I Got 5 On It

When it comes to auditions, I’m the Queen of Screwing Up. I’ve fluffed more lines than a hungover actor on opening night. I’ve managed to nearly take out a casting director by over-zealously sitting on an office chair. I’ve managed to misinterpret instructions to the point that I’ve ended up putting everything in the room into a massive pile. I’ve turned up to a 3 hour movement workshop in the tightest jeans known to man. I’ve had an eye infection for a casting for an advert where only my eyes would be visible.  But this week’s faux pas might just be the worst…

It was a recall for an advert. I’ll be honest, I’d bloody love it. I remember when we were at drama school, it was the done thing to say that you’d never do a commercial. Everyone considered themselves above such things. Yep, we’re all above earning a few thousand quid for a day’s work. How I long to go back to a time when we all thought we were superior to bill payers.

So, yes. I kinda wanted this. I’ve booked a holiday and it’d be really nice to be able to afford to sleep in something other than a tent made out of my silly idea that I can actually afford to leave the country.

I’m currently on a pencil. For those of you who have jobs that don’t involve moping around hoping someone will cast you to play a tree, a pencil is the pain in every actor’s life. Sometimes, if you’re really lucky, you’ll be a heavy pencil. A heavy pencil is really only something interesting to actors, stationery shop owners and staff at The Pencil Museum. I was told to pencil a total of 6 different dates, one of which was in the past. I really hope that’s the first test for when they’re casting the new Doctor Who… But anyway, I jumped through a number of hoops until I found myself in the ridiculous position of being pencilled for a recall that might not be happening. It’s this kind of precarious shit they should be teaching in drama schools, not how to be a bloody llama.

Finally, my recall was confirmed. Hooray.

It was going to be in arse-end of London. Boo.

I turned up to the venue and it was at one of the numerous audition venues in London which is a myriad of identical rooms that are attached to identical corridors. I was vaguely pointed in the right direction and was then left to my own devices. I’d been given the name of the room and had been directed to a corridor with three rooms, none of which were labelled. Which one to go with…

Room one contained 8 dancing men.

Room two contained about 20 ballerinas.

Room three contained 2 men breakdancing while wearing roller skates.

Oh, right. I’m not at a recall at all. I’m at my own worst nightmare where I must face up to my total inadequacies as a performer. Good-o.

I fannyed around, wondering where on earth I was meant to be. A head then poked from out of the Starlight Express meets Flashdance room.

“Are you here for the recall?”

Oh god. Why has a room where there is roller skating happening got anything to do with me?

“Don’t worry we’re sharing the room.”

With relief, I start waffling on. I make some bad jokes. I keep talking. I then find out that I’ve managed to bleat on over the skaters’ recording.

I’M A PROFESSIONAL! HIRE ME!

Once they’ve done whizzing around and making me feel like heffalump, it’s my turn, thankfully sans skates. I do my bit to camera. All good. Feeling optimistic.

I have a chat to the casting director, who’s lovely, she puts her hand up and, in my relief at not having to skate, on finding out that the casting director is nice, in getting through an audition without nearly killing someone, I high-five her.

I then hand over the script and go on my merry way.

I feel confident. Heck, I might just get this job.

I’m stood on the train platform feeling pretty bloody good about myse-

OH NO.

She didn’t want a high-five. She put out her hand to take the script back off me.

OH GOD.

I’m now that person. So bloody cocky that I high-five casting directors after an audition. I might as well have waited for the other actors to arrive, cocked my leg and marked my territory around the whole production.

So that’s another casting down the drain. Surely that’s worth a high-five?

A Stand

Unpaid but this plumbing job will look fantastic on your CV.

We would not stand for this.

I can't even provide expenses but this bus route does pick up some really influential people.

We would not stand for this.

We have decided, to appeal to a wider audience, to 'skimplify' the uniforms of our female staff.

We would not stand for this.

Male office workers are expected to wear a full suit. Female office workers are expected to wear a bikini.

We would not stand for this.

I can't afford to pay you but I will film you teaching and you can keep the footage.

We would not stand for this.

We are hiring women in this hospital as we need some eye candy for the men.

We would not stand for this.

Of course, we understand just how difficult it is being a doctor. No pay.

We would not stand for this.

Due to budget constraints, we won't be paying MPs.

They would not stand for this. 

You must be more than a 7 out of 10 on the beautiful scale to join our HR team.

We would not stand for this.

You must be thin to represent our accounts team.

We would not stand for this.

All females applying to join our firm must be attractive. All males must speak Spanish.

We would not stand for this.

I can't pay you but this call centre does have a fantastic vending machine.

We would not stand for this.

To avoid time wasting, the manager has requested full frontal nudity in the interview.

We would not stand for this.

The company prefers nurses who will work for food.

We would not stand for this.

We may require you to eat less to perform well as a train driver.

We would not stand for this.

As the majority of our audience are male, all female prison officers will be wearing minimal clothing.

We would not stand for this.

Despite a turnover last year of £12 million, we will not be paying our retail staff.

We would not stand for this.

So why, as actors, are we expected to? All of these examples are modified examples of genuine casting calls I've seen. And if you're a musician or a writer or a comedian or a crew member then chances are you're expected to put up with similar too.

There's a difference between collaboration and exploitation and some employers are deviously blurring the boundaries to make sure we do as much as possible for their gain and our loss.

Enough is enough. This industry will never change if we don't start to make a stand. If you see an exploitative casting call then tell the site or tell Equity or, if you're really at a loss, then tell me. If we call out the bullshit then maybe, just maybe, it might start to go away.

Bringing It All Home

I’m currently waiting to hear details about a self-tape audition. While I sit here in my pyjamas (yes I know it's Wednesday afternoon. I also had a packet of NikNaks and a cream bun for lunch. Try judging me all you like. I'm invincible today) I’m waiting to hear if I need to spend the rest of the afternoon prepping my flat so it looks like an office and prepping myself so I don't look like I've spent the day so far being a bloody champion of self-employment. 

For those who’ve never experienced a self-tape, it’s what happens when someone can’t be bothered to hold a proper audition. Instead of hiring out a church hall, theatre rooftop, wooded area or Notting Hill McDonalds (yes, I’ve auditioned in all of these) they decide to let you do all the hard work so they can judge both you and your choice of wallpaper. For a couple of minutes, you have to shakily record yourself in the comfort of your own home, desperately trying to look professional as you realise that your BluRay of the Toy Story Trilogy is totally in shot.

Now I quite like the idea of self-tapes. You don’t have to leave the house and, if you’re lucky, you can do the whole thing in your slippers. If I don't have to brave Soho or shoes then I consider that a stunning victory. In my house there's no fear of bumping into someone I worked with three years ago but whose name I can't remember. But that’s pretty much where the pro points end. The cons list, however, is a whole other thing…

      1) Your flat will never look as ridiculous and shambolic as it does the moment before you start filming. It doesn't matter how house proud you are or how spotless you think everything is, your greying pants draped over a wonky Ikea drying rack will not get you the job.

      2)  Making your flat look like something else. It's your flat. It's where you live. It's where you mope about in your novelty pyjamas eating Nutella straight from the jar. It's not an office or a hospital or Gotham City (OK, sometimes it's Gotham City.) But don't worry. I’m sure ALL offices have tie-dyed throws over everything and damp so rampant that the mould on the wall behind you causes continuity issues.

3)You will be the living embodiment of ‘all dressed up and nowhere to go.’ It’s quite the low point when you’ve spent nearly an hour making your hair look perfect, your make-up look spotless and have ironed the soul out of your outfit just so you look presentable enough to walk from your bedroom to your living room. It also means I spend the rest of the day sitting around the house feeling uncomfortable in make up. I might not like wearing it but I refuse to spend all that time on it only to wash it all off 5 minutes later. I like to think this makes me look like one of the Kardashians or something but instead it just looks like I'm making an effort for the Water Aid door chuggers. 

4) Getting someone to film the damn thing. I’m lucky that I live with my boyfriend who’s also self-employed so I’ve got a ready-made camera assistant good to go. But I used to live on my own with only a 93 year old neighbour on hand. She was lovely but rarely does an self-tape go well when you've spent the last hour firstly explaining why you're an actor and haven't got yourself a proper job and, secondly, how to operate the camera on your iPhone. 

      5) Other people. You can guarantee that the second you hit record, the Jehovah’s Witnesses will pop round, the builders outside will start drilling through 18 inches of concrete and the couple upstairs will embark upon a session of furious sex. Apparently the rest of North London doesn't go on hold just so you can spend the next minute pretending your grubby hallway is a war zone just so you can maybe get another poorly paid job to fling at your CV. 

But still, at least you can do it all in your slippers.

Something Changed

Firstly, if you haven’t already done so, read this…

http://journal.neilgaiman.com/2012/09/a-letter-from-scared-actress.html

Pretty shocking, huh? The thought of being involved in a project only to find out that not only have they completely changed what you say but that they’ve also turned it into an anti-Islam film is not a good one. And it got me thinking. Of course, it’s pretty rare to find yourself in such a situation but it did make me realise just how much control we give up.

Now, before we start, I’m happy to say that I’ve never been involved in a film that has ended with me having anti-Islam propaganda dubbed over my ramblings. Far from it. In fact, I’ve only been dubbed once and that was because I’d wildly exaggerated my music playing abilities and the director wasn’t impressed with my quivering version of Three Blind Mice. However, once you’ve finished prancing around in front of the camera, you hand over control to the powers that be and your screen fate is in their twitchy hands. During filming you’ve had wonderful ideas in your head of how the final product will look. In your rose-tinted brain, you’re wonderfully lit and every shot is beautifully framed and captures your every thought and word perfectly. 

But we know that this isn’t the case. What usually happens is that during your main scene, the light was just a bit off or someone failed to spot that the Red Arrows were performing 12 flypasts and your moment to shine instead turns into showcasing you as a disembodied voice. What was once gorgeous showreel material is now far better suited to going on your voicereel . You should be on screen in full cinematic glory but instead you’re reduced to embarrassingly pointing out your arm coming into shot  and trying to work out whether that’s your ear on screen. 

However, what’s even worse is when the damn thing doesn’t see the light of day ever again. The first two commercials I was involved disappeared off the face of the earth, both clearly too awful to even be shown at 1am on Food Network. While neither advert demanded a great deal of my acting talents, I was still excited about being involved in something that might actually make it on to TV. Everyone I’d ever met was on high-alert looking out for it but, after a few months, it’s safe to say that their interest waned. Then, one evening, I saw an advert for one of the products. I shifted to the edge of my sofa and scrutinised the screen hoping to catch a glimpse of myself. Nothing. My mum rang. I just saw the advert on TV. You weren’t in it. I explained that it wasn’t the advert I’d shot and that none of the other people I was filming with were in it either. I convinced myself that it was still to come and held a vigil by my TV for months waiting for it. Finally, after a year, I had to face up to the realisation that it just wasn’t going to be seen by anyone.

But to see it and find that it’s been changed to something entirely different?  I count myself very lucky indeed.

Fear Of The Unknown

There are days when I feel supremely positive about my acting career. Those days when I send loads one email out and change the font on my CV. The days when I rearrange my credits on Spotlight and spend two minutes looking up showreel companies. And that time when I spent all of ten seconds thinking about writing my own show. Those are the times when I feel like the hardest working actor this side of a temping job. And then there are days like today. Days like today make me worry about just how seriously I take my career.

I had an acting job today. As events go, this is rather bloody exciting because my acting regime has been about as active as my exercise timetable recently. In fact, rather worryingly, this has been my first acting job since January. At this rate, I can look forward to a bit more work sometime in December and can use my sparse CV to heat the flat. But yes, today I was actually paid to do a bit of acting and that was great. Thing is, I didn't entirely know what it was for. When I applied for it, I knew it would just be as part of an advert on a website. It paid and it sounded easy so of course I fired off my begging letter and, to my surprise, they cast me without even asking me to audition. For some reason, and I'm not sure why, it never really dawned on me to ask what the website/product was. And as it got closer to the day of shooting, I actually rather liked the idea that I didn't know what I was letting myself in for. Aside from the blogging opportunities, it made me feel a little dangerous (and yes, I realise this is about as dangerous as crossing the road when the green man tells you to.)

So I arrived this morning feeling all rather exciting. Who knows what exciting kind of product I was about to talk about. It could have been the newest flavour of crisps meaning that I'd reached the pinnacle of my acting career at the tender age of 28. Excitedly, I signed the release form, desperately scouring it for a clue as to what it would be. In fact, I was doing pieces of three different products, none of which I'd ever heard of. No Walkers. No McCoys. Not even Asda SmartPrice. Damn. Looks like this acting lark is going to be dragged out for a while yet.

Once I'd signed my life away, I was asked to make my way to the shoot which was a couple of minutes down the road. Not a problem. I've left buildings before and walked down the road all on my own. I've been doing it for years almost glitch free so today should be no exception. But of course, it was. I got to the main door downstairs only to find that the door wouldn't open. I searched for a magic green button located nearby that would let me out. Nothing. I desperately flicked a lightswitch numerous times. desperately hoping that it was a door-opener in disguise. Still nothing. I pushed and pulled to the point where I was dangerously close to losing my fee to cover the cost of a new door. Finally, a man who obviously worked there appeared on the other side of the door, took one look at me flailing around like a fly in a bottle and let me out. Good start.

The rest of the shoot was actually turned out to be fairly painless. I was very quickly briefed on the products, told what to say and that was it.  Although it was being shot on a very busy high street full of very normal people who obviously hadn't seen a camera before. Firstly we had to contend with the man who seemed to deliberately turn up his very frantic jazz everytime action was called. And there was also the poor man who, while trying to buy a coffee, was shouted at by the director because he couldn't take his eyes away from the camera lens. A group of foreign students also watched and looked utterly dismayed as they were rewarded with the sight of me hitching my skirt up as I came very close to feeding my radio mic through my knickers. After that I think word spread around London pretty quickly and we were barely bothered again.

But despite the general public and the fact that I was improvising about things I'd never heard of before, it was all done very quickly. In fact, rather worryingly, in the two jobs I've done this year, I've spent about 30 minutes on set. Best put that BAFTA Fellowship on hold, folks...

Photographic Evidence

I've gabbled on about advert auditions many, many times. They are fairly loathsome but they are a goldmine when it comes to the type of ridiculous occurences that I love to write about. And I'm pleased to say that today's casting was no exception. So put down your copy of Contacts, stop pretending that you're going to get any work done and sit back while I tell you a tale of intrigue, bums and old coffee cups...

I should start by saying that I'd started to get a little worried about advert castings. I had one on Friday that was so bloody lovely, I was left wondering what the catch was. Of course, it wasn't completely stress-free. I'd somehow managed to not eat beforehand so I found myself at midday with a very empty, rumbling tum. It was all going ok until the receptionist in the waiting room pulled out a burrito from his bag and from that moment until I was released back into the room, my stomach made sounds that can only be likened to a pneumatic drill left on in an earthquake. But everything else was perfect. So I worried that today's casting would go the same way and I'd be left with nothing to write about. But have no fear, the excruciating, hair-tearing, soul-battering world of acting did not disappoint.

I turned up for the casting a bit early and was surprised to see that I was actually the first person there. I was let into the studios and asked to fill out my form in the waiting room. However, it was only when I sat down that I realised I was sat in the midst of the production meeting before the casting where the main topic of conversation was just how many people they're seeing for so few roles. Oh brilliant. But I tried to keep my head held high as I depressingly wrote down my measurements. Just as I managed to get a slippery grip on my dignity, the receptionist decided that now was the perfect time to empty the two bins that were only 30cm from my feet. Coffee dregs, sandwich wrappers and an all matter of office debris spill out over the floor and cascade over my feet. Great. That's just what I need to get myself ready.

I'm finally whisked away where I'm asked to pose for a series of photographs. Finally, I felt like I was safe. But oh no. I'm told that my shots will essentially be test ones where they can test that the lighting is OK. Oh. Thanks. That should really help me get the job. And then, if I wasn't feeling uneasy enough, I'm then subjected to someone shouting 'ROLL UP YOUR SLEEVES' as they walk past me, not even stopping to make contact. I'm then asked to turn my back to the camera, bend over ever so slightly and put my hands on my bum. Were this not for a very well-known company then alarm bells would've been ringing out to the tune of the Crimewatch theme tune. I should also add that this was taking place at the bottom of a stairwell which all the other auditionees had to walk through to wait for their turn. I apologise to anyone who came down the stairs to be greeted by the sight of my bum.

I was then taken into a room where some further photos were taken (I'm pleased to announce that my bottom played no part in these) and I was then sent on my way with a contented smile on my face. But this was shortlived as it appeared that every actress in the world who looks even remotely like me was rounded up in the short time that I was away. I exited the room to be faced with what felt like a million slightly more attractive versions of myself. Thanks world. Thanks. Very. Much.

Where For Art Thou Advert?

You or may not remember that a little while back, I was having immense fun chasing up payment for an advert I shot last year. After more hounding than Rufus Hound’s bloodhound in Hound of the Baskervilles, I finally got my money and the whole world rejoiced as I could eat for a few more weeks.  And I thought that would mean that the saga was well and truly over. But oh no. Because although the money is safe and sound in my account (with a gorgeous dent out of it due to having to pay to live under a slightly damp roof) I’m now waiting to get hold of the damn advert itself.

You’d think an advert would be easy to find. Surely the whole point of an advert is that it’s out there to be seen so that as many people as possible get suckered in and squander their hard-earned monies on something entirely useless. But not when I’m involved. It is nowhere. I thought, because I’d been a bit persistent about getting my pay, that I’d leave it a few weeks before I chased up the footage. So I did. And now, three days later, I’m still waiting for a reply. So, desperate not to be seen as an actress that’s more irritating than a mohair jumper, I thought I’d do a bit of detective work myself.

First stop was that place where we all go when we want to find a video. You Glorious Tube. A treasure trove for procrastinators everywhere, YouTube is always to be trusted. If it ain’t on there then it ain’t worth seeing. Well, if we go by that rule then this advert most definitely isn’t worth being seen. I have searched for everything.  Every possible variant for every possible word has been used in every possible order. I have tried being obvious and I have tried being diverse. And because it’s only being shown in mainland Europe, I’ve even tried translating my searches into other languages. Still nothing. 

Starting to admit defeat, I thought I’d try searching by adding the name of one of the other actors in it. Ah ha! Someone has posted on this actor’s facebook page about it! There, in black and white is one solitary sentence compromising of seven words. That, my friends, is the sum of my labours. So, now I know that the advert exists because someone out there has seen it. But that means, out of the 1,407,724,920 that supposedly have access to the internet, only one of them has bothered to mention this advert online. They’re more than happy to unnecessarily tell us all what they ate for breakfast, their thoughts on EastEnders and share what they looked like on their holiday to Malaga but only one person in the whole of Europe has taken the time to oh so briefly mention this advert.

After all this searching, I’m still no closer to seeing myself. I realise that I’m probably only on screen for a maximum of five seconds and I imagine I’m almost unrecognisable but that’s beside the point. I want to see it. I want my friends and family to see it. I want those losers at school to see it. Dammit, I want proof that more than one person has seen it. And, more importantly, I can’t cope with the fact that I’ve now shot three adverts in my life and I’ve yet to see any of them. I refuse to be the invisible actress and therefore I will stop at nothing to see this damn thing. Taxi to Norway please!