A love story

The rehearsal process - if all goes well - is a love story. A love story between you and the character. Because often, when you first look at the script your character is a complete stranger. You may empathise all you want but you still only know it or understand it from the outside.

No matter how much research I do, how I try to make every detail relevant by making substitutions in my mind (see the excellent "Respect for Acting" by Ute Hagen)... the magical transference from "her" to "me" is still out of reach. It a necessary part of the process but it's also b****y scary.

There are times when you never find the umbilical cord that links you to your character... and then you end up with something not very nice... not very real. Ever watched a film where you simply couldn't warm up to a character? Where you thought: I don't think this actor likes his character very much? Well, that's the missing umbilical cord (technically it's not missing, it simply hasn't been found).

Luckily for me, I find improvisation very useful in that hunt of the umbilical. Ever played make believe as a child? How real did it feel at the time? Couldn't you just taste the imaginary apple tart and peach cobbler and the tea served in your miniature Limoges tea set? (Or was that just me...) That's improvisation. Some people find it scary. I don't. It's the door to freedom and dreams and somehow the character takes over within a few seconds of the exercise starting and without me realising it and says things and does things, thinks things... and then after the exercise is over I come back to myself and sit down with the director and analyse the process discover so many things I didn't know! And suddenly, the character starts to make complete sense.

You suddenly understand, not with your head, but with your heart, why they are doing certain things in the course of the play, why they say certain things and how they say them. You no longer judge is as good/bad, wrong/right, funny/sad... it becomes the only way to behave, to think, to be... and that's an indescribably delicious feeling.

A feeling of freedom, a feeling of growing affection and love for this character who slowly merges into you and you into it. And if you work hard, and are very lucky, and don't peak too early, you're in for a real treat, playing a long lost twin, playing a former self from a past life, playing the person you always knew you could be.

That's what acting's really about. People will tell you that they get into it for fame and money but finding your character and celebrating it is what gets you through the rigours of drama school, through the endless castings for TV commercials, the bit parts, and the hopes of the next job.


THE SHOW: Isabelle will be playing "The Woman" in Desire/Desig by Josep Maria Benet i Jornet, 13-31 July, White Bear Theatre (London), directed by Julia Stubbs, co-starring Simon de Deney, Anabelle Cleare and Stephen Connery-Brown. For tickets: http://tiny.cc/gplor

Let's do the McDonalds.

No need to check your well-thumbed copy of the Kamasutra. Or worry about my waistline (leave that to me). I have an audition for a McDonald's TV commercial this afternoon.

"Quirky looking Mum. She MUST look like she would take her kids to McDonalds. So not too posh. Casual." reads the breakdown.

I should be able to pull it off. Especially the quirky looking bit.

Not sure how the fact I'm going to be in a Heinz advert at the same time will go down with them though...

Quarter pounder with cheese and some large fries. And an extra large full fat coke. With a straw. God, even the sense memory of their plastic trays makes me salivate!

Do I feel like I'm being left behind in the "breaking into acting" race? (I hadn't realised until now that it was a race...) One mate is auditioning with the producers of Star Trek, another is taking her new one woman show to the Ed Fringe, another is re-doing her one woman show from Ed in London for the 2nd time. What about me?

Well, what about me? I've written to tons of people. I've asked Mike Newell a question which made him think I was a lazy dickhead of an actress. I'm pen pals with Julian Fellowes. Charles Dance wrote back to me. I give good face in my photos. And I'm probably going on hols to San Francisco in a few months. So what about me?

I want MORE. And I want it NOW! What do I WANT? I don't know, but I know it's something DIFFERENT. From what? From what I have RIGHT NOW.

It's amazing how little ground gets covered when willfullness is at the wheel. It's more like, well, going in circles.

It's amazing how little happens when you THINK about it instead of DOING something about it.

So, off to my audition, off my bum, and let's ride into the sunset singing at the top of my lungs that dwarf work ditty from Snowwhite.

On the casting couch

The call came in last night from my agent. "You've got an audition for an advert on December 4th at 11 o'clock." Actually, they didn't call, they now have this snazzy email system with all the details written on it and you just have to reply to the email to say you'll be there.

So I found myself in a rather drafty reception in Soho this morning, waiting my turn. You can tell a lot from the type of production and how much they're likely to pay (my agent never tells me how much until I get the job...) If they're disorganised and running behind schedule, it's not a good sign. They were running 1/2 hour late (not that they told us... we figured it out for ourselves) and committing the cardinal sin of not following the call order that the actors had been given. So it was pandemonium and rising tension. (With some PMT thrown in for good measure - at least on my part!) Oh, they also didn't have enough scripts to go round...

It finally got to my turn, did my thing. They seemed to like me. Thought I had a Southern Irish lilt. Which is news to me as I can't seem to be able to do an Irish accent without sounding Pakistani. But they seemed quite keen! So chances are I'll probably get it... apparently they'll be picking 3 of us.

I guess fingers crossed. The money will probably be so-so. But it's Christmas and it's a job so if I get it, I'll be glad and grateful.

It's so ironic that I spent the last 3 weeks agonising about when my next audition would be and then one comes along and my gratitude is nowhere to be found... That's actors for you. Wingeing and ungrateful bunch that we are. I hope we don't get made redundant by technology before I'm nominated for an Academy Award!

Is this getting a bit stale?

No audition for the past two weeks and I'm feeling the strain even though I know it's normal: some weeks you get auditions every day, other times you can go for weeks without the phone ringing. And November always turns out to be a rather quiet month for me.

Still, I've been up and about: I was in Paris for a long weekend. It was cooler than Dubai and I didn't have to sell my soul plus I got to eat a lot of home made cakes (there was a family birthday celebration). On the train trip back to London, we heard this old trout saying to some young guy with headphones: "You're not going to have this on the whole trip are you. I simply couldn't bear it!" And he turned the volume down immediately.

Ageing Baby Boomers: 1, Youth: Nil.

After we'd settled into the relative silence of the carriage, I gorged myself on free newspapers and magazines (we had a cheap deal in Leisure Select) but to my dismay somehow failed to complete any of the SUDOKU puzzles or quick crosswords. I wonder if was the onset of cerebral ageing or the effect of too much insulin raging through my veins to mop up my vertiginously high blood sugar levels...

Anyway. I digress.

What I meant to talk about is that as an actor, (I prefer it to "actress", it somehow sounds more serious...) I have a profound aversion to reality TV and talent shows. Rightly or wrongly, I assume that they reduce the amount of money and air time dedicated to drama... and therefore my acting opportunities. So I'm always intrigued and amused when I find the audience spontaneoulsy subverting these shows' format- somehow signalling that they've overrun their course and their welcome in people's living rooms.

It started with "votefortheworst.com" which encouraged viewers to call the American Idol phone lines and vote for the worst candidate. It carried Sanjaya to something like 7th place in the final 2 years ago. And he was truly an appalling singer poor fellow, especially his hair (it didn't sing but it was appalling too). Now it's the turn of Strictly Come Dancing with John Sergeant defeating all the odds and threatening to plunge the competition into (more) ridicule by winning it! Was he pushed? Did he jump?

At any rate, his peroxide blond Russian partner seemed rather peeved at the press conference. I'd stay away from the sushi if I were him. Especially if it glows in the dark.

So I propose a toast to good quality programming (especially on the BBC!), to the proverbial underdog, a good sense of humour, and romantic travel!

As they say in France: "Chin Chin!"

I'm feeling a bit empty!

I finished the acting job last Thursday and took the next 3 days off. And now it's Monday and the week looks a bit... empty! There's people to phone up, friends to meet up with to discuss new projects, and plays to see (Pinter's One Man Land at the Duke of York Theatre, with Michael Gabon). But there's still that overwhelming feeling of lack of purpose. Will I ever get an acting gig again?

It's very childish behaviour. And quite irrational (a big casting director told my agent I was "delightful" last week. And my favourite PR man thought my latest photos were "fabulous".) The thing is I want everything to happen now, preferably all at the same time, and the way I imagine that I want it. And I want more of it.

Right.

We're running riot. (Me and my Ego.) Let's try and refocus.

Let's make a list of what I want. And another of what I need.

What I need:
1. to be at one with the universe and let it guide me along my path.

What else? That's pretty much it. Really? Well, I also need courage and serenity to help me achieve item 1. Ok. Do they need to be in any specific order? Don't think so.

2. Courage
3. Serenity

Actually, can we switch them around? What? Oh, you're impossible!

What I Need List:
1. Be at one with the Universe
2. Serenity
3. Courage

What about the other list? What other list? Are you listening to me or entry 27 on the UK Top40? Sorry! The I Want List.

What I Want List:
Happiness, things going my way, financial security, love, admiration from the public and my peers, recognition, peace of mind, great legs, a greener planet, less poverty in the world, less pain, death, disease and greed. And a better theme song for the new Bond film.

Shall I go on? You sound like you're scraping the barrel. Or is that scrapping?

Why are you asking me?

I dunno. I guess the I Want List is pretty pointless. Isn't it? Yes, so it seems, but it's up to you. Oh...

So it is. Let's just go with the first list, the What I Need List, and leave it at that. Ok.

Over.
And out.

Let’s put it on ice.

I had to make a very difficult and painful decision on Friday. And I'm feeling a bit bruised as a result. Shame they don't make ice packs for feelings and emotions. There's always Valium but somehow that feels a bit 1960's and for middle aged Hausfraus who use cold cream and wear rollers in their hair overnight. And house coats. And those silly swimming caps with big plastic flowers on them.

So, with Valium out of the equation, I'm just going to have to sit it out.

It helps that the weather's taken a turn for the better - with all that sunshine and blue sky it's hard not to feel optimistic.

On a happier note, I've been learning my lines for the latest episode of Katie and Co. (the sitcom I'm shooting for the Mail on Sunday website). It's got a Thelma and Louise theme, but without any of the driving! Hope we at least get a convertible... Unfortunately, the way that episode is written, will be spending most of it in a really dingy and sad looking roadside eatery. And I'm supposed to be stuffing my face with chips and greasy food throughout it.

Hey. We all have our cross to bear.

Are you coming up for air?

It's been a while. Hasn't it?

I've been shooting a webcast sitcom called "Katie and Co." for the Mail on Sunday. It's Friends meets Bridget Jones. The main character's a people pleasing restaurant critic about to turn 40, and she's got a live-in statistician boyfriend, an really hot ex, and 3 best mates from her Uni days. I'm one of her Uni friends. It'll launch exclusively on the Mail on Sunday website on Oct. 5. Which is like, next week!

As part of this shoot - and the photo shoot for publicity material - I've been exposed to and learnt many new (valuable things):

I am really short. I had to stand on a box in the cast line-up pictures so that my head would actually be in the frame!

My eyes don't need too much make-up to fall into Drag Queen territory.

One of the advantages of being short is that I am petite. (I like that one.) None of the clothes fitted me at the photo shoot and I had to be pinned into stuff. And told I was "so cute and dinky" by the stylist. I felt like Kylie for about 5 minutes and then started to worry that I might inhale a whole cake and balloon up to a size 14 by the end of the week.

I have a father figure fetish. Photographer. Director. Who ever's in charge. Who ever's the daddy on set, I want to be their special princess. Odd.

I have a thing for DOPs. (Director of Photography, the person who mans the camera and is in charge of lighting and framing). They're usually the quiet reflective type and they have the power to make you look really good or really bad, or just average. They have magical abilities and are super cool. I don't want to be their princess, I want to be their favourite toy.

I look sexy in a saucy policewoman's outfit. Oh yes! Apparently. That's what everyone on set said: from my rather louche hot blooded co-actor, to the cute early 20's stylist (a girl), to the apologetic props man, to the DOP (he didn't say anything, he didn't have to), to the punters in the pub who rubbernecked as I ambled past. The outfit consisted of: a push up bra, a white policewoman shirt with "69" shoulder tags, a very tight black Mango skirt to the knee, fishnets, impossibly kinky S&M stilettos, rude looking black plastic truncheon, and very fake plastic handcuffs. Someone took some pictures so you'll see for yourself.

I also learned that I'm roughly a size 10 (8 in M&S) and that as a consumate pro, I can walk in size 7 shoes (I'm size 4) if I have to. And that I look good in skirts.

Finally, opaque tights are cool and trendy and not a throw back to my 1980's school days.

I am grown-up, I can wear make-up, I can dress up, I can look sexy. I am an actress. Cool!

ouch! I got stuff in my eye...

Well it had to happen, cranked up as I was by my "whale day" yesterday.

I got in the shower at the gym after the body pump class and presto, managed to squeeze shower gel into my eye. (Before you ask, I'm not quite sure what body part I was aiming for, and I'm not quite sure how it happened.)

Of course this is not just about the showergel (which I've decided was a personalised warning from the Greater Universe for me to slow things down a bit and take it easy). The thing is, I've got a thing about my eyes.

I really do.

I mean, I don't really mind pain as a rule: I enjoy sitting in the Dentist chair and I'm not bothered by inocculations.

As long as it's not anywhere near or in my eyes.

Eye drops hurt. Plain water hurts. Professional make-up artists let me do my own mascara. My eyes are so dry I can't even wear contact lenses for more than an hour at a time. (I can put them on but there's a trick to it. It's called vanity.)

So a big blob of showergel found its way onto my eyeball. After the initial pain-free realisation (like that bit in cartoons when characters remain temporarily suspended in mid air before crashing to the ground) I got hit by an almighty burst of stinging pain.

There I stood. With one hand covering my good eye (to keep the water and anything else out of it) whilst trying to rinse out the other eye by looking up towards the shower head.

Not good.

Afterwards I stumbled over to the mirror. The white bit was covered in red lines. And my eye had already shut to about half it's normal size (even without the squinting). A bit like one-eyed crying.

It hurt when I opened it. It hurt when I blinked. It was better when I kept it shut. So did a fantastic impression of a pirate in the changing room. I think some people were avoiding me.

Of course my eye looks just fine today. Which is a good thing as I've got a stills shoot over the next two days and my character doesn't have pinkeye. (It's for a webcast sitcom for a well known company and more will be revealed when it's up and running.)

I guess I was overdue for a shower incident. My last shower trauma was at Uni (the first time around) when I slipped coming out of the shower, fell backwards landing on my tailbone, and the soap I was holding flew out of my hand and hit me in the eye...

If that was a message from the Greater Universe at the time, I didn't heed it.

But I will this time. I promise.

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You want me to wait for how long?

Willfulness. Like the guy who accelerates past you a little recklessly revving the engine on his VW sports thingy, only for you to catch up with him 3 seconds later at the traffic lights.

It doesn't really get you anywhere fast. It's just tiring and pointless.

So why do we do it? And more to the point, why do I do it? Why don't I just flow in unison with the Greater Universe and see where that takes me? Why? Why? Why?

Questions are another form of willfullness. Children are very good at it. Why is the sky blue? Because of the layers of molecules and the way the light refracts off of them. Why is that? Why? Why?

When I put it like that, it sounds terribly pointless and unpleasant. But that doesn't capture the half of it. Willfullness seduces us because of its promise of realised dreams and ambition. "I want therefore I am. Therefore I have. Lots and lots. Therefore I'm happy."

But when was the last time having what you wanted make you happy? Or happy for more than - let's say 24 hours?

No. No. Much better to stick with the plans the Greater Universe has developed in its infinite wisdom and infinity.

I may have to wait for a while, for a long while (it always feels like a long while when you don't know how long it's going to be) but at least I'll get what I'm meant to receive. And in my experience, that's always the right thing, at the right time, for the right reasons.

You want me to wait how long?

However long it takes.

Ok then. Try me. It's the weekend.

You’re making a lot of noise!

It's rather noisy in my neck of the woods at the moment. There's been scaffolding going up across the street with the guys doing their best impression of a seal colony. There's been continuous drilling on a building site next door, and in the last few minutes, some serious sawing of the newly asphalted road just outside the house. They managed to set fire to it last time they did it (the asphalt, not my house) so I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

And it's not just me finding London a tad wee noisy after my sojourn up north. Oh no! The really chilled out girl who works in the caf next door is going spare.

It's a bit like having your teeth drilled without anaesthetic.

But without a sexy dentist leaning over you real close.

Life takes on a different quality when it's submerged with noise. It's a bit like drowning in an ocean, except with drowning, there's an inevitable release. It's just singularly unpleasant.

Still, I'll be out of the house soon enough. Yoga beckons. And groceries!

Baby!

The weather this morning is doing it's best impression of winter but it's got nothing on Gustav. And after a particularly rainy August in Edinburgh (the locals were apologetic) I barely notice it. Besides, I'm a three time auntie as of less than 24 hours ago! For the record, I don't mean my sister had triplets. Maybe the correct term is "third time auntie".

(This isn't going to flow very well because I'm having to rewrite the original blog entry which got deleted before I could save it - when my screen went blank a minute ago...)

Being an auntie is the best bit. No childrearing responsabilities, no discomfort, no discipline. You get to be immature and childish and play. Sing songs, teach them silly and useless things (like blowing raspberries), and generally re-live your own childhood but better and in technicolour with all the mod coms (web, mobiles, digital cameras, and colourful clothes).

And if you don't have children of your own, kids don't classify you as an adult. By default, you're one of them except taller (just), with a driver's license (just), and a wallet! So I get to have friends. It's pretty cool.

It's still grey and rainy outside. The cars make that weird splish splash with their wheels as they drive along the sodden asphalt. You can hear water dripping from roofs and pipes - and from the sky of course.

But hey, I'm an auntie three times over and feeling rather sunny inside.

Can you breathe ok?

We've left August behind. It's September now and that conjures up all kinds of emotions and images relating to wet leaves on the pavement, new school books and the dreaded return to school. And the smell of winter.

It's not all bad of course. There's always the conkers to look forward to. How shiny they look at first! And all those French autumnal dishes that my mother excells at. Mushroom and Rocquefort pie, our national (ooops, regional) Alsatian dish: choucroute!!!, the Spanish Cocido (it's a stew). And many many more. It's a time for game, and fungus.

Still, it's a bright and sunny day here in London. With a chill to the air which bodes well.

I'm still recovering from this rather formidable cold that assailed me - without any warning (any warning that I heeded to that is) - on Thursday evening. It's been rough. Breathing has been a bit of a challenge. But I'm much better now.

I've got things to do, places to be... like preparing for an internet sitcom I've just been cast in. (WOO HOOO!!) But uncharacteristically, I'm going to take it easy today.

And keep that foot off the pedal. Just for today.

Say "aaaaaaaah"

I think I'm coming down with the dreaded Edinburgh Flu. Ever the contrarian, I've waited till I was back in London to catch it. If it's the Black Scottish Flu, I'm fucked.

Half sprawled on the couch, I'm patiently waiting for the sun to burn through the cloud cover so that I can have a semblance of a summer and maybe even recover. That's not going to happen is it? The sunshine I mean. In my weakened state no one dare tell me but I know, I know... Summer is well and truly over.

Still, I'm going to drag myself out later on, wearing my brand new mini purple tartan kilt and pink dance tights. And high heeled red patent leather shoes. Well, it would be nice to finally start earning a proper living this year! (The tarty toenails are still going strong.)

No need for the doctor, and hold off on the black rimmed cards and crowns of flowers. I'm not dead yet. Just middling. Idling. Limbo-ing.

When all I want to do is to keep going, like a rocket.

High high high into the sky.

Can you fit me in?

The smell of burnt toast lingers in the flat in spite of all the windows being open. I overdid the toast this afternoon and it set the smoke alarm off and stunned the office boys downstairs who'd gathered on the front doorstep as part of their evacuation procedure. They were even more stunned when I showed up, in my short hot pants and pink cut off t-shirt (and my glasses) to reset the alarm.

Stunned and appreciative I think. Well, they looked pretty enthusiastic (and stared pretty enthusiastically too). Then I had to climb back up the stairs so they got a really good view, rear view that is...

Now I don't dare make another piece of toast.

Anyway, apart from my unscheduled exhibitionistic tendencies nothing of note has occured yet on my full day back in London. Slept in till 7. (I know, but that's sleeping in for me.) Went to an audition near the British Museum.

Dropped into Hummus Bros for lunch. They've put their prices up (apparently the cost of seeds and pulses is going up too - like everything else) and they didn't offer me the usual option of a free hard boiled egg. I didn't feel like a hard boiled egg today but it's the principle of it.

Called to make an hair appointment with Tommy Guns but they couldn't fit me it. Patrick has gone on hols so no haircut until he comes back week after next.

Bother!

I'm slowly coming back to normal life and back down to earth. (It's all relative. Ask Einstein.) Disjointed, mock-discontent. Not disapproving (other than of Patrick's ill-timed holiday). Nor disengaged. Distemper: never! Disproportionate: always.

Heading South of the border

I'm on the train. Ediburgh, Newcastle, York, something else (Peterborough actually), and London KingsCross. Heading South, like the swallows. The carriage is a wonderfully charming amalgam of the regions we're passing through. Thick accents from thickly set ladies and tough looking lads. And smartly dressed elderly ladies on their way down to
London on their bi-annual pilgrimage (maybe The Sales are on?)

The other thing that characterises this train journey is the occasional waft of country smells that temporarily suffuses the carriage: from cow manure (I love it! It makes me think of the country side, and my grandmother's village in Northern Spain and holidays.), to burning leaves (unpleasant), to artificial fertiliser (very unpleasant).

I'm seated at one of those tables for 4 with 2 inscrutable but upper middle class foreigners. Who somehow, insist on speaking heavily accented English to one another. Posh enough to travel first class but relaxed enough to slum it in second. With the thick-set Geordies. And me.

I pointed out the Angel of the North to them, as we left Newcastle. And that has proven to be the extent of our conversation. I mentioned it a wee bit early so we had a few minutes of uncomfortable – almost reproachful – silence as we cranned our necks expectantly waiting for it to appear. I kept thinking "Maybe we've passed it already…" I don't know what they thought – as I said, they're rather unscrutable – but I could feel the impatience gnawing. But then we saw it! The Angel of the North.

Still, the most fascinating thing about them is the prodigious quantities and variety of food they have ingested so far. I know it's a four and a half hour journey and I've had a diet coke, a ham and cheese baguette, a punnet of Marks and Spencers strawberries and a kitkat from the train trolley (I know, first chocolate in 6 weeks! I didn't even care that it was half melted and made my fingers sticky.) But they're in a different league altogether. And yet they are so slim! Out of two orange Sainsbury's shopping bag, they've had bars of chocolate, a whole pack of what looks like oblong buns – what the French would call Viennese bread – with chocolate chips, and lately a peach! I think there's more to come. Actually, the husband is now chewing gum.

The BBC weather forecast this morning promised 22 degrees in London this afternoon, but so far the sky's grey mulch has pretty much clung to us. But the wellies are safely packed away in my suitcase. I'm still banking on sunshine.

Like the swallows.