To Know or Not To Know

I've just received an email from an employer regarding a role in a short film that I applied for. The email basically said 'thanks or no thanks.' To be honest, it's an email that I'm never really fond of getting but on a gorgeously sunny Friday like today, I could really have done without it. I've never been a fan of the 'your CV, headshot and covering letter are so abhorrent to us that we can't even bear the thought of giving you a few minutes of our day to prove yourself to us' message. It's demoralising and even though you know that there's nothing more you could've done, it still feels a bit like slap in the face.

I'd much rather not be told. I'd be far happier being blissfully ignorant and thinking that they looked at my CV and thought I was far too qualified for their project. Maybe they saw my headshot and thought it would be unfair on the rest of the cast making them work with such a beaut. Or it might just be possible that they were so enchanted by my dulcet tones on my voicereel that they were worried they'd never get any work done should them employ me. Of course, I know that this isn't the case. I know that something in my CV just didn't seem right for them and that's fair enough. But can I not just be left to float around in my little bubble with my fingers placed firmly in my ears? Apparently not.

The messages I've received regarding applications have ranged from the uncomfortably complimentary 'I loved your physical acting and the tension that you gave through your eyes' to the baffling 'I'm sorry to inform you that after after a discussion with the production team we cannot consider you for the role.' I hadn't even applied for this role. Receiving a knockback message regarding a project you didn't even know about is an all-time low, believe me.

However, the worst was regarding a feature film I had applied for. The email started with...

"Thanks for your application. You have been shortlisted to audition for the role of Gemma. We will contact you in due course if we are able to audition you."

I have no idea what could possibly happen that would mean that I was no longer able to audition for them. I'm yet to perfect the art of sprouting a second head and I had almost no plans to have any of them killed. This was all fine though compared to the rest of the message which basically went on to describe, in quite some detail, a sex scene that my character would be involved in. I was then told that there had been much discussion about this scene and they had decided that it was entirely necessary but that they would like my thoughts on the matter and whether I had any feedback for them. By now, I was unsure as to whether they were interested in seeing me for the role, if I'd accidentally applied for the poorest erotic fiction known to man or if I'd somehow been hired as their new script editor. I replied saying that I wouldn't mind seeing the rest of the script as I wanted to make sure that the role I was applying for actually got to spend at least some screen time fully-clothed. However, this request was flatly ignored so I can only presume that whichever poor soul ended up playing Gemma spent much of their time on their back with their legs akimbo. Some girls get all the luck....

Funny Colour

What's your USP? What makes you stand out from the rest? Why should someone employ you over everyone else? Why won't you stop hassling me? All of these apart from maybe one are questions that actors are asked on an almost daily basis (yep, thankfully I don't know anyone who uses the term 'USP.') I remember one fateful day at drama school when we had to go round our whole year and be told what we are likely to be cast as. Apparently our acting talent alone couldn't carry us into the big bad world and get us the jobs we wanted, it was the way we looked that would determine our casting and nothing could ever possibly get in the way of that. I'm part Middle-Eastern (Iraqi and Iranian before you ask) and when it got to me, I was told that I most likely find myself playing a suicide bomber, the wife of a suicide bomber, the daughter of a suicide bomber, the best friend of the second cousin of a suicide bomber or a doctor. Great. As someone who was desperate to get my gnashing little teeth into the profession I'd spent years wanting to get into, this was not good news. I wanted to play everything. I didn't want to be held back by the fact that my parents decided that they loved each other very much and wanted a little mini version of their best and worst points. (Incidentally, about two weeks after this talk, I was cast in my final drama school play as a white, upper class 78 year old. Casting, schmasting.)

Looking back now I realise that everyone is held back by something and I'm actually very lucky to have a distinct 'selling point.' The sad truth is that especially when you're starting out, you have to cling on to that one little thing you have and not let it go. Thankfully there are quite a few Middle Eastern type roles out there to be had and not that many actors who fit that casting type so when I apply for a role, I can usually be guaranteed at least an audition. My heart skips a little beat when I see the words Middle and East mentioned in the description and I can often be found doing a little dance if there's a character called Farah or Layla.

A quick glance at my CV shows that most of the parts I've played have been helped by the colour of the skin ("funny-coloured" as one person in my year once worryingly described me...) so I really shouldn't complain. But the thing that makes me sad is the generalisation that takes place. This was spurred on by the fact that I saw a casting this morning asking for actors who could speak 'Middle Eastern.' Eh? Since when is that a language? I don't like getting up on my high horse (it costs me a fortune in stable fees) about race and prejudice but things like this properly bug me. Would it really have hurt putting down a few languages rather than just chucking us all in the same brightly coloured, 'foreign' box? However, it's the characters and stories that really upset me. Apparently, for a Middle Eastern character to be in something, they need to either be a suicide bomber, in an arranged marriage or about to be killed for trying to get out of said organised nuptual. It's an unfair asumption that because of you're of a certain descent, you're exclusively affected by only a handful of stereotyped issues. Not once has my dad tried to kill me (although I'm sure he was tempted the night I came home drunk at 2am and repeatedly rang the doorbell to be let in as I thought I'd lost my keys - I hadn't. I'd dropped them two feet away.) I've never been forced into an arranged marriage (although I'm sure my mum has had her moments where she has worried that I'd be an eternal spinster.) And I wouldn't even know where to start when trying to create a suicide bomb due to too much larking about and not enough listening during chemistry classes.

I understand that this isn't just biting the hand that feeds me but gnawing repeatedly on the delicate palm that offers me the most wonderful foods but I'm hungry and feeling a bit gnashy so please excuse me while I take another bite....

Limprovisation

Improvisation. Get it right and there's a high chance they'll put you in line for the throne but get it wrong and you deserve to be sent straight to Hell. Don't bother stopping by 'Go' and collecting your £200, you won't be needing that where you're going.

I've spoken before about improvising for castings but the difficulty there lied in the fact that I really had no idea what I was talking about. Blagging can only get so far and once you add the fact that you're spouting utter nonsense to the awful realisation that you're making up names of haircuts to try and earn a living, you might as well give up the game there and then. But for today's casting I really had no excuse. Today I found myself desperately grappling for the role of an office worker in an advert for a certain tinned goods company. This should've been a breeze - I spent the last two years almost exclusively being an office slave and I bloody love food that has previously been encased in metal. To be honest, I'm pretty upset they felt the need to audition me. My canned food eating skills are second to none. During a Shakespeare festival, I became so poor that my diet for a whole week was almost entirely made up of Sainsburys value tomato soup and Tesco value gin (please note the two different supermarkets - I like to keep a varied diet.)

So the job should've been mine. Or it should've been if the casting just consisted of them feeding me soup. But it didn't. Instead someone with too much time and too little imagination thought it would be fun to make some poor unsuspecting actors enter into a long form improvised scene.

'You're just colleagues at work talking about daily office life. Just make sure you drop in how tasty and nourishing the metallic imprisoned food is too.'

Cue the most unnatural chat that has ever graced an underground casting studio. I should be good at office chat. I spent almost 24 months chatting inanely in an office. But never at work was I chatting to two people who also wanted my job while we a sipped at thin air in front of a camera. Add these into the equation and casual chat becomes stilted mumblings and awkward utterances. Not once while at work did I ever mention the need to get figures together quickly due to a tight deadline set by 'Michael.' Why is one actor, desperate for real-sounding words, telling me I should be so proud of the expert team I've created while another is berating me for pulling the new ginger guy in Accounts at last night's office party? Because we all panicked and realised that it's impossible to not run, head-first, into every stereotype that was ever created. Then, amidst this cacophony of made-up drivel, we then had to crowbar even more cringe-filled lines about how good the oxygen we're currently sipping is.

Sadly the only thing I left with was an incredible craving for the product that was being sold. Have I just been part of the most elaborate and soul-destroying marketing campaign of the modern age? Or maybe I'm just a hungry, starving actress? Cliched answers on a make believe postcard please.

An apology

It has been brought to my attention that yesterday's entry was uncharacteristically cheerful. In just a handful of posts, I've somehow managed to portray myself as the Eyeore of the acting world. The little fog of gloom that permeates all spaces that I dare to enter. So, to rectify this (and because I don't really have much else that I'd like to blog about) here are the downsides to my bloody amazing day yesterday...,

1. False eyelashes are uncomfortable for about 5 minutes.

2. Red lipstick makes an open mouth look terrifying on camera.

3. Cheese and onion crisps are not a good idea on set.

4. One toilet between 12 people is inconvenient.

5. I look like a fool in stripy tights.

6. It was really sunny yesterday and I was trapped indoors for 8 hours.

7. Although I love James Blake, trying to be an excitable elf with him playing in the background is really hard work and makes me call on acting skills I'm not sure I possess.

8. The term 'no flash' becomes tedious after 30 minutes.

9. There are a frustrating lack of elf puns.

10. Grapes are addictive to the point if being socially unacceptable.

I do hope this goes some way to readdressing the balance. Apologies to all offended and please check back soon for more doom, gloom and general dismay.

S-elfish Behaviour

Today's entry comes live from a photo shoot. And this isn't just any photo shoot (that may or not be a massive hint...you decide...)

Today Christmas has come early as I'm spending today dressed as an elf for a certain store's certain Christmas campaign. As I write this I'm sat in felt, bell-tipped boots, stripy tights, a felt tunic and the most amazing hat (complete with ears) this side of Jesus' supposed big day. We've all been given elfish characters like cheeky, cute, geeky. Well, all except me. I appear to be porn star elf. I have eyelashes that are more fake than plastic surgery and longer than Lost on repeat and my lips are redder than Little's riding hood. 'Sultry' isn't a look I get to entertain very often so I'm rather enjoying this erotic, if a little festive, experience.

My entrance into the studio started in true Miss L fashion where managed to somehow knock one of the perfectly set lights with my stupid clumsy head. I've also ruined my immaculately painted lips on various occasions due to the frightening amount of sweets and biscuits on offer and I was seconds away from cascading down a step ladder after losing my point shoe while trying to gracefully disembark a 7 foot tall box. Someone teach me the art of not disgracing myself on a daily basis. Please.

But what a damn good day it has been. The four other actors I'm working with are the loveliest I think I've ever worked with and the crew have been incredible. A lot of laughs have been had, much tea has been drunk and I think we've exhausted every 'elf' pun that could ever be. We've been ridiculously well looked after and we've received more thanks than the average Oscar speech.

So big thanks to the job Gods. This wasn't just any day's work....

Indoor Activities

Today's very much an indoors day. While I look for more auditions and also a job that might pay me to skulk about someone's office/shop/home, I'm stuck indoors so I can be as productive as possible and desperately try to live off the rapidly decaying contents of my kitchen cupboards. And on a miserable looking day like today, I couldn't be happier. Sorry to you all who traipsed out of the house while I was still blissfully asleep. The annoying thing is that although I'm indulging myself today on this grey day, I'm spending it doing stuff that will potentially mean that I can't enjoy these days quite so much in the future. All I've done today is apply for things that will take me away from my cosy little bed and means that I can't spend the day convincing myself that because I've got my laptop with me while I'm watching This Morning, that I'm actually working.

But don't worry readers, this poor little soul has been subjected to the elements in the name of actressy pursuits. A couple of years ago I did a Shakespeare festival which meant performing outside every evening for the whole of summer. Now if I lived almost anywhere other than England, this would be a glorious prospect. Instead I was there for one of the wettest summers on record and therefore spent many evenings desperately dragging myself across a university garden in a sodden, mud-trimmed velvet dress. We became fabulously adept at performing during thunderstorms, ensuring our lightning-proof audience members could hear us from behind their rainy evening paraphernalia. I'm not exagerrating when I say that everyone in our cast slipped over at least once while performing (although I'm sure my tally of tumbles took the average number to one that is higher than normal) and by the end we were masters on staying upright while the rain bounced higher than our soaking, corsetted, shivering bodies.

Performing while it's raining cats, dogs, mice, frogs, cows and donkeys is one thing but rehearsing is even harder. At least when you're performing you've got the adrenaline to keep you going but rehearsals can be tedious at best. When you're the focus of the day, rehearsals are joyously hard work but on the days when you're not really needed, it's tortuous. As we were performing outside, we had to rehearse outside and on the few rare days that we had sunshine, it was the bestest thing since sliced baked goods. But watching someone struggle with the intricacies of the Bard while you're trying to avoid drowning in the shadow of one of the world's greatest universities ain't much fun.

Even worse were rehearsals for a children's show that I was part of. Everything was organised very late which meant that the only rehearsal venue we had available to us was the great outdoors. Again, people's trust in the Great British summer totally baffles me. A discovery was made that the roof of the National Theatre could make a useful rehearsal space. The conclusion soon became that it was excellent when sunny but bloody awful when raining. It's nice to know that while a shivering cast were battling through Thumbelina in the pouring rain and howling wind, some of the best theatre in the world was being performed inches below us. We may have failed in the world of rehearsing but the juxtaposition crown remains firmly upon our dampened heads.

Mind Readers

Actors are mind readers. This is apparently a universal fact that is widely known throughout the acting community. It's just a shame that no one bothered to tell us. Of course, no one thought they needed to because we should've picked it up from someone else's thoughts already. Stupid us.

Sorry. You're probably all a bit worried by my pessimistic opening when my blogs are usually so upbeat and cheery (quiet you.) But today was a day of 'Bad Audition.' These come round every so often and are as inevitable as chuggers on a high street. But today's audition wasn't awful because I messed up my lines. I wasn't running late and I didn't fall over when entering the audition room (you know the drill by now...all of these things have happened before.) No. It was bad because I wasn't the mind reader that they thought I was. Apparently I was supposed to know the whole script, the complete breakdown of the character that I was up for and also the full rehearsal schedule. I mean, they only sent me four very vague sentences to learn so really I have no excuse. Slap my wrists and call me useless.

To be honest, I didn't really get off to the best start. Despite the waiting room being run by maybe the loveliest man alive, I was instantly annoyed by someone using the word 'champion' upon finding that there was a jug of tap water. I was then called up to the audition where the director and I both recognised each other from a previous audition years ago. I attempted polite conversation about this (despite remembering that I wasn't a fan the first time round) but I was completely ignored. I performed my speech, was given feedback which came from a voice balanaced precariously upon a knife edge of annoyance about my lack of knowledge of the play. I did it again. I asked questions about the rehearsals and was basically told to leave and bother someone else with my pointless queries. Never has my stock exit line of  'It was really lovely to meet you' been so insincere.

The lack of psychic ability has been an issue in the past. I had one audition where I found myself in the horrible, almost pitch-black, basement of a director. There was never any mention of the character needing to be able to speak another language and although my CV held no mention of another language on there (believe me, I'd love to have something to put alongside lonely 'English') he got annoyed when I didn't have a song prepared in a foreign tongue. My punishment was that I then had to hum the whole of 'Happy Birthday' while sat 2 inches away from the camera lens. The lesson from that audition? When someone asks you for a song, ignore the stupid voice in the back of your head screaming 'Happy Birthday!'

The worst though was for a very well paid feature film and I was somehow up for the lead role. The casting director had contacted me directly and provided no information about the film or what it entailed. When I arrived for the audition, they gave me a scene to look at for ten minutes which was of two women discussing their hopes and dreams for the future. All pretty simple you'd think. But no. Just as I was about to perform the scene for the audition panel, and I mean just as I opened my mouth to say the first word, the director mentions that I should be aware that the two characters have just escaped from a mental asylum. I don't know if this was some cruel trick to test my acting ability or if they had genuinely forgotten to tell me but it threw me. It threw me out of the window, over the rooftops and into the Thames. My brain made the snap decision not to go for a stereotypical 'madwoman' and played it in the way I felt was right. Oh how wrong I was. Never did I think that I'd actually be told off in an audition. The director proceeded to tell me that I could never hope to have a career if I continued to play safe and that they'd wanted me to go 'mental' in the scene. I then had a two minute lecture on my attitude towards acting, was made to read it again and I left feeling about as low as I could get. If only my psychic powers had been working, then I'd have known not to go to the damn audition in the first place.