Have you ever found yourself in one of those auditions where you start to question what on earth you're doing with your life? Have you entered a room full of hope for your career and left with the sting of disappointment embedded in your soul? Well, I'd love to hear about them.
Maybe you've been asked to do something at an audition so ridiculous that you can actually feel your pride leave your body and you watch it walk out the door? Or have you been put in situation that's made you want to call the police instead of your agent?
I'm looking to put together a piece on the worst that castings have thrown at us and, as I'm sure the world is sick of hearing about my tales, I'd love to hear about yours. Also, as I write about the subject so much, it'd be lovely to have some real horrors to back me up when I say that castings can be some of the most terrifying and gut-wrenching things an actor can put themselves through. So, if you've got one that you'd like to tell me about then please email me on castingcallwoe@gmail.com.
Of course, I completely understand the importance of anonymity so if you'd prefer your story remained anonymous then please just let me know.
Tuesday, 9 July 2013
Wednesday, 3 July 2013
Casting Call Woe - Recent Highlights
As I'm sure you're all very well aware, as well as this blog and my incessant Twittering, I also run the Tumblr site Casting Call Woe. The world of castings has become soul-itchingly horrible that I felt the very worst should be put up for all the world to see and have a good ol' cry/laugh at. However, some of the delights tend to get a bit lost so here's a selection of some of my favourites from the last month... (and yes, if you're new to this, these are all real.)
She gets a couple of lines, a light-hearted orgy scene and then gets kicked through a window.
Please eat before coming on set.
This has the potential to be the next Buffy/Angel/True Blood, except it's about an elf living in London.
The budget for this film doesn't exist.
The director hopes to highlight George's distance from Jane by never having her in focus.
The harnessed kids are used as slaves to work for the aliens.
No nudity but actresses confident in bikinis and hotpants will be a plus for water and pillow fights.
Skirt so short you feel raped just walking past her.
Nudity is not required but may be encouraged.
We're looking for individuals to dress up in an oversized female genitalia costume.
Tuesday, 2 July 2013
Happy Firstday
If you're lucky, you're making your way to somewhere suitable. However, more often than not, you're heading to someone's house, someone's office or, as I genuinely have, an abandoned roof top. If it's sunny, maybe you're heading to the park, your pollen-filled eyes raging and wondering why you're putting yourself through this. But wherever you're going, you're probably a bit nervous. As you check GoogleMaps on your phone for the millionth time, convinced that no one would hold a first rehearsal down this road, you become convinced that you're going to hate everyone and whether you'd be better just to turn back.
I arrive at things so early that even Doctor Who is jealous of me. So, I normally arrive in time to walk around the block a few times to then arrive at the venue 15 minutes before the director turns up. The director, thinking they've arrived a good 15 minutes early will give me a quizzical look and wonder just how keen I am. However, I believe the experience for most people is to arrive when the room is actually open.
So, you get there. Maybe some other members of the cast are there too. You recognise someone from your audition.
"Hey, we you at-"
"Yeah, we were in the same group. Wonder if that guy got in to?"
You laugh. You don't which guy they're talking about. You soon realise that they don't recognise you and think you're someone else. As more cast members arrive, two will be surprised to see each other. They worked together on a previous show or they trained together. However it is that they know each other, they'll make sure that's everyone's aware of this incredible coincidence within seconds. It's around this time that someone starts getting changed in the middle of the room.
Once you've all arrived, you're asked to sit in a circle. Scripts, pencils and bottles of water are gathered and everyone sits on the floor. You think you're still fine sitting on the floor. 30 minutes later you realise you're not but someone's already been told off for lying down on your front so you put up with the pins, needles, daggers and fire in your bum cheeks. You all get to know each other. If you're lucky then you'll just go around the circle and everything will say a bit about themselves. Someone will insist on talking about the AMAZING show they've just finished in and you'll realise you have nothing interesting to say about yourself but it will all be fairly painless. If you're unlucky then you'll be made to play a game. A game involving names where everyone's just a little bit too eager to prove they're willing to throw themselves into anything.
Maybe you'll then read through the script. It's usually around this point that someone will ask if you've got a spare pen or pencil. Everyone takes a huge gulp of their drink. You learn who everyone's playing because they cough before their first line. You start hearing other people's lines and start wishing you had their roles instead. Everyone else seems to have the funny lines or dramatic scenes. You start to realise that your part is a lot smaller than you originally realised. As you realise this, the director tells you that you're going to be the non-speaking village person in this scene, the talking owl with one line in this other scene and the tree in the final scene.
Once you've stumbled through the play, you might be shown a stage plan. Or, if you're really lucky, you'll be shown costume designs. Everyone else seems to have had elaborate drawings done of them with lots of thoughts and theories behind what they're wearing. When it comes to your character, you're little more than a stick character in a Primark scarf. You try to look enthusiastic while wondering whether you can kill someone with a highlighter.
You start packing up your things, delighted to be working but looking forward to going home. They all seem like nice enough people but are they people you want to spend the next two months working with? Just when you think you're not that keen you hear the words:
"Anyone fancy going for a quick drink?"
Ah yes. It's going to be fine after all.
I arrive at things so early that even Doctor Who is jealous of me. So, I normally arrive in time to walk around the block a few times to then arrive at the venue 15 minutes before the director turns up. The director, thinking they've arrived a good 15 minutes early will give me a quizzical look and wonder just how keen I am. However, I believe the experience for most people is to arrive when the room is actually open.
So, you get there. Maybe some other members of the cast are there too. You recognise someone from your audition.
"Hey, we you at-"
"Yeah, we were in the same group. Wonder if that guy got in to?"
You laugh. You don't which guy they're talking about. You soon realise that they don't recognise you and think you're someone else. As more cast members arrive, two will be surprised to see each other. They worked together on a previous show or they trained together. However it is that they know each other, they'll make sure that's everyone's aware of this incredible coincidence within seconds. It's around this time that someone starts getting changed in the middle of the room.
Once you've all arrived, you're asked to sit in a circle. Scripts, pencils and bottles of water are gathered and everyone sits on the floor. You think you're still fine sitting on the floor. 30 minutes later you realise you're not but someone's already been told off for lying down on your front so you put up with the pins, needles, daggers and fire in your bum cheeks. You all get to know each other. If you're lucky then you'll just go around the circle and everything will say a bit about themselves. Someone will insist on talking about the AMAZING show they've just finished in and you'll realise you have nothing interesting to say about yourself but it will all be fairly painless. If you're unlucky then you'll be made to play a game. A game involving names where everyone's just a little bit too eager to prove they're willing to throw themselves into anything.
Maybe you'll then read through the script. It's usually around this point that someone will ask if you've got a spare pen or pencil. Everyone takes a huge gulp of their drink. You learn who everyone's playing because they cough before their first line. You start hearing other people's lines and start wishing you had their roles instead. Everyone else seems to have the funny lines or dramatic scenes. You start to realise that your part is a lot smaller than you originally realised. As you realise this, the director tells you that you're going to be the non-speaking village person in this scene, the talking owl with one line in this other scene and the tree in the final scene.
Once you've stumbled through the play, you might be shown a stage plan. Or, if you're really lucky, you'll be shown costume designs. Everyone else seems to have had elaborate drawings done of them with lots of thoughts and theories behind what they're wearing. When it comes to your character, you're little more than a stick character in a Primark scarf. You try to look enthusiastic while wondering whether you can kill someone with a highlighter.
You start packing up your things, delighted to be working but looking forward to going home. They all seem like nice enough people but are they people you want to spend the next two months working with? Just when you think you're not that keen you hear the words:
"Anyone fancy going for a quick drink?"
Ah yes. It's going to be fine after all.
Friday, 28 June 2013
Moral Dilemma
It's been a long time since I got an audition. In fact, it's been so long that when I was offered one this week, I instantly presumed it was a trick. Some poor filmmaker who I'd mocked on Twitter had found out who I was and was now seeking revenge. I'd be lured to a church hall and would be slowly diced up with copies of The Stage. But finally, reminding myself that going to auditions is supposed to be a massive part of my job, I reluctantly convinced myself that it was genuine.
I got there this morning, so embarrassingly early that if I'd turned up in a pony and trap while wearing a ruff and tossing tuppence to a street urchin, I wouldn't have looked at all out of place. I got to the venue and, as usual, the instructions were ridiculous. Getting into an audition venue has always been a problem of mine. Maybe it's the universe trying to save me from the inevitable humiliation that's about to take place but doors are not my strong point. If it says 'push' then I 'pull' and if it says 'no entry' then I walk in anyway. And, to top it off, when people organise auditions, they put the most confusing instructions possible to get actors to the right place. I've seen ones with hastily scrawled maps, ones written in the faintest pencil possible and I've even had one tell me that the venue is no longer in use to actors should make their way to the local McDonalds round the corner where they'll be auditioning instead.
Today's instructions decided to go for the written explanation. About five different directions were written on a piece of paper that Commander Hadfield could've photographed from space. After first attempting to get into a shed, I finally realised I was surrounded by younger, prettier versions of myself and knew I was in the right place. My name was ticked off the list and I was handed a script to look over.
Now, I only vaguely knew what I was going up for. I hadn't actually applied for this job so when they invited me, they told me a little bit about what it was for without any real specifics. So, I started to read the script and I soon realised that this was promoting something that I really don't agree with. You don't need to know what it is but I suppose it's similar to a vegan finding themselves auditioning bacon grease slicked roast chickens. And, to top it all off, the script was horrible. There was spelling mistakes, unnecessary abbreviations and instead of stage directions, they'd used emoticons. It was horrible. And then an actress walked in demanding to be seen next. And then more actors came in, all through the wrong door despite the biggest sign the world has ever seen and I started to wonder whether I need anger management assistance.
Pushy actress was seen next and after the entire world's schedule was turned upside down just because she can't organise her diary properly, I was finally seen. I was greeted by a panel including a man who I'm sure isn't a stranger to wicker pants and stirring his dandelion tea with incense sticks. After a little chat, we went over the script a couple of times and that was great. I was then asked to try out some accents and I'm sure I managed to offend maybe half the world's population in record-breaking time. I was then filmed on their phones and probably put up on Instagram and it was all over. I was thrown back out into the world knowing I'd done a decent audition and having to battle the odd sensation of not wanting to get the job.
It's typical. I've waited months for an audition and now, after finally bloody getting one, it's for something that I don't agree with. Of course, they might've thought I was awful and my fretting is all for nothing. The phrase "I'll cross that bridge when I come to it" has been used a lot today. But still, however :-( it made me, I should be :-) to have been seen at all.
I got there this morning, so embarrassingly early that if I'd turned up in a pony and trap while wearing a ruff and tossing tuppence to a street urchin, I wouldn't have looked at all out of place. I got to the venue and, as usual, the instructions were ridiculous. Getting into an audition venue has always been a problem of mine. Maybe it's the universe trying to save me from the inevitable humiliation that's about to take place but doors are not my strong point. If it says 'push' then I 'pull' and if it says 'no entry' then I walk in anyway. And, to top it off, when people organise auditions, they put the most confusing instructions possible to get actors to the right place. I've seen ones with hastily scrawled maps, ones written in the faintest pencil possible and I've even had one tell me that the venue is no longer in use to actors should make their way to the local McDonalds round the corner where they'll be auditioning instead.
Today's instructions decided to go for the written explanation. About five different directions were written on a piece of paper that Commander Hadfield could've photographed from space. After first attempting to get into a shed, I finally realised I was surrounded by younger, prettier versions of myself and knew I was in the right place. My name was ticked off the list and I was handed a script to look over.
Now, I only vaguely knew what I was going up for. I hadn't actually applied for this job so when they invited me, they told me a little bit about what it was for without any real specifics. So, I started to read the script and I soon realised that this was promoting something that I really don't agree with. You don't need to know what it is but I suppose it's similar to a vegan finding themselves auditioning bacon grease slicked roast chickens. And, to top it all off, the script was horrible. There was spelling mistakes, unnecessary abbreviations and instead of stage directions, they'd used emoticons. It was horrible. And then an actress walked in demanding to be seen next. And then more actors came in, all through the wrong door despite the biggest sign the world has ever seen and I started to wonder whether I need anger management assistance.
Pushy actress was seen next and after the entire world's schedule was turned upside down just because she can't organise her diary properly, I was finally seen. I was greeted by a panel including a man who I'm sure isn't a stranger to wicker pants and stirring his dandelion tea with incense sticks. After a little chat, we went over the script a couple of times and that was great. I was then asked to try out some accents and I'm sure I managed to offend maybe half the world's population in record-breaking time. I was then filmed on their phones and probably put up on Instagram and it was all over. I was thrown back out into the world knowing I'd done a decent audition and having to battle the odd sensation of not wanting to get the job.
It's typical. I've waited months for an audition and now, after finally bloody getting one, it's for something that I don't agree with. Of course, they might've thought I was awful and my fretting is all for nothing. The phrase "I'll cross that bridge when I come to it" has been used a lot today. But still, however :-( it made me, I should be :-) to have been seen at all.
Wednesday, 26 June 2013
A Plea For Actors
Something is happening. Something you might not be aware of. Something you might even support without even knowing. Every year, hundreds of unsuspecting actors are fooled. They are tricked by devious directors and deceived by festival organisers. Every year, during our so-called summer, actors, somehow, find themselves involved in outdoor theatre.
These poor actors think that this year will be the year. This will be the record breaking year where it's warm and it doesn't rain. These misguided thespians believe they'll be the lucky ones but every year they get it wrong. And did you realise, that by attending Shakespeare plays in the park or musicals in fancy gardens, you're supporting this pitiful practice? Well-meaning actors are constantly being let down by unforgiving weather, finding themselves performing prose in thunderstorms and torrential rain. And British audiences, being the hardy twits that they are, put up with it, preferring to whip on a kagoul and huddle under a golf umbrella (so huge they can barely see anything outside it) rather than put these actors out of their misery.
So, what can we do to help? What can you do to ensure that hundreds of actors every year spend their summer wondering what on earth they're doing with their lives?
If you donate just £2 a month, we can afford to send fresh towels to all the actors who find themselves in a desperate endless cycle of washing. These actors are living in conditions where there may be up to twenty of them sharing one washing machine, meaning they can't keep up and find themselves drying their poor sodden feet with drenched towels, full of an entire summer of rain. Just one extra towel could mean the difference between crying into a wet rag and the joy of having dry feet for once.
Or maybe you could spare £5 a month. This would allow us to send a weekly bottle of cheap brandy to our actors to help them forget the season of woe they've signed up to. While we don't support the misuse of alcohol, our actors are professionals who know what they're doing and are dealing with the realisation that they haven't felt warm or dry for over two months. A weekly drunken stupor is just what they need to get them to the other side.
If we're really lucky, you might donate £10 a month. This would allow us to purchase new costumes for our actors who currently find themselves in old outfits filled with the sweat of ten other actors. Ill-fitting, rain drenched garments are one of the top causes of loss of morale in actors and considering they not only have to perform in them but also flyer in them every bloody day, some new clothes could make all the difference.
So please, give what you can to this worthy cause. No amount too small due to our actors being constantly underpaid so even 50p a month is more than they're currently earning. Your help could literally change an actor's literal interpretation of literature. The smallest donation could help shake up Shakespeare and make our actors feel some self-respect again.
Thank you.
These poor actors think that this year will be the year. This will be the record breaking year where it's warm and it doesn't rain. These misguided thespians believe they'll be the lucky ones but every year they get it wrong. And did you realise, that by attending Shakespeare plays in the park or musicals in fancy gardens, you're supporting this pitiful practice? Well-meaning actors are constantly being let down by unforgiving weather, finding themselves performing prose in thunderstorms and torrential rain. And British audiences, being the hardy twits that they are, put up with it, preferring to whip on a kagoul and huddle under a golf umbrella (so huge they can barely see anything outside it) rather than put these actors out of their misery.
So, what can we do to help? What can you do to ensure that hundreds of actors every year spend their summer wondering what on earth they're doing with their lives?
If you donate just £2 a month, we can afford to send fresh towels to all the actors who find themselves in a desperate endless cycle of washing. These actors are living in conditions where there may be up to twenty of them sharing one washing machine, meaning they can't keep up and find themselves drying their poor sodden feet with drenched towels, full of an entire summer of rain. Just one extra towel could mean the difference between crying into a wet rag and the joy of having dry feet for once.
Or maybe you could spare £5 a month. This would allow us to send a weekly bottle of cheap brandy to our actors to help them forget the season of woe they've signed up to. While we don't support the misuse of alcohol, our actors are professionals who know what they're doing and are dealing with the realisation that they haven't felt warm or dry for over two months. A weekly drunken stupor is just what they need to get them to the other side.
If we're really lucky, you might donate £10 a month. This would allow us to purchase new costumes for our actors who currently find themselves in old outfits filled with the sweat of ten other actors. Ill-fitting, rain drenched garments are one of the top causes of loss of morale in actors and considering they not only have to perform in them but also flyer in them every bloody day, some new clothes could make all the difference.
So please, give what you can to this worthy cause. No amount too small due to our actors being constantly underpaid so even 50p a month is more than they're currently earning. Your help could literally change an actor's literal interpretation of literature. The smallest donation could help shake up Shakespeare and make our actors feel some self-respect again.
Thank you.
Sunday, 23 June 2013
Butter Freckles
This is a real casting call. I repeat, this is a real casting call.
Dear Man/Woman/Stranger,
Sorry I can't call you by your real name but you've unfortunately left it out of your masterful casting call. However, as you've called your character 'Girl' I'm going to presume that you don't mind being known by a similar name. Also, I'm going BUTTER to presume you're a man. I don't know what it is but I can already picture you despite having no idea who you are. You have blond streaks in your side-parted hair, you wear leather sandals, spectacles and I bet you're kind, courteous and dependable. Am I right? I bet I am.
Anyway, oh, hang on, let me just get out of this oversized gingham fisherman's jumper. I do love it so but the extra-long sleeves make it FRECKLES incredibly hard to type and the constant smell of fish mean that all the neighbourhood's black cats won't leave me alone. Good job I love black cats, eh? Anyway, where was I? Yes, I'd like to apply for the role of 'Girl.' I really do BUTTER think that I'm the girl for you. And how lucky I was to spot your advert. I'd just got home from my daily walk around the local cemetery, sat down with some pastry with lots of jam (strawberry, of course) and a coffee. I sat down at my computer to have a chat with my friends. None of my friends speak in real life so the only way we can converse is online. I'm not sure why none of us talk. Maybe it's because we're constantly turned on and the continuous biting of our bottom lip makes it difficult to speak. Also, the biting has given us all some quite nasty wounds and the resulting infection means that we can no longer form words properly. It does make our regular sleepovers very quiet but at least my house has got plenty of windows for us to look out of. If you need any non-speaking extras for your film then please do let me know. They're cute, smiley and seem happy just receiving oaty, syrupy squares as payment.
I would FRECKLES love to apply for the job you're advertising for, mainly because I identify with the character so much. I thought it was just me that giggled with just three fingers over my mouth so I was delighted to see you'd created a character who does the same. I find, when I hear a joke, the best way to show my appreciation is to take some time and choose which three fingers to stifle my laughter with (my preferred choice is actually my thumb, middle finger and little finger) rather than just letting rip. BUTTER. And the belt thing! I totally do that! When wearing my dungarees, fisherman's jumper, three quarter length skirt and high-heeled, open-toed sandlas (they're like sandals but the heel is at the front instead - walking across dewy grass is a nightmare) I find my outfit isn't complete without my brown soft leather belt around my waist, the excess looped down.
I'll bring this to a close soon as I need to pop the local cafe. I go there every day. In fact, I'm pretty sure it's just me keeping it in business. But I must say that I've just looked out the window to see a man with blond streaks in his side parted hair, spectacles and leather sandals stroking my Pashley bike. He's put 100 pencils in the basket (handy, as I've just run out) and he's scratched BUTTER FRECKLES on the side of my Fiat 500. It's funny, if I didn't know better than I'd say that's you out there. Just the thought of it being you made me laugh so much that my shoulders hurt now. I do wish they didn't shake so.
I do hope this application finds you well. I've also popped a flapjack in the post for you. If you would like any more then please do let me know but please be aware that I only make one a day.
Yours
Zooey Deschanel
PS On a side note, do you think I'd look good with a topknot?
Tuesday, 18 June 2013
Wishing & Waiting
Yesterday, the Secret Actor (for those unaware of my relationship with The Guardian's columnist, should read here first) wrote about getting acting roles out of the blue when you haven't even auditioned for them. The SA makes my blood boil at the best of times, but on a morning when I've been planing a blog about my current inability to even get an audition, it erupted in a way that even Eyjafjallajokull would admire.
Y'see, getting auditions lately has been tough. Whether it's a lack of decent work out there or just because I'm not that employable at the moment, for some reason I'm just not getting much acting work right now. I've been well aware that as the months have gone by that, so far, 2013 is not the year I'm going to find myself in a 'Ones To Watch' style article but the realisation really whacked me round the face a couple of weeks ago.
I applied for an acting job that I was PERFECT for. Every single aspect of it described me. It wasn't even a particularly lucrative or exciting job but I matched every single thing they asked for. In fact, I matched maybe three of the eight or so roles on offer. I matched all three perfectly. I fired off my CV almost certain that I was going to get an audition for this. I mean, I had to get one. I WAS PERFECT FOR NEARLY HALF THE ROLES THEY WERE CASTING FOR. I was so perfect for it that I was tempted to just put that in the cover letter and nothing else but, surely, when they saw my application they'd realise that? Of course not.
I'd made a note of when the casting was, already getting excited about what would be my first audition in bloody ages, and waited for the inevitable phone call. Nothing. The casting was on a Monday so I was sure I'd hear from the by Friday but, Friday evening came and still nothing. I convinced myself that they'd be organising castings over the weekend instead but every glance at my phone and inbox refresh was met with my increasingly disappointed face. Monday then arrived and, sadly, no last minute booking arrived. I'll admit, I was sad but I consoled myself with the fact that they'd, somehow, had plenty of other applicants who were equally suited to the role.
So, cradling my slightly dented ego, I tried to forget about it. And I was doing alright until I saw another advert from them still trying to get enough actors to audition for some of the roles. THE ROLES THAT I WAS PERFECT FOR. I watched my pride jump out on the floor and have a full-on tantrum. I could, if I hated my pride, re-apply. I'd done it before and that's why I couldn't do it again. The feeling of submitting yourself for a second round of rejection is too much. This job is exceptionally good at chipping away at your ego without additional help from me and a grovelling cover letter. So I've left it, my pride scowling and muttering in the corner while I desperately wait for a happy ending to this story.
I'm still waiting. But still, at least the precious 2% are getting work.
Y'see, getting auditions lately has been tough. Whether it's a lack of decent work out there or just because I'm not that employable at the moment, for some reason I'm just not getting much acting work right now. I've been well aware that as the months have gone by that, so far, 2013 is not the year I'm going to find myself in a 'Ones To Watch' style article but the realisation really whacked me round the face a couple of weeks ago.
I applied for an acting job that I was PERFECT for. Every single aspect of it described me. It wasn't even a particularly lucrative or exciting job but I matched every single thing they asked for. In fact, I matched maybe three of the eight or so roles on offer. I matched all three perfectly. I fired off my CV almost certain that I was going to get an audition for this. I mean, I had to get one. I WAS PERFECT FOR NEARLY HALF THE ROLES THEY WERE CASTING FOR. I was so perfect for it that I was tempted to just put that in the cover letter and nothing else but, surely, when they saw my application they'd realise that? Of course not.
I'd made a note of when the casting was, already getting excited about what would be my first audition in bloody ages, and waited for the inevitable phone call. Nothing. The casting was on a Monday so I was sure I'd hear from the by Friday but, Friday evening came and still nothing. I convinced myself that they'd be organising castings over the weekend instead but every glance at my phone and inbox refresh was met with my increasingly disappointed face. Monday then arrived and, sadly, no last minute booking arrived. I'll admit, I was sad but I consoled myself with the fact that they'd, somehow, had plenty of other applicants who were equally suited to the role.
So, cradling my slightly dented ego, I tried to forget about it. And I was doing alright until I saw another advert from them still trying to get enough actors to audition for some of the roles. THE ROLES THAT I WAS PERFECT FOR. I watched my pride jump out on the floor and have a full-on tantrum. I could, if I hated my pride, re-apply. I'd done it before and that's why I couldn't do it again. The feeling of submitting yourself for a second round of rejection is too much. This job is exceptionally good at chipping away at your ego without additional help from me and a grovelling cover letter. So I've left it, my pride scowling and muttering in the corner while I desperately wait for a happy ending to this story.
I'm still waiting. But still, at least the precious 2% are getting work.
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