Auditions

Tripods, Tapes and Tantrums

Photo by Timek Life on Unsplash

Throughout my tenure as an actor, I’ve found the profession engenders intrigue to those not on the inside. There’s a vague understanding of the two extremes; the cream of Hollywood, smouldering on red carpets in million-dollar couture, and the struggling artist, jazz-handing on high streets in foam phone costumes while shrieking about unlimited data plans for only £5.99 a month, la la laaaa.

The bulk of the actor population, however, sit somewhere in the middle. While it’s difficult to quantify exactly, studies have shown that only 2% of actors make a living solely through performing. But I’m not going to bleat on about the (often nepotistic) injustice of it all – I’ll spare you my tepid take on that.

There’s no shortage of gushy, rising/fully-fledged star interviews, nor pieces on the trials and tribulations of the 2%, crapping on about their craft or how their Oscar failed to bring them them inner peace. Instead, I’ll offer a candid slice of insight focused on one key aspect of #thatactorlifetho: auditions.

Actors get work opportunities through their agent, if they are lucky enough to have one. The agent will scour all projects being cast and offer their client for any character breakdown they fit – factoring in physical appearance, age bracket, background and sometimes general vibe. If the casting team agree, the agent has secured their client an audition. They will send on information about the project, plus one or more scenes to prepare.

Next, it’s time to shine. Your audition is your Cover Letter and project-specific test in one. It’s your chance to demonstrate why you’re the guy for the job, how you truly, uniquely understand the character and can bring them to life, maybe even offer an unexpected twist or interpretation of the scene that makes you stand out against the multitude of other actors being seen for the same role.

When I started out twenty years ago, in a halcyon age where screens lacked colour and communications were sent via courier pigeon/smoke signal, auditions were held IRL. You’d hitch your wagon to your steed and head to the city in which the casting office was based to meet with the casting team and maybe the Director/Producer(s). You’d sit in a waiting room full of people who looked like you, same same but different, awaiting your turn. Once in, you'd exchange pleasantries, perform the scene(s) you’d worked on, then pace and bite your nails for days until finding out if you were to be recalled, cast or discarded.

Since then, they’ve done away with all that in favour of self-tapes – which, as it sounds, means filming the audition yourself. Self-tapes can theoretically be done anywhere, anytime – as long as they look half-decent and are in by the deadline. While it is possible to use a creative combination of balanced chairs, books and daylight, the whole thing looks infinitely better with a bit of kit; we’re talking tripod, ring light, backdrop sheet, iPhone.

Once set-up, you need a reader, someone who can fill in the other character(s) lines. (I have deliberately repressed teenage memories of auditions for flirtatious, ingenue-type roles, with my choice of reader being either my mum or my dad.) I’m married to someone who is also an actor, so we have a mutually beneficial self-tape situation. Unless he offers unsolicited direction when I’m feeling particularly uptight or sensitive, in which case I have to shake off the burgeoning huff or risk running out of time.

The material (scene(s)) can be anything from a couple of lines to upwards of sixteen pages. It’s generally preferred that you are off-book, meaning they want you to have memorised it and not have your face buried in the script. Once you’ve flailed, sweated and sworn your way through nailed your performance,  you send the files off to your agent, watch as the little WeTransfer wheel does its thing, then force yourself to forget about it. Nine times out of ten, you won’t hear back about it – you’re left to infer that it didn’t go your way when it gets to Friday evening and the phone hasn’t rung. The sheer volume of candidates (in their hundreds or thousands for each role) means feedback is unlikely, let alone any specifically tailored to you.

The great thing about self-tapes is it levels the playing-field. Castings are open to more actors – the often prohibitive financial/time costs of travelling to and from auditions is gone. It also removes a lot of the pressure; rather than having to dazzle in the brief window of an IRL appointment, you can take your time.

The less great thing is tight turnarounds, an increase in competition and the underlying sense that you’re pissing in the wind. It’s disheartening but true that casting teams switch off after first five seconds if you don’t exactly match what they’re looking for – you can picture the head-shaking, the calls of “Too pale/ too frail/ too whale. Next!”

My perspective on it all depends on where I am in my menstrual cycle. It’s either hard work for mostly no reward, or a chance to practice the art form I love, demonstrate my skills to industry pros and shoot my shot with a cool role. You have to grit your teeth and convince yourself it’s not in vain –someone’s going to get the job, why shouldn’t it be me? It’s happened before, it can happen again. Can’t it?

On Monday this week, I was sent a tape for an exciting new TV show set in the US and India. The scenes totalled twelve pages, with fat chunks of dialogue from the character I was going for. The deadline was a breezy 24 hours away. My toddler doesn’t attend nursery on a Monday, so I had no chance to go over it until the kids’ bedtime (8pm earliest.) The following day, I had to leave for a driving test at 12pm. Then it transpired that Russ (my husband/long-suffering reader) only had a 30 min slot of availability on Tuesday between the school run and an unmovable appointment.

While my toddler repeatedly attempted to fall off a chair, I rang my agent’s assistant to explain my predicament. “Unfortunately I don’t think I can get you an extension – they’re moving quite quickly on this one,” was her reply. “And they have specified that you’re to be off-book.”

Keeewwwwl.

I did what I could, but knew I wouldn’t be able to memorise and perfect twelve pages-worth of dialogue on an energy-zapped brain. Instead, I called upon the Teleprompter app, which allows you to read the lines newsreader-style. Once the kids were out, the porridge cleared away and concealer plastered over my dark circles, I got to work. I did my best, sent the tape then traipsed across the country to fail my fourth driving test (inadequate passing distance to a parked car, even though the wing mirrors didn’t even touch. Examiner wasn’t open to any protestations. Gutted.)

You know who gives a fuck that I tried really hard with the tape, despite the extenuating circumstances? Absolutely no-one. There are no extra points for overcoming obstacles to get the work in on time. There are simply too many other candidates who can dedicate more time and care, or are naturally a better fit for the casting team’s vision.

I’m not looking for any sympathy, by the way. I could have said ‘sorry, I can’t make this one work’, or just quit the game entirely. While smug and annoying, it’s not entirely unreasonable for corporate types to dismiss struggling creatives by belching ‘learn to code!’. I’ve looked into it, despite having the technical know-how of a medieval rock.

With any problem, I firmly believe in either change or acceptance.

The acting game is a casino and the sooner aspiring actors understand that, the better. You spin the wheel, roll the dice and cross your fingers.

The rest is out of your grabby little hands.