The director is both handsome and lovely, which is an added bonus.

I get the next job via my showreel, unlike the previous one that required two Skype auditions in a dodgy studio in St Kilda and lots of improvisation with different ‘husbands’—I even threw in some tears. (Take that, red glasses lady)

For this one I play an Uberdriver. No lines, just interaction, in a scene that will only last a few seconds. It’s for a video and it must be even more low budget than the last gig ‘cause I don’t even get a cup of tea! But the young actors are fun to work with and the AD, who is the director because the director is the cameraman (I think) is so sweet and cool and lovely, and her direction is so clear, she is a joy to work with. After hours of waiting around the night scene takes about 45 minutes to shoot and then I’m off home again, pleased that at least I’ve got two things to put in my bio for the year. So thank-you. And good-bye 2016.

Desperate Housewife

Yeah, I got dumped by Neighbours. (See 31/10/15) Needless to say, I didn't see it coming.

There I was, thinking my dreams had come true, that I'd found The One and out of the blue I get a phone call.

‘It’s not you, it’s the character,’ they said. At least it wasn’t a text message.

But. Fame is a fickle thing and there’s no point wallowing in self-pity. I’ve got another suburban gig ready to embrace me with open arms: an online video for The Good Guys.

So, precariously balancing my teaching job with a campaign for stardom, I'm off to a house in downtown Wantirna where I am playing a housewife and mum of a talentless young woman who wants to be a performer. The whole thing is improvised, which is challenging, but it’s one of the most relaxed shoots I’ve ever done.

Highlights? Cracking up. Talking mothers, writing and the meaning of life with the makeup guy. The stuffed toddler huddled in the corner of the dining room. (A Peek a Boo Doll) Cracking up again.

Embarrassing moments? Hm.

Ooh, I have one.

When I meet my second onscreen daughter we shake hands and she tentatively goes in for a… hug? Kiss? Nose rub? I’m not sure what it was. But we end up doing a sort of air cheek smack. It’s one of the most awkward greetings I’ve ever been part of and I’ve been part of quite a few.

Anyway, both my daughters are funny and gorgeous (must take after their mother) and everyone is lovely and the shoot goes well but I still drive home doing a gloomy self post mortem. Why am I feeling so morbid?

Must be still getting over the break up.

These things take time.

Of droughts and flooding rains

Since that last audition I've had another four, including one I had the privilege of paying for.

It's called a self-test and it's for a small role as a board member in an ABC drama starring Guy Pearce. My agent wants it done professionally so I dutifully book myself in for a $60 session to film a three line audition, then it all gets moved forward and it's a mad scramble to find someone else who can do it at short notice. I don my suit and rush from a holiday rehearsal with my students all the way across town to a little joint in Footscray. I've only got $45 cash on me but luckily it doesn't take long so the guy's happy with that. Later, a message from my agent comes up on my phone. 'We got your audition upload and it's terri--' Terrible?! Oh crap. Then I read the whole message. 'it's terrific' Relief. But after all that I don't get the role. I try out for another TVC a week later but the dry spell continues.

Then I have two auditions in one week. First I am invited, via the Starnow casting website, to audition for a rare paid role: a mum in an online video for a retail store in the style of The Office.

So on Tuesday after work I jump in the car and head into Richmond. I have to do a short scene that I've learnt and also improvise some dialogue. It goes down well. In fact the guy is laughing so much the camera--read iPhone-- is shaking. A good sign. He says he'll let me know by Friday. There's no guarantee but I’m feeling so good I settle into peak hour traffic believing I’m gonna get both roles and I haven’t even done the second audition yet.

The next day I rush off to South Melbourne for another Neighbours audition. It's mid-morning but it's raining and it's like peak hour again. I am consequently a bit late and the lovely but no-nonsense casting agent rushes me into her little studio. There's a beanied, bearded man with a Scottish accent (I know I've seen him in something before) who turns out to be reading for me. He's doing three roles. Thankfully I'm only doing one. I have to look at him and then across to two other imaginary characters while he says their lines. I'm not exactly composed but I put my best professional foot forward and get a blank on a line in my first take. Second take goes well but the casting woman wants another. I unintentionally do a look in the wrong direction but she's happy (or maybe she just wants me out of there) so off I go. I accidentally drive over a traffic island up the street (put it down to poor visibility) but manage to arrive back at work on time and in one piece. Then it's back to my day job--rehearsing my Drama students for their performance the next evening.

Friday comes and I’m checking my phone all day. Nothing. I spend the weekend down in the dumps, wondering whether I should chuck it all in. By the end of Monday the last little remnants of hope have gone. Then on Tuesday after work I get an email to say I have the mum role after all. The client liked me the best. Me! My first credit for 2015. Now I don’t look like a total BLA (Big Loser Actor)!

But wait. There's more!

On Thursday there’s a missed call from my agent. I have given up on the Neighbours role by now. It's probably an audition for some lineless, lime-lightless, payless role. But the young woman on the phone tells me I’ve got the part! She waits for me to stop screaming like I’ve just won tattslotto then gives me some details that I hardly hear I am so delirious. I hang up and look around the staffroom eager to justify my joyous outburst to my colleagues but their bemused heads are down.

I don’t care.

The drought is over.

FOOTNOTE:

Yesterday I got a call from Neighbours to discuss wardrobe. An hour later I get a call from my agent to say they've cut my role.

I know life has its up and downs but lately I've had more downs than a Coles ad.

Uneducation

You’d think by now I would have something new to tell you about my acting exploits. But no. The drought continues. Not the auditions. I’ve had quite a few. But the ‘You got the part!’ calls. They’ve been very scarce. Non-existent to be exact.

So for want of an embarrassing slash hilarious anecdote of my on-set shenanigans, I’ll tell you about my latest auditions.

I keep getting called up for mum roles. Most of them I’m too old for. Do I look like a primary school mum? No. Do I look like a mum of teenagers? Not when they usually cast twenty somethings. But I go along and give it my best. So far this year I’ve also auditioned for a supermarket shopping mum (again) and the mum of a hipster. Playing against type, I've tried out for a corporate manager and today I auditioned for a bit part as a radio show caller.

I memorise my line and practise it numerous times and ways, both at home and on the drive in. But the result of a quick initial read-through (how hard can one line be?) is that I've accidentally learnt a word wrong and can't get it out of my head.

When I arrive the waiting room is filled with men and I joke that I must be in the wrong place. I am such a card. Anyway, it breaks the ice which I always think is a good thing, except in this case it triggers one chap’s highly engaging monologue about trains, train-lines and the cost of parking.

Gradually the males are replaced by an interesting assortment of ladies.

‘It makes a nice change from competing with women who look like models,’ I remark.

To which one replies, ‘What are you trying to say?’

Oops.

A moment later I am summoned and realise I’m not very focussed. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so chatty. In the first take I say not one but three words wrong. In one sentence. It takes a few goes before I actually get the whole line right. Brilliant. It’s all over in a few minutes and I walk down the hall past the stunned faces of the other auditionees who have obviously heard my dismal execution (pun intended). Then I drive the 60 Ks home trying to figure out how I could have stuffed up so badly.

I said ‘guy’ instead of ‘bloke’ and ‘total narkisist’ instead of ‘textbook narkisist’, the last word being an intentional mispronunciation of ‘narcissist’.

‘It’s narkisist-sic,’ the casting guy corrected. ‘She’s supposed to be uneducated.’ So I did it like he said, wondering how I could have got that wrong too.

Funny thing is, I recheck the script later. It says: ‘narkisist. (sic)’

Ha.

Who’s the uneducated one now?

So I feel exactly one third less stupid than I did earlier. Not such a bad day after all.