Learning Chinese in 90 lessons: lesson number 78 part 2 - "I want my MTV..."

Where were we? Ah yes, I'd just sat down to await my turn for the 'awkward moment' audition having just had an awkward moment of my own with my indiscriminate mention of budgie smugglers...

Casting studio dude: Isabelle? Up you go.

Me: Ok then. Thanks

Director: Hey Isabelle, thanks for joining us. Love your bag!

Me: Thank you.

Director: Everybody, this is Isabelle. You know, the one who shouts 'budgie smugglers' at complete strangers. Maybe we can get her to do it again. Ok Isabelle. Sit at the desk and imagine it's a family dinner table. This is the best holiday dinner ever but it's all about to go wrong. You get splashed with gravy all over but you pretend like nothing happened. You know, stiff upper lip and all that. 

Me: OK.

Director: and... let's do it.

Me: Oh, patron saint of actors and lost causes please give me a sign: do I start now or do I wait for him to say action? 

So I started miming being at the dinner table, eating, passing the salt, checking that my imaginary children had everything they needed, offering them more mash. I really got into it but suddenly realised there would be no cue for the gravy splashing and I'd better get a move on. So I did a weird all over body shudder and then wiped the imaginary gravy off my face and imaginary blouse with my imaginary napkin all the while trying to put a brave face on (which most likely resulted in me looking rather wild eyed and demented.)

Director: O-kay Isabelle... That was good. What was that!? Especially the set up. You took ages!  But can we do the splashing again? And maybe this time you can carry on eating as if nothing happened... You're supposed to be an actor! I'm ever so disappointed  I really expected more from a budgie wrangler. Ah well...

Me: Ok. I'm sorry!

Director: and... let's do it.

Me: Why oh why won't he say action? Or give me a cue for the splashing so I can act surprised? I'm so rubbish. I'm so not getting this job. Why are they even asking me to do it again? 

So I repeated the whole sorry scene, tacking on a bit of brave face eating at the back end but to tell you the truth, my heart wasn't in it. 

Director: Ok. Thank you. I hope the next one's better.

Me: Thank you. I'll never get another audition.

....

Fast forward to Saturday night and the MTV Staying Alive Foundation charity gala. (Check it out, they do really cool AIDS prevention work for young people.) We had the tux, we had the gown, (and the new trunks). I put on my fiercest face paint (I'd done a dry run a few nights before at 2 in the morning channelling Lady Gaga), sleeked my hair back (do you know how hard it is to slick back a short fringe?) and pulled on my gorgeous new dress. 

I'd bought some gold and silver glitter sprays from Claire's (a UK chain that caters to the beauty needs of the under 12s which is about my styling age as I wasn't allowed to experiment with make up as a teenager) and sprayed it over every inch of exposed flesh - all the while hoping I wouldn't end up like the dead girl in Goldfinger. 

We got to the party early and met up with my friend D. for a game of celebrity spotting: oooh look, there's Boris Becker, Linford Christie, and Julien Macdonald fresh from his stint on Strictly Come Dancing... Then the rest of the party arrived and - this is the thing with my friend D. - his other guests were more interesting than the A-listers! It was like meeting the cast from Cluedo but without a murder:

First there was Miss Scarlet, international conceptual artist who combines beauty, wit, the authority of an admiral, and a deep sense of humanity. She rocked the black fish tail look.

Colonel Mustard was a cool, suave and debonair American, working in DC (he denied being a spy but I'm sorry, regular people do not look that good in a tux). I made a mental note to ask him to explain the plot of Gravity's Rainbow to me once we knew each other better.

Professor Plum (the young cool version): a young engineer who builds Rolls Royce engines in his spare time (just kidding, that's his job). Imagine a cross between David Niven and Marcel Dassault in the making. I thought about my crappy little audition from the day before and cried a little on the inside.

Mrs White (the young sexy version): an opera trained Beijing-based performer with more wit and vim than Truman Capote, and Mr Green (the decadent playboy version) who had some fantastic anecdotes.

Then there was the Willy Wonka of Design, rivalling my friend D in the sweetness stakes. If it were me, and I'd designed the new London bus, and the UK pavilion at the Shanghai World Expo amongst other design wonders of the 21st century, I think I'd cop a bit of a diva attitude. But he was just lovely. He even complimented me on my mother-in-law hand me down of a clutch (which - if truth be told - does rock some pretty nifty giant diamante action) which made me feel 10 feet tall. 

And finally, there was what appeared to be the by-product of a cougar's fantasy: combining the looks of a GQ model, a posh pedigree, rugby player, avid skier, sky diver, linguist, Cambridge scholar with a social conscience and all around cutie. I figure, once God finished putting him together, he took a step back and thought: 'gee I wish I'd based the whole lot of them on this model but I can't be bothered with a world wide recall so I know, I'll just make him a twin!' And he did. (The twin wasn't there because even at an MTV gala, you can only take so much perfection.)

I can attest he was pretty real as he ended up sitting next to me at dinner. I know, right, how lucky was that! Even luckier in the lucky stakes was that my husband sat directly opposite me so I was able to blow kisses and mouth 'I love you's' across the table all evening. 

And that, as they say, is that. 

Learning Mandarin in 90 lessons - lesson #47: "I'm going all Kim and Aggie on that ..."

Auditions are like the proverbial buses: nothing for a while and then several come along at once. The phone rang; it was my agent. My face lit up like a Martha Stewart Christmas tree not just because my agent is super lovely but because I guessed they were calling to tell me that I'd landed the crazy lady part from the other day.

They weren't.

Which just goes to prove either that life is unfair, or that actors have an inordinate sense of optimism.

Me: Hi!
Lovely agent: Hi Isabelle, did you get my email?
Me: No! Did I get the part?
Lovely agent: I don't know (agents are pragmatic types and cut to the chase) I'm calling you about another audition.
Me: Oh, cool!
Lovely agent: Are you online?
Me: Hang on, I'm logged into my other hotmail at the moment. (I've been using it since 1996 so have earned the right to carry on calling it that. I'm not calling it Outlook. It's my one woman private protest against the Microsoft corps.)
...
Me: Sorry, I can't seem to log in right now. (Microsoft!!)
Lovely agent: It's for tomorrow afternoon. Thing is, let me read you the casting description...
Me: Ok. Why do they feel the need to check with me, is it another nude part? Do I need to cluck like a hen or bark like a dog? Do I have to kiss a girl...
Lovely agent: It says needs to look like she has a lot of money.
Me: ??
Lovely agent (reading): She needs to be dressed like she has cash in the bank.
Me: I'm an actor, I can pretend I'm loaded!
Lovely agent: (laugh) Just go looking French, that always impresses the English!

The next morning, I checked my email (Problem resolved. Thank you Microsoft.) and read the casting description for extra intel. "She needs to be quite striking with red hair if possible and glamorous looking - she needs to look like she’s got money!" Well darn it if I didn't wear my hair bright red for the past year and have only just grown it out back to its natural colour (in anticipation of dyeing it platinum blonde but that's another story). 

Luckily I still had my trusted red bob wig and emailed agent accordingly (with reference picture) to ask which incarnation should attend the audition. 

"No, stick with your normal chic!" 

I'm telling you, just lovely. 

I slapped on the face paint (I've been going au naturel since Shanghai so I felt like I'd awaken my inner drag queen) put on all of my jewelry (and I mean all of it), and took my most prized purse out of storage (it's a pastel pink Daisy bag from Tanner Kroller circa 2004 and cost so much money that I still wince when I think about it).

The casting studio was in the basement of a crumbling Clerkenwell warehouse. (A proper run down ruin of a thing that would make Shoreditch desperate hipsters tremble in their too tight and ill fitting trousers. Ha!) A trio of Balkan pirates lurked in the courtyard puffing on their cigarettes and glared at me. I spared a thought for the hipsters as I hurried inside. 

So imagine my surprise then when I found myself walking into a... salon.

Well, I looked like a salon! It had a black glass chandelier hanging from the ceiling, a huge gilded mirror, statement wall paper on one wall, designer upholstered vintage chairs and a cutie on the front desk with a bleached under cut, a tight black leather t-shirt and a strong European accent. And a lisp.

Me: Hi!
Cutie: Bonjour! What ith your nombre?
Me: I'm Isabelle.
Cutie: I'm tho thorry. We've jutht had a bit of an akthident here and I need to print out thome more formth.
Me: Is everything ok?
Cutie: It wath jutht a cup of coffee but it went all over the dethk!
Me: Sorry to hear that. I'll just sit over here. There's no rush.
Cutie: (grabbing paper towels and giving the desk an energetic rub down) I'm going all Kim and Aggie on thith one...

The young casting director popped her head around the corner. 

Casting director: Hi!
Me: Hi!
Casting director: We'll be with you in a minute. I spilt my coffee all over the desk just now, it went all over the forms...
Me: Ah.
Casting director: Jose, I'm so so sorry.
Jose the cutie: (with a big smile)  It'th OK. You didn't do it on purpoth.
Casting director: You know Jose, I don't know what you were on about. Your teeth look great, I should have put you up for that part last week. Why didn't you want to do it?
Jose the cutie: Well, latht Dethember I wath doing The X Factor and even on thothe big showth they don't pay you till three month after. Tho I thought I'm going to take a break from being a danther!

Yeah, me neither.

After a while, I was called into the audition room with a kind looking and smiling fellow auditionee named Jonathan.

Director: Hi! So the ethos of this film... Ethos. Did he really say ethos? Is about the moment when you discover the piece of furniture of your dreams.
Me and Jonathan: Ok.
Director: Good. We're going to start with you Isabelle.
Me: Shall I use my bag as a prop?
Director: No, just put it down over there. But it's a Tanner Krolle! I want you to imagine that this (pointing at the couch) is a bed and I want you to sit on the edge demurely at first, then lie back, and exhale.
Me: Ok.
Director: And I want to hear you go 'phhhhh'...

I refrained from cracking an off colour joke about the actress, the director and the casting couch and instead did as I was told.

Director: And cut! That was great... Oh dear... but you didn't say 'perfect'. Oh, he meant 'perfect' not 'phhhhh'! I'm so glad I skipped the casting couch joke.
Me: Oh, right! Sorry.

So I did it again and made sure to say 'perfect'.

Director: Good. Now Jonathan, you stand here. Isabelle you sit on the chair over here and pretend you are sitting at a dining room table. It's the dining room table of your dreams and you love it. And Jonathan here is your husband and I want you to get more and more excited about the table and catch his eye and say "I love it!!!"
Me and Jonathan: Ok.
Director: Roll the tape. Action!

So we did the scene a few times. And a few times more for good measure.  I started to feel slightly demented after the 10th "I love it!!!!!" "I love it!!!" but also indulged in a nice bit of miming as I checked the edges of the imaginary glass table of my dreams.

I thought Jonathan did great. I was sure he'd get the part.

Stepping back out into the waiting room, I found Jose the Cutie helping a very buff very beautiful model who was struggling with the zipper on his bag. He looked like Seal.

Seal: do you have some safety pins? I've got to ride home on my bike and this bag won't close.
Jose the Cutie (disappearing behind a door) I don't have thafety pinth but we have a thtappler. We'll go all retro punk!
Seal: (zipping up the bag) Got it!!!
Jose the Cutie (coming back in with the stappler): Here!
Seal: Thanks but I fixed it.
Jose the Cutie: Oh!
Seal: Thanks anyway.

And with that, Seal took himself out of our lives and back into the glossy pages of whatever high end fashion magazine he'd temporarily stepped out of. Jose the Cutie looked heart broken.

If Jonathan's up against Seal for the part, he doesn't stand a chance.

Now take your clothes off

Another week, another audition.


The call from my agent came in late on Tuesday evening. These late calls are never a good sign. It usually means the job is being rushed through and that somebody or possibly several individuals are not being given enough time to do things properly. None of this ever bodes well for the actors involved being as they are at the bottom of the proverbial food chain, one down from lowly plankton. (This goes for big stars like Johnny Depp and Angelina Jolie too except they get paid pots of money to compensate.) "Can you do 1:30 tomorrow? It's in Soho. I've sent you the details. Just bring a bathing suit..."

A bathing suit! I downloaded the casting breakdown: "multiple ages and looks, no overweight people please, must be comfortable auditioning in a bathing suit."
Several thoughts immediately came to mind, all of them negative: I already have a 2:30 appointment in the diary. I don't want to wear a bathing suit. I shouldn't have to disrobe unless I'm getting paid.Why a bathing suit? I don't like the idea of some appalling audition footage of me surfacing when I get my big break. I don't have time for a quick fake tan. I'm not sure I know where to find my bathing suit.

Now, my former drama school class mates and anyone who saw my one woman show at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe will attest to my willingness and indeed enthusiasm to disrobe for art. Nudity on stage or in front of the camera, if it suits the role, does not phase me. Of course, I will starve myself for a few months before hand and exercise like a demon (who wouldn't?) but - seriously - I don't consider it a big deal.

So.
What's the problem with auditioning in my bathing suit?
Honestly? I'm feeling a bit fat (not in absolute terms but certainly in that no-tan-just-coming-out-of-winter-skin kind of way) and I really don't want to have to undress in front of a bunch of strangers and have them film it.

Fair enough?

So I toyed with the idea of calling my agent to cancel.

But I have a rule: to try never to act based on Fear or Ego. Cancelling the casting felt pretty much like Fear and Ego were doing the talking. In the end - and I'm going to spare you the agonising and toing and froing - I settled for wearing my cute stripey 1930's bathing suit under my jeans. And I set off for Soho early (before I changed my mind). With luck, I would be seen quickly and then have plenty of time to get to the next appointment.

I must have known deep in my soul that there would be some sort of trouble ahead because on the way I stopped by WHSmith for the impulsive purchase of a book of crossword puzzles (I really had to look hard for it, it's all gone Sudoku in the puzzle section) and some sugar free gum.

I got to the casting studio at one on the dot. The lobby was heaving with people, some were sitting, most were standing. I pushed my way through to the pretty but bored brunette receptionist on duty. "Hi, I'm Isabelle Gregson." She crossed my name off the list: "Please fill out this form. Also, there's a bit of a wait so you may want to go and grab a coffee and come back later."

No one had warned me that Puff Adder would be making an appearance. (If you don't know Puff Adder, check the blog archive.) I think it must have been all the Fear that conjured it up.

Puff Adder: "How long a wait exactly."

Pretty receptionist now rather sullen, having taken an immediate dislike to Puff Adder: "Well, like half a hour maybe, or more. It depends."

It depends on what you sulking git?

Puff Adder: "I have another meeting to get to after so I'm not sure I'll be able to wait that long..."

And with that I sat down. Or rather Puff Adder stole the empty seat from the girl who'd just gone into the casting room. Let the rest of them stand. I pulled out the crossword and immediately struggled with it. You should have gone for Sudoku and now it's too late.

You know how sometimes, when you're somewhere really beautiful and you're in love and all relaxed you become hyper aware of everything around you: the colours, the sounds, the smells? Well, I was having one of those moments but in the nightmare version.

The tall Chinese model on my left was clicking her long fingernails and intermittently running them through her long hair so they made that almost but not quite blackboard sound. Then there were two actor friends chatting mindlessly.
Rihanna clone: "Yeah like I was in LA like and it was soooo cooool!"
Pretty boy: "Yeah? Like how? I'm off to Canada next week, I mean LA is quite far from Canada innit ? But I have my son with me so like you know I have responsibilities but like - LA? Definitely! So how was it?" Rihanna look-alike: "Oh my God, like, you know it was like really cool and stuff but like I had to learn like 4 scripts a day cos they're so much more professional over there."

Then the receptionist drone pulled out her sandwich and started to chew on it very loudly.

The crossword wasn't getting any easier, even with Puff Adder cheating and checking the answers at the back.

Pretty boy from before: "So like did you work a lot when you were out in LA like?"
Rihanna wannabe: "Like not really but I'm going back like in the Summer."

Und so veiter as they say in German.

After some 15 minutes the door to the casting room opened and everyone looked up in anticipation. Pick me! Pick me! The girl whose chair I was using came out and proceeded to crouch down to retrieve her various bags and coats from under me. Casting director: "The director's taking a break so we'll just be a while before we call the next person in." But of course.

And on and on in went and dragged. Every 15 minutes of so someone else would be called in. In between, the casting director would return a few calls or check email, or the director would take a loo break.

2 o'clock rolled around. There were only about 5 of us left. I couldn't tell if the witch on reception had decided to stick me to the back of the queue on account of Puff Adder.

2:10: still 5 of us left.

2:15: four of us left.

I'd calculated that I needed a good 15 minutes to get to my next appointment. I had now been waiting for an hour and a half - or only (only!) 45 minutes beyond my call time. I'd made it all the way to the audition, in my bathing suit. I had faced my Fear and Ego and won! So I got up, explained to the receptionist that I could no longer wait as I had another meeting and I left.

You don't end up 45 minutes late by accident. It's takes a lot of dedication. Some would even call it an art form. Puff Adder calls it just plain unprofessional. I couldn't possibly comment.

-------
UPDATE! Guess what, yes, my agent just called... the bathing suit audition has been rescheduled for tomorrow so watch this space....

It’s hot and crazy in the kitchen

The casting breakdown for Thursday’s audition read: ‘male or female, a chef, someone people would be a bit scared of but with a warm side as well... Must have characterful face.’ So I thought: Monica (from Friends). (Although I’m far closer in type to Monica than I could ever hope to be of the boys' favourite Rachel, let me remind you that it was Monica who bedded Magnum PI and if I’d been in charge of the storyline, she would have married him.) Anyway, I figured if I could channel Monica in her restaurant kitchen haranguing her staff, I’d be in with a chance.

The message from my agent asked me to turn up at 12:25 at The Green Room, to meet a casting director I hadn’t come across before. And I thought 'cool' because meeting new casting directors is always a fantastic opportunity: if they like you, they’ll keep you in mind for future jobs. That’s why you should always be extra nice to them and always on your best behaviour. But more on that later.

It being summer and all, I walked into Soho for the audition. I know it’s only April but seriously: it’s been 25 degrees (that’s 80’s to save you the mental arithmetic) for – like – a WHOLE week and the heat shows no sign of abating. After that, who knows? We’re assuming it’ll go back to cold and rainy through August – so for now, it’s summer.

I strolled into the casting studio with 25 minutes to spare and was a little taken aback by the welcoming spread of the muffins and croissants on the counter. Usually, you’re lucky if you get a water cooler in the corner dispensing tepid water in those tiny blink-and-you’ll-crush’em paper cups. Thankfully, I have my priorities straight so I figured I’d check-in with the girl in the unflattering wrap dress and lank hair before I demolished the carb feast.

Me: “I’m Isabelle Gregson. I'm here for the casting.”
Jabba the Hutt with a dismissive smirk: “No you’re not. No castings here this morning. Call your agent.”
Me: “This IS the Green Room?”
Her: “Yes.”
Me: “I thought the food was too good to be true!”
Her: “Yes, well that’s definitely not for you!”
Me: “Well, obviously not, these are for the poor little orphans from some war torn country although I bet you’ve got room for a few under that dress. Stretchy fabric is so forgiving isn’t it?”

I didn’t actually say that but I thought it very loudly in my head. (I’m still more than a little pissed off because I did not get the big money job. I bet the other girl with the shoes got it.) And because I didn’t want my great acting training to seize up just because I’m going through a bit of a dry spell, I smiled at her sweetly.

I stepped back out into the sunshine and dialled my agent.
Me: “Hi, it’s Isabelle. You sent me to the wrong place!”
Agent: “Let me check. (long pause) Oh good Lord! I’m so sorry, it’s actually at 4:15. And it's not at the Green Room, it's in Beak St (which is also in Soho.)”
Me: “How much money?”
Well, all I can say is that even though it wasn’t anywhere near as much as the big money job, it was still worthwhile going home and then coming back out to Soho for the casting at 4:15.

So I did.

I arrived at 4:05, 10 minutes early, feeling rather hot and a bit fed up what with all the speed walking and the heat.

Me to one of the two girls on reception: “I’m Isabelle Gregson. I’m here for the casting.”
Chewing gum girl: “Take a seat. It’s a bit crowded downstairs. They’re auditioning twins! They’ll call you.”

I sat down.

Next to me, a stage mother was fretting over her two girls: “they’re all identical twins downstairs!” “I know Mum, and we’re not even twins!” Well good luck to you…

I checked the time: 4:17.

Me to the same girl as before: “My call was for 4:15, are they running late?”
Her: “I think yeah a bit. It’s kids and it’s twins so it’s taking twice as long.”

I went back to my seat.

I checked the time again: 4:40 and noted that Solitaire playing girl #2 on reception had directed 2 people downstairs in the last 5 minutes. Could it be...? I promised to listen out for the next one to see if they were up for the same audition. You see, until you sign in with the casting folks (as opposed to the girls on reception), you might as well not have arrived. And as it’s often first come first serve, if this girl was letting people through I could end up waiting an awfully long time.

4:45. Solitaire playing girl to short little guy with Italian accent who’d come in for the same audition as me: “… down the stairs.”

I hurtled across reception so unexpectedly that the little guy took a few steps back.

Me to Solitaire girl: “Are you kidding me? I got here over 30 minutes ago and your colleague (pointing finger accusingly at Chewing gum girl) told me to sit up here and wait and all this time you’ve been sending people downstairs? What is this? Luck of the draw?” (As I said before, I’m a little cranky on account of not getting the big money job.)

Chewing gum girl hastily called down to the studio and was told to start sending people directly.

I raced down the stairs (ahead of the little guy) through a warren of corridors which finally expelled me hairball style into the waiting room. I turned on the rather young and meek looking blonde woman who was manning the desk. “What kind of deal do you have going on upstairs?” I recounted the whole sorry affair and must have done a really good job of scaring her because she tried to bundle me in to see the casting director in front of the remaining set of twins.

5:00 My turn! The casting director is the maternal type and an old friend (well maybe not an old friend but she’s had me audition for various jobs over the past few years so I think she’s a fan).

Casting director to me: “What happened out there?”

Now, see, this is where I went wrong on account of being really tired, and cranky, and feeling quite frankly like I’d auditioned several times for this job already. So instead of saying “Don’t worry, it’s all sorted. There was a misunderstanding upstairs. Your girl down here dealt with it really well.” - which I'm sure you’ll agree would have been the thing to say -  I launched into the whole sorry saga. It all came out in an angry jumble which made me sound like a crazy woman and made her look at me with a mixture of apprehension and impatience.

That’s when I decided to stop talking.

Casting director: “(pause) Anyway, this is Fred.” Fred was a beautiful young Afro-Caribbean god who happened to be operating the camera. Well maybe he wasn’t a god but he was definitely too beautiful and too perfect to be called Fred. He smiled a gorgeous smile that lit up the windowless room and came over to shake my hand.

Fred: “Hiyadoing?”
Me: “Oh. I’m real’ good.” Liar.

Casting director: “Alright, shall we make a start?…I want you to imagine that it’s really cold and windy and you’re out in your beach hut (?) with your kids (!) and your husband (!!) and it’s been an awful day…”

I remember thinking “What ever happened to the scary chef? Am I even in the right audition?” but recovered and did as I was told. Badly. I wasn’t prepared to be a harassed mother, I was all set to be an intimidating chef and now I was too angry and tired to shift gears.

In between two takes the casting director lifted a book and peered inside a bowl on the table in front of her: “My bread dough is rising!” she giggled.

I'm sure you’ve had those hyperreal dreams that suddenly turn completely surreal and you’re just glad to realise you’re in a dream because when you wake up it’ll all be OK? Well this was like that except I was awake.

Casting director: “It’s for the chefs’ auditions later!” We had a good laugh over that even though I'd long lost my sense of humour.

Then we were done. I wished her and Fred a happy Easter, was rewarded with another dazzling smile from Fred - I bet he’s like that with all the mortals - and promptly walked into the closed door.

Come a bit closer, my Puff Adder wants to say hello...

I’m not good when I’m hungry. Or hormonal. Or both. The Puff-Adder, as a good friend of mine christened it, is my small, green and deadly Familiar, with a lightning strike (and telescopic fangs). According to this same friend – who is still very much alive and kicking no doubt saved by his well honed survival instincts and some life saving tips from his ex-Special Forces mates – Puff Adder is quite easy to spot. Apparently, it’s all in the gaze: my eyes narrow, my nostrils flare, and KAPOW! Too late, you’re dead. So if you’re clever (or know me well), you track it and make sure to retreat in time to safety. I just think of it as letting off steam. But apparently, the strike is lethal. Very few have recovered, and of those who have I’m told none ever made a full recovery.

You know what they say about women with short hair?

"Our woman is aged 35 - 40, she is attractive but interesting looking with a nice smile." This is the latest casting breakdown I received from my agent this morning. It's for a TV commercial for an insurance company. This is all fantastic feel-good news: my agent thinks they (I know it should say he or she but there's two of them) can sell me as attractive, and it's for TV insurance advertising which means good money if I can get it!

I called my agent back to confirm I'd be attending the audition. I appreciate that they give me the illusion that I have a choice, that there are so many acting jobs out there that I might actually be minded to say, you know what, I'm not sure about this one, I think I'll pass on it...

"Oh hello, do you still have your really short hair?" "(Pause) Yes." What I really wanted to say was "Well no actually, I thought just for a lark I'd grow it down to my buttocks in dreads and not tell anybody!" But the thing is, my agent, they're kind of busy, so I kept it to myself and thought I'll put it in my blog instead - where at least irony stands a chance of being appreciated.

"Oh good! I just thought I should check because you see the casting director asked specifically about your short hair... she says with short hair it'll be easier to put a bald cap on it."  Maybe, 5 years ago, when I embarked on this acting journey, I would have blanched or inhaled deeply, or even cried. But 5 years on? "Well, I don't care what they want me to do as long as they pay me good money." "Oh good girl." (It sounds patronising but I was talking to Belinda who is like the world's Mother and totally unflappable and coming from her it's not patronising. So please don't feel offended on my behalf.)

Here's the thing that you have to come to terms with as a jobbing actor (as opposed to a high profile actor who is specifically requested for roles, as a way of "selling" the project to producers), actually it's a list of things, and if you can't get your head around it, then you should go and do a normal respectable job that isn't over subscribed. Like accounting.

1. Everyone in the business hates actors (especially if they are ex-actors themselves.)
2. Art can on occasion get you noticed and open some doors, but not always.
3. Art as a rule will cost YOU money and not earn you ANY.
4. There is nothing wrong with earning a little bit of money to pay bills and you know, do stuff, like eat.
5. There would be no day time TV for duvet days if everyone refused to do commercials.
6. Attending auditions is good practice (for the big one)
7. Any sort of acting is good practice (for the role of a lifetime)
8. Going to auditions keeps your agent happy (even if you don't get the job)
9. Many of today's big stars started off doing commercials
10. Many of today's top directors started off shooting commercials.

So I am going to attend that audition looking attractive but interesting (as opposed to?) and deliver whatever they want from me with gusto and enthusiasm. Because this is the path I have chosen. And even if I have to remind myself sometimes, the fact is that I really do love it, even after 5 years, even if I'm not a household name YET. (Notice the pig headed blind optimism? If you don't got it don't even try it...)

Stay tuned...

The film what I was almost the star in

Last year, I auditionned for an American feature film. It was to play the lead. I got a recall. Then I went to Edinburgh to do my one woman show.

The film has been made. Without me obviously. Guess who is playing "my" part? Milla Jovovich.

That's right, the ex-model, ex-wife of Jean-Luc Besson, face of L'Oreal and all around leggy big eyed beauty.

Nice to know one's casting type.

The film was called something else at the time but it's been released as The 4th Kind. I saw the trailer on TV and the ads on the sides of London buses. Here's the trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sucJ8tjazD8

I'm not sure it would have got its international release if I'd been in it so I'm glad I helped in my own small way by letting Milla play the lead.

I've taken a strange pride in this film. I'll even go and see it. It's a thriller/sci-fi/horror film about alien abduction and strange goings-on. And it got me/Milla playing the lead.

It's a very odd phenomenon. I get it with TV commercials too. The ones I auditioned for but didn't get: when they're finally shown on television, I feel strangely proprietary.


Here's to Milla and all the acting opportunities... because we're worth it.

Kate Moss stole my bra

What happens when the world's most beautiful, stylish, famous model and muse puts on a few pounds? Does she get cellulite and wobbly upper thighs, or grow a muffin top, or get a gut? No! It goes straight to fill a B-cup.

There is no God. But I love her anyway. Kate I mean. I think she's just splendid. Has turned all her quirks into winning assets and she's got more durability than the Duracel bunny. And she sounds like she's good fun, and supportive of her friends. And you hardly ever hear her speak. She does her thing and doesn't give a d*** who doesn't approve. I'm a big fan.

What's the female equivalent of homoerotic? Sapphic? I like the shape of her mouth at rest. The way her lips part. I like the way she tilts her head back in shots. And I like that her face scrunches up in a funny clowny way when she laughs and that she doesn't care. She's cool Kate. She's from Croydon and doesn't feel bad or apologetic about it.

Moving on.

I had an audition on Monday for a dairy company. The brief was milk maid. I'm just kidding, the brief was to play a mid-4o's business woman "who loses her stealy exterior when she tastes the product..." Ooh ah. Well, I walked into the casting suite and they had me play a completely different (and much younger) character. It was fun actually: a bit of improv with one of the other girls attending the casting. And no product tasting - which is always a bit awkward. Should find out if I got it by the end of the week.

I wonder what Kate Moss eats and in what quantities. I bet she doesn't raid her fridge. I bet she doesn't procrastinate. I bet she just does her thing and doesn't get all neurotic about it. I bet she doesn't fantasise about what she'd be doing with her millions if she'd won the £45 million jackpot the other week (fair enough, she's already got more than that in the bank).

Am I the anti-Kate? (Antiquate?) No. Afterall, we now share a bra cup. So we're more like boob twins.

What'd'you know. Tittwins! Kate and me.

You've got the face for a mineral water advert

I finally got an audition for a mineral water TV commercial, to run in France!!

Let's keep our excitement under wraps as... uh.... I don't have the job yet.

But it was promising. First of all, I've got the face for it. Healthy glowing skin even with minimal make-up, and a general healthy vibe. A face that says "I don't drink, smoke or do drugs, and I don't party like a wild animal. I eat healthy. And I go to bed early, me."

I also had a healthy glow because I had just walked to the casting session from home, at a good clip, in 40 minutes.

I flirted shamelessly with the boy at the front desk and he agreed that I deserved the part more that any of the other girls they were seeing that day. It made me feel good. Shame they won't be asking him for his opinion.

There were 2 girls waiting to go before me. One was a very tall, very drawn and thin (her knees were thinner than my wrists), and quite frankly rather unhealthy girl with lanky blond hair and sallow skin. I don't think she screamed "natural vitality and mineral water". The other girl had a nice athletic build (and a bottle of branded water in hand. Bitch). But she had a very hard rather agressive set to her face, that didn't look like friendly vitality to me.

Then it was my turn.

The character's name in the script was Isabelle. That's always a good sign and I made sure to mention it to the casting lady. I think she thought I was a bit eccentric.

The audition was quite tricky actually. Casting wanted me to be energetic but with a natural delivery straight to camera and show three different states of mind for the three bits of the scripts. To be delivered in fluent French.

BRING IT ON BABY! That last bit went fine. My French accent is flawless (afterall, I grew up there) but as I know I'm naturally quite theatrical and dramatic in my manner, a natural delivery is always a bit tricky (I usually end up doing "depressed") but I DID MY BEST.

They had me do it twice. They said "that's all for now." which I immediately assumed meant that I would be seeing them again and then I was out into the sunshine. And on a current of optimism and mineral water-induced well being, I walked all the way back home.

Oh, and I did all this with the dregs of a really bad cold I've been nursing since last Friday. What a pro!

Is that a bolt cutter?

I wreaked havoc in the Virgin Active at Moorgate on Sunday.

I use a padlock for my locker and wear the key on my shoelace. Well, that's the theory. After many close calls (almost lost the key down the drain in the shower once) it finally happened. At the start of a 7K run on the treadmill.

My shoe lace came undone (in spite of a double knot) and the key went flying into the inner workings of the machine. I stopped, and on the off chance that it had slid under the treadmill, I prostrated myself several times, all around it, to peer underneath (it mostly looked like dust, but was hard to tell without my glasses...)

I didn't find the key. Undeterred, I remounted my treadmill, finished the 7K, and for good measure performed another round of prostrations.

No key.

The duty manager was a jolly South African. He found the whole incident rather funny. He too did a round of prostrations (to the concern of the member who was now using the treadmill).

No key.

So he went to get the bolt cutters.

Today I have an audition for some advertising posters for a big telecom company. The breakdown reads "mother, can be quirky but not too much (there's that word again), should have reasonable length hair as we will be using a wind machine..."

I'm not doing that, it's too cheesy.

They say everyone has their price, and their limit. I still don't know what my price is but I sure can tell you what my limit is. I walked smack into it yesterday evening, at a casting for a cheese commercial, on the outer edges of West London, zone 2.

When I say cheese, what I mean is processed, squeezed out of a tube, comes in 4 flavours including prawn (I know!) kind of "cheese".

Unfortunately, the commercial (and therefore the casting session) called for a fair bit of eating of the product.

I'm proud to be in recovery from eating disorders but there are still a few things that make me unconfortable and downright loopy. Having to gobble processed cheese is one of them. Having to wait my turn for 45 minutes with the growing realisation that I'm going to have to gobble oodles and oodles of the stuff is another.

By the time I walked into the casting room, I was vibrating with anxiety. Almost levitating with stress. We did the idents (name, agent's name, rigth profile, left profile). Then I got briefed by the director (a woman): You (and before you ask, yes, "you" is another 40 something mum) are digging into the the stuff looking like you're being submerged by waves of flavour and delight.

Come again?

But then again, I am an actor. Surely I can adjust to any request from a director? Taking my clothes off, fine. Appearing with no make-up, fine. Looking unattractive and/or fat, fine. But I'm sorry - I draw the line at eating prawn flavoured anything that you have to squeeze out of a tube.

The director gave me last minute directions (prepare the "canapes", eat, enjoy, look delighted etc...) for the first take and said we'd try something else afterwards.

So I took a big breath and then I fudged it. I ended up eating a few bare pretzel sticks instead of the cheese. My throat was so dry I even struggled with those. I didn't make it past the first take.

I should've felt pretty crushed to be so obviously placed in the "reject" pile, but I couldn't wait to get out of room. Having retrieved my coat and brolly, I fairly skipped out of the building, after a minor freak-out when I accidently walked back into the casting room (through another door) instead of the front door.

I walked back to Kensington Olympia tube station (and it was raining pretty hard) and I felt like a freak. That was the worst bit about the whole experience. I felt different from everyone else: somehow not quite right in the head. All the other women had gone in, done their stuff, and come out wiping their fingers and smacking their lips. And I'd gone in and freaked out (technically, I'd gone in freaked out). Over having to eat some squeezy prawn flavoured cheese.

I know it's fantastic material for my next show.

And now I know what my limit is.

I don't like to chew but I like to swallow...

I discovered something new about myself today. It was such a strong realisation that I actually remember where I was and what I was doing at the time.

I was walking towards the Central Line turnstiles at Liverpool Street Station, biting into a ham baguette sandwich. (If you must know, whole meal, lettuce and tomato, no butter, no cheese). And what I discovered was this: I don't like chewing my food. To those who know me, this will not come as a surprise. I have an unseemly and un-ladylike habit of inhaling my food very very fast. It's not good for the digestion (although presumably it's reducing the wear on my teeth?) and a habit I've had since I was a small child.

This was going through my head as I took a bite out of my baguette sandwich and so I made a conscious effort to chew that particular bite conscienciously. And - the thing is - I didn't enjoy it. I could taste all the different components, textures, tastes. They were all blending in together and mixing and turning into mush.

I hated it.

I didn't like the messy taste and feel in my mouth. It was gross and disgusting. I really had to force myself to swallow.

Why was that? I seem to love food well enough. I have a healthy appetite, I eat EVERYTHING (exceptions: butter/margarine, anything with mayo, anything with any kind of cream (sour, double, single, whipped) Chicken Kiev, Coronation Chicken, Piccalilly sauce, mint sauce, greasy foods, mangostenes, and egg salad.) So how can I not like eating food?

The thing is, I do derive pleasure from ingesting food, but only when swallowing things without too much chewing. It's the swallowing whole that I find so satisfying.

So when it comes to food, I like to swallow, not chew. Is this odd? Am I unique in this? Is this some sort of affliction? Is it mental or physical? Is their a cure or treatment?

You might well ask what I was doing getting on the Central Line with a sandwich in the first place? I was on my way to have tea at Maison Bertaux with one of my very dear drama teachers from East 15. It was 2 o'clock and I'd just come out of yoga so hadn't had a chance to eat my lunch hence the sandwich (from Upper Crust if you must know). At Maison Bertaux (Soho - fantastic characterful French Patisserie), I had mint tea. There was no chewing involved.

Now for an acting note...
This morning I had an audition for a corporate ad (it means it pays very little and no one is going to see it apart from a bunch of middle managers in a board room). The role was described as: "a waitress in a greasy spoon caf in East London who's been doing the job for 8 years."

I wonder if I'll get it...