Learning Mandarin in 90 lessons: lesson # 65 - "When being boring becomes an occupational hazard..."

It all started innocuously enough with two texts and three emails from my lovely agent. An audition (tick!), for a corporate film (un-tick!), paying a decent fee and travel to Berlin (re-tick!).

The brief on the second email read: "Business woman, mid 30s. She comes across as rather uptight and mean but that's only because she is a very busy business woman (unlike you, friendly actors, who are never busy). Underneath it, she's quite nice. Please wear full business attire (ie don't show up in your ripped jeans and with holes in your shoes.) to the audition. Scripts to follow (ie please learn your lines)."

The third email arrived the following day, with a script attached. (Note the use of the singular.) With my memorising skills in elite athlete shape thanks to the daily Mandarin lessons, I had my (four) lines memorised in no time.

Next morning, I took the business suit out of the wardrobe, still in the dry cleaner's protective plastic.This suit was a tried and tested stalwart: stretchy and forgiving, even on a fat day. But not today. As I zipped up the trousers, the seams tensed against my inner thighs and set off the voices:

French Isabelle: Oh la la la la! Je suis enorme!
British Isabelle: Maybe the fabric needs a bit of time to relax, you know, after the dry cleaning...
French Isabelle: Mais non! It's FAT I tell you. Ow could I let zis happen...
Spanish Isabelle: Stop it! Look, your bottom it looks like a sexy pomelo!
British Isabelle: Maybe its the Body Pump class, all those squats. You know you bulk up really easy...
French Isabelle: Oh let's just go, on va etre en retard.*
...

I stepped out of the tube station at lunchtime into passive aggressive rain: wet enough to turn fashion forward hair into an unruly matronly mop but not wet enough to warrant the use of an umbrella without coming across as the "Not the hair! Not the hair!" type.

I pulled out my black collapsible umbrella and strode purposefully towards the casting studio. The entrance overflowed with 20 year olds - definitely not in full or even limited business attire -  filling out their casting forms. A very shouty piece of French rap blared from the shelf behind the greeter's desk. I felt old and overstuffed in my suit and glared at the greeter.

Me: Hi, I'm Isabelle Gregson.
Greeter: Gregson... Gregson? It's upstairs.

I made my way upstairs to the other waiting room where four older actors in identikit dark blue business attire sat studying their scripts. Suddenly I felt young again and ooh look, I was in my brown tweed flared pant suit from Fenwick of Bond Street paired with my red patent leather heels from Rucco Linea. For a moment, I even forgot the tightness of my trousers. "Hi!". The blond lady seated across from me looked suitably uptight and didn't respond.

I made a point of not studying my script, because I knew my four lines and, as everybody knows, over-studying the script is an audition killer. Anyway, I hadn't brought the script with me. (They always hand out copies in the waiting room. As in always except for today.)

Suddenly one of the children from downstairs made his way past us towards the sign marked "Toilet". The bathroom boasted a floor to ceiling version of saloon doors last seen swinging to an Ennio Morricone soundtrack. I knew from experience (I'd been here before) that the space between those swinging doors and the actual toilet door was so short that you couldn't help being propelled rather painfully against that second door as soon as the saloon doors swung behind you.

Bang!

"Ow."

As we waited, the toilet doors went on to claim another 3 or 4 victims. We waited some more. And a bit more after that. The man seated to my right suddenly announced rather pompously that by his calculations, they were now running about half an hour late.

Suddenly the casting studio door opened and we all looked up expectantly. A middle aged man in a rumpled business suit came out, grabbed his coat, yelled "laser!" and left, chuckling. Finally the casting director came out.

Casting director: I'm terribly sorry to have kept you waiting. We're running a bit late. Just to recap: you're playing the BORING business person. But by the end of the script, you're quite engaged by the Tom character, he's young and cheeky and you'll let your personality shine through.

She turned to Mr. Pompous: Richard, follow me, your next.
Mr. Pompous (getting up to follow her): I think I may have learnt the wrong part...
Casting Director: Oh dear! Come with me.

The slightly chubby friendly looking man sitting across from me pointed at the toilet sign and asked me: "I'm sorry, I haven't been keeping track, is there anyone left in there?" I shook my head no. And with that, he got up, braved the swinging doors and collided with the girl who was coming out.

Mr Pompous reappeared a few minutes later script in hand and sat back down next to me.

Me (leaning over) It's a much shorter part, there aren't too many lines to learn.
Mr. Pompous: There are two scripts! They've given me 20 minutes to learn them...
Me: Did you say two scripts?

The Casting director reappeared: "Stephen?"
Mr. Chubby: Yes?
Casting director: Did you learn the right part?
Mr. Chubby: Yes, I think so...
Casting Director: Oh good man! Follow me!
Me: Excuse me, are we supposed to have one or two scripts?
Casting Director: Two.
Me: I only got script 3.
Casting Director (rolling her eyes): Agents!  Wait here. No, not you Stephen, you come with me.

She returned with a script. Turns out Script 1 had a lot more lines...
...

Twenty minutes later, Mr. Chubby reappeared, collected his belongings and left. The casting director's child - I mean assistant -  sauntered in behind him: "Hi everybody! Why don't you tell me your names so I can cross you off my list!"

'Everybody' - all four of us - dutifully gave their name and waited expectantly.

Casting director's assistant:  Thank you!... So... which one of you is Isabelle?

Me: Tell me, are you - and this is a stab in the dark so correct me if I'm wrong - were you by any chance the one responsible for emailing us the scripts? I'm Isabelle. 

Casting director's assistant: Really?

Me: Oh let me check. Am I? Ooh I don't know! Where's my brain?

I followed her into the casting studio. The casting director had disappeared.

Casting director's assistant: That's John on camera. Meet Mark, he's going to play Tom. Mark this is...
Me: Seriously? Isabelle.
Casting director's assistant: ... Isabelle who is playing the BORING businesswoman but by the end of it she'll be quite into you because you're a cheeky monkey type and the subtext... no that's another script.
Me: Did you just say subtext? Sorry, which script are we doing first?
Casting director's assistant (waving some papers at me from across the room): This one. And action!

Turns out it was Script 1. Turns the cheeky monkey didn't know his lines. Turns out he talked over me and left awkward pauses and stared at me expectantly whenever he thought it was my turn. Turns out he stood upstage which made it hard for me to talk to him and face the camera at the same time...

Casting director's assistant:  Mark, you're starting to remember your lines!! That's GREAT! Let's go again. Isabelle please face the camera, I'm getting too much of your profile. And action!

I wanted to slap him. He made me feel uptight and mean and not even 'quite nice underneath.'  He made my suit feel even tighter

We moved on to the second script. Twice. Turns out didn't know his lines for this one either. I wanted to bash him over the head with subtext.

On the positive side, I won't be seeing him again as neither of us will be getting a call to pack a bag, grab the passport and board that EasyJet flight to Berlin come Tuesday morning. And that's fine by me... I've got quite a busy week.



* We're going to be late

Learning Chinese in 90 days - days 7 and 8: L is for Lesbian

I received a slightly apologetic call from my lovely agent yesterday afternoon.

"I know you're busy with work but Mr. D (casting director for feature films) called up and specifically requested you for a project. D'you think you could free yourself up to go to the audition?"

Mmmm...

Is the Pope Catholic?

I dutifully freed up my diary for Monday lunchtime.

Ping!

Right on cue an email arrived from my agent (lovely and efficient), confirming the audition time and place and providing me with some details about the project as supplied by the casting director.

It read: Indie feature film. Profit share. (ie no pay upfront but we'll feed you and if we make any money you'll get a piece of it). Lesbian subject matter.

I'd rather it paid something upfront but other than that, I look forward to meeting up with Mr D. for the first time in 4 years.

I'll now throw in some insight into the inner paranoid workings of an actor's mind - free of charge:

I met Mr D straight out of drama school. I wasn't auditioning for him you understand, it was more of a meet and greet kind of thing. He was very kind and complimented me on my coat. Then I didn't hear from him again and I assumed he'd:

a) decided I was a an appalling actor (they can tell you know, even without an audition to go by)
b) forgotten about me (there's always the proverbial exception to confirm the rule)
c) black listed me (for some obscure, unknown and unspecified reason. I guess just because, you know, he could)
d) all of the above

But no! All this time, he'd had me sitting in the giant doll house of his mind, where (I imagine) he keeps his collection of actors.

I felt a rush of warmth and gratitude towards Mr D and looked forward to our lunch meeting. He'll be well impressed when I mention in passing that I'm learning to speak Mandarin and aiming to be conversational by mid September. I mean, I'll be impressed! I might even get the lesbian part without having to audition.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. I'm not conversational yet, seeing that I have just completed lessons 7 and 8 of Pimsleur Mandarin Chinese part 1. So how is it going?

I'm still getting the 'OMG! I can't remember a thing' feeling at the end of each lesson so I have been making sure to run each session twice, in some cases preceded by a third run of the previous day's lesson for good measure. Only now I break it up: one hour in the morning, half an hour in the afternoon. That way I'm keeping up to speed but my brain doesn't explode.

Something else I've noticed is that I catch myself uttering words and phrases out loud in Mandarin - and sometimes I don't even understand what I'm saying. Sometimes it happens at night.

Do you think that's slightly freaky?  I'm more inclined to think I'm mimicking young children's behaviour when they start talking: Ma! Mah! Mamamamamamamama! Papa! Papa! Chicken! Cow pat poo! Bird pat poo! (These last two shamelessly borrowed from Aardman's Creature Comforts.)

Or in my case: where is the Beijing Restaurant? I want to eat now. I don't want to eat later. I want to eat lunch. And my favourite: I don't want to eat at your place... but I'd like to do some shopping. (That will come in really handy in the Chinese Soap when I get cast as the Western gold digger.)

There's also the faint possibility - it's only a vague impression for now - that this language programme is actually an alien's experiment in human behavioural brainwashing. Here's an example:

I'm being taught to say 'I would like to drink some tea, or some beer.' The thing is I like to drink water not beer. But I'm not being taught how to say 'water', and if they don't teach me how to say it before the end of the course, I may very well feel compelled to switch to drinking beer. D'you follow?

Like I said it's just the faintest outline of a possibility, for now. But let's keep an eye on it.

Until tomorrow...

Now put your clothes back on

As you'll already know if you read the last entry (If you haven't, now's your chance: As the Actress Said to the Bishop...; "Now take your clothes off". No one will ever know that you missed it first time round. Except for me of course.) I was called in to re-audition in my bathing suit last Friday. Lucky me. My agent who is nothing if not thorough reissued the casting breakdown. After briefly toying with the idea of saying Non! I thought better of it (I could do with the money) and re-read the breakdown - just in case they'd decided to ditch the swimwear. This time it specified: "dress smart casual" but sadly, it still requested that I wear a bathing suit under my clothes.

The sort-of diet is going well thank you... but having to fit a 30's style bathing suit underneath anything that doesn't resemble a tent remains a limiting factor. So I plumped for a pair of custom made pinstripe blue Thai style trousers (you know the kind that are open on the side but wrap around the front and back - handy for flinging off burlesque style when I revealed my bathing suit underneath) and some rubber soled high heeled red patent leather shoes so I wouldn't trip.

As a rule, I try and conserve energy before an audition. It's amazing how much you need once the adrenaline gets pumping. But not on Friday. First I went to Zumba and did the rumba, the salsa, the cumbia and some chachacha for a whole hour before power walking into Soho in my heels. I figured lunch could wait. (I find it so much easier to suck in my tummy when I'm starving. Don't you?)

Given the casting director's time keeping record, I arrived on the dot for my appointment at one o'clock. There was a new girl on reception: efficient, unflappable and friendly (although it turned out she wasn't even working there, she was just temping for the morning.) "Hi, I'm Isabelle Gregson." "Hi, just fill out this form." (What? Again? I used my madwoman flowing handwriting... that will show them.)

1:05pm

Me to the unflappable temp, with a light tone: "How much of a wait is there?"
Unflappable temp: "They're pretty much on time but it's first come first seen basis, we're not going by call time." She gave a little shrug as if to say: "That's not how I would do it either but what can you do?"

There were 4 other actors waiting. Older on average than the group from Wednesday. I didn't have anything else to do (other than get some lunch) so I stayed put and settled in for a long wait.

Older brash blonde woman stepping into reception to other blonde looking rather washed out in a pale summer dress: "Oh hi! I haven't seen you in ages..."
Pale dress wishing she'd worn more make up and a red dress: "I know. It's been so long..."

And I (we all had) to endure yet another mind numbing conversation between two ageing and painfully middle class actresses (I have nothing against the middle classes, I mean I'm middle class but there's regular middle class and then there's painful middle class  - like those two.) This time it was weddings.

Brash Blonde: "I 'd like to know who she (Kate) worked with to make sure her face didn't set in a nervous grimace, you could tell she was so nervous."
Pale Dress: "I wonder how she managed not to cry. I bet she wore waterproof mascara just in case."
Oh do shut up already.
Brash Blonde's re her own upcoming nuptial (make a break for it you poor man whilst you still can): "I'm worried I'll cry and ruin my make-up on the day."
Pale Dress : "You have to treat it as a performance. You're an actress."
Brash Blonde: "But I cry watching pet food commercials!"
Die both of you. Die now.

Then Brash Blonde got called in and it all went blissfully quiet. One by one they all went in. Then the temp left. I was bored so I got to chatting with the owner of the casting studio, as you do. Poor woman. Poor woman? Poor me!  I bet she'd never had a captive audience before. That's how I found about the temp being a temp. And found out the name of the gloomy guts who'd been manning reception on Wednesday. I found out lots of things about the ins and out of the casting studio industry (not much money in it but lots of work) and its evolution over the last 20 years (email has gone and ruined the notion of lead times).

Then it was my turn to audition. After the usual 'look into the camera, name, agent, right profile, left profile, show us your hands, show us the other side, any commercials in the last year?' the casting director announced: "This is definitely about less is more. I just want you to take your shoes off and lie there on the couch and relax." So I did. "Wiggle your toes a bit." So I did. "Not so much." I obliged. "Have a look around as you relax." I did. "Have a stretch. Good. Now wiggle your toes again." It went on like this for a good 5 or 10 minutes. I've never worked so hard at doing nothing and relaxing on a couch.

Then it was thank you and goodbye. I don't think I'll get it. On account of my toe wiggle probably being too continental. But the best bit? After all that angst and trouble I went to, no one asked to see my bathing suit!

oooh la la gimme that French feeling...

The day didn’t have the most auspicious of starts. If I were to slow down my brain process it went something like this: Wham! Blackness. Shock. Heavy. I’m dead. Pain.Ow! Whazzat? Head. More pain.

Clasping both hands to the top of my head I instinctively moved away from the source of danger and lay flat on the living room floor. The sound of rushed footsteps and he hovered into view. "Are you ok?" He had his worried face on. The face of a man who knows that my talent for self-inflicted pain is impressive and limitless in its creativity and that given half a chance I will find dramatic and novel ways of braining myself. In terms of pure destructive power, Dr. StrangeLove has nothing on me.

I’d been retrieving some files from the lower part of the antique desk when the desk flap flew open unexpectedly and banged me pretty hard on the head. It sounded something "Pssshhhiiiiii Wack!" which - I grant you - has a certain dynamic ring to it. I wished, and not for the first time, that all my furniture came from IKEA so that I stood more of a chance in case of ambush 'part ammeublement'*. Just in case you’re getting the wrong idea, I love IKEA. As a matter of fact I’m writing this sitting on my tomato red IKEA couch. The desk on the other hand is patently not from IKEA on account that it is possessed by some sort of head banging spirit, is older even than IKEA’s founder, and comes from a land as warm as Sweden is cold. The wood contracts and distends across the seasons and the lock on the desk flap can stick. Our solution is to leave it precariously wedged shut even though it means that from time to time it’ll come flying open.

Like this morning, when it flew open and connected with my skull. Him: “What’s your name? When’s my birthday? Where were you born?” To distract him and give myself something to take my mind of the pain I requested a glass of water even though what I really wanted to do was burst into tears and call for my mother.

Now, apart from a persistent headache (not strong enough to warrant pain killers, but strong enough for me to try and milk it for all it’s worth), and a dull pain in my nose (my nose?), I’m feeling pretty well recovered, all things considered. So thanks for asking.

The thing is, I had some things to do and an audition. The casting brief was rather promising: woman (check), 40’s (ok, check), looks wealthy and expensively groomed (I can scrub up and put on my Sunday Best and look French – so: check). The script called for some comedic talent. As it happens, I make a great comedy villain, it’s like the bull’s eye of my casting type. Think Sue Sylvester from Glee crossed with Audrey Tautou. I did a little mental victory dance, this was going to be easy-peasy...

But as I kept scrolling down (I always do that with email, it’s amazing the amount of detail people leave in the tail…) I discovered that it was a pretty big job in terms of money. Not  big as in ‘I would never have to work again',  you understand. Not even ‘I could take the rest of the year off’ big. But big enough so that if I were to get it and go out and buy a case of chocolate bars, I would have a bit of change left over. Maybe small change for Johnny Depp, but good enough for me. As it dawned on me how much the job was potentially worth, I started feeling nervous about not landing it.

When I get nervous, I google. I checked out the production company who would be filming the commercial. They were a French outfit who in addition to ads, produce feature films for the French market. (As it happened, they’d produced the film I was watching last night, a hilarious French comedy. It was so funny in fact that he agreed to watch it with me even though he’d already seen it on the plane. And he never does that.) My casting performance could potentially land me an audition for a French feature film. This could be the start of something! I have one, ok two words for you: Marion Cotillard.

Marion or not, I started feeling even more nervous about not landing the job.Why is it that the thought of not getting something ‘big’ feels worse than not getting something ‘average’? It's perverse.

“Hope and Fear are two sides of the same coin so take that fear and turn it into the hope side of things...” With his wise advice ringing in my ears (either that or the ringing was from the blow to the head) I headed out to the audition in the still glorious (if slightly cooler) London sunshine. The casting studio was empty when I arrived with my ‘face’ on, dressed in my Sunday best, with my Paul Smith sunnies tagging along as good juju. After a few seconds of ‘oh my god the place is empty! Have I got the wrong date? The wrong time? The wrong location?’ I gave my name to the nice receptionist who ticked it off her list and gave me some paperwork to fill out. Then she took my mug shot (I made sure to stare straight at the lens) and then invited me to join the others downstairs (which is were everybody was).

There were two attractive but rather pinched brunettes. The kind that you would clock as elegant and attractive but not the kind you’d want to hang out with. So I didn't really talk to them. There was one friendly blonde lady called Lucy who it turns out – are you ready for this – worked as a mid-wife and birthing partner in between acting jobs. She confessed she was rather sleep deprived on account that one of her clients was due any day now and she’d been worried about sleeping through the phone call if it came during the night. I thought she was really sweet. If I don’t get the job I hope she gets it. Honestly, this world needs more nice people like Lucy.

Then there was a guy who regaled us with anecdotes of previous auditions, including the time when he tripped down the stairs and tumbled down the last flight just as the casting director was coming out. He was nice too.

The audition itself was pretty straight forward. I went in on my own. I wouldn’t say that I nailed it but that’s the nature of auditions: when you think you’ve got it sewn up you don’t get it, and when you think you did so-so, you might just get it (or not). But between you and me, can you keep a secret? I really hope I get it.

PS So this was all yesterday... I have just received a message from my agent telling me that I have a recall (2nd round of auditions for shortlisted actors) for this job tomorrow! Woop Woop!

The fine art of spanking...

Hypothetically speaking (of course), would you rather be spanked or do the spanking? I figure that - either way - it's going to hurt. And I don't know about you but the palm of my hand carries a lot less padding than what the French call mon derriere (to be precise, the French spell it with a descending accent from left to right on the second "e" but blogspot won't let me do accents).

What's brought this on I hear you ask? It's a bit of a lurid topic for a Tuesday late afternoon... Well let me ask you this: is there an appropriate time for this kind of conversation? Dinner with the in-laws on a Saturday night perhaps? Over lunch with the stranger next to you on a packed long haul flight? Or maybe over organic white tea with Lady Gaga on a break from her tour? (The last one probably but that's unlikely to happen, no matter how many FB contests I enter on her fan page. Mama Monster, if you're reading this I just want you to know that I think you're the best, even better than Madonna in her heyday, and that you're making me feel like I'm 15 again but in a good way.)

Of pussycats, parrots and counting beans

Lately, I've taken to interacting with imaginary cats. Sorry Smoke, let me rephrase that: with cats that aren't there. (Don't be put off by the image of the parrot. I'll come back to that.)

It started a few weeks back at an audition where I had to mime a cat. (As in miming my interaction with an imaginary cat as opposed to pretending to be a cat which is - in some ways - easier but has no place in a commercial's casting.) The casting breakdown called for a woman in her forties to play a  nurse arriving home at 3am after a long shift. Other than the fact that I have no nursing experience (I don't believe being a fan of Nurse Jackie counts for anything?), have never worked a 12 hour shift and am usually in bed by 11 o'clock at the latest, I figured I had as a good a chance as any of getting the part. The script required the character to make a cup of tea (at 3 in the morning?) and make a telephone call and - here's the acting bit - go from looking forlorn and exhausted to happy and satisfied. No scripted dialogue. Personally, I think it would have made a fantastic commercial for the tea manufacturer (it was for something else) but when you're an actor no one listens. Anyway, there I was, ready and willing.

Small is Beautiful and the Playboy Audition

Catapult is the word that comes to mind to describe this morning's start to the day. With it being Spring and all, we've been using the rising sun as our natural alarm clock because it's so much nicer waking up on your own terms at 7am. But this morning it failed to wake us up. I was having a delicious cat like ooh-look-
-it's-morning-I'm-looking-forward-to-breakfast stir when I glanced down at the clock.

This morning I had an audition scheduled for 10:15 at Spotlight in Soho (that's the London's West End where many of the theatres and production companies are based and therefore a popular neighbourhood for castings) and I usually allow a good 45 minutes to get myself there cool calm and collected. The clock read: 8:44.

I vaulted out of bed, into the shower, applied make-up, had a quick breakfast, tried to speed air-dry my hair and threw myself out of the house with my Financial Regulation study guide in one hand and my dance shoes for Zumba in the other.  It goes without saying that I got to the audition a wee bit early.

Just go in looking like crap...

Another call from my agent yesterday morning: "I've got you an audition for a photo shoot. It's for a French charity." Me:"Oh... (that's not going to pay much then...) thank you for putting me forward." Agent: "I will email you the details." And she hung up.

Later on, I checked the casting breakdown. I was up for the role of the "thin woman": must be very thin/skinny and look like she is about to have an organ transplant....

Oh dear Lord, here we go again. The Universe does have a sense of humour.

I called my agent back: "Apart from the fact that I am starting to sense a pattern here (remember the bald cap audition from last week? Still waiting to hear on that one...) I'm not sure I look... well... unwell enough for the part..." (I can't help it, it's in my genes: my mother looks 20 years younger than her actual age. And the fact that I live what many people would consider a very sheltered life, I'm in bed by 10, I don't drink or smoke or indulge in anything less... legal. My worst habit is a fondness for diet coke and sugar substitute. I just look... healthy. A casting director once described me as having a mineral water commercial kind of face.)

"That's what make-up is for!" said my agent. It was a bit snappy. It's never a good idea to criticise your agent's judgement, especially if the casting director has requested to see you. "Just go in looking a bit rough you know? Besides you are thin." No, I don't know how to look rough. Apparently my version of looking rough is everybody else's Sunday-morning-at-church look (I'm exaggerating for effect). And no I'm not thin. I'm a slender hour glass. There's a difference. I don't look like I'm about to have an organ transplant, I look like I do a lot of yoga.

But I am an actress so I will do my best: I will go in with no make-up and a bit dishevelled. I have a Zumba class right before it so that should work in my favour. Of course my ego wants to go in there looking like a million dollars. My ego also wants me to get the gig. My ego is torn. "Look, if they really want you, they'll get a good make-up artist in to make you look the part..." I just love my agent.

The truth is, it's an opportunity to meet a casting director who works on quite striking commercials, which in itself is an opportunity to get something that will look striking in my portfolio, something that might just catch a director's eye... and lead to greater things! (This reasoning isn't flawed, it's just very optimistic which is the only way you can survive in this profession - you have to believe, you have to know in your heart of hearts that one day, you'll get that big break. Otherwise, you go and do something more rewarding.)

Let's be positive: I do have rather angular features, in the right light and with the right make-up... who knows. Now, what would Dita do?

You're middle aged and I want you to cry your eyes out.

I love my agent! Their (my agent is actually 2 people) belief in me is unswerving. They believe I can play anything: any age, any nationality, any social group. Of course, most actors believe that and the theory is that yes, with training and dedication and a lot of research a good actor should be able to play a wide variety of roles.

That's what drama school is for. In the real world, unless your name is Johnny Depp, it doesn't work like that. Why? Two words: casting directors. Tell me, why should a casting director go through the trouble (and risk) of casting a 25 year old fresh faced ingenue to play an embittered post menopausal harridan when they can cast the genuine article? Why would they cast a Londoner to play an Irish country wench? (This second rethorical question is not being asked at random... more on that later.)

But my agent believes that Johnny Depp aside, there is an exception to this golden rule of casting... it's called "The Interesting Choice". It's not a technical term, I've never actually heard anyone else use it. Actually, I just made it up.

Let me explain: you are a film director (please indulge me, sit on the director's chair, for goodness sake, it's even got your name printed on the back) and you are about to shoot a hilarious script that involves an older (45-50) plain looking secretary, who erupts in floods of tears at her long time boss' leaving do (I told you it was a hilarious script). One more thing, this is world cinema so you are shooting in French, with a French cast. As the casting director, you are going to look for French middle aged looking women who can put on a good cry. But that's rather obvious isn't it? I mean, anyone can do that. What if, you bring in someone a bit different, not likely to get the part because they are neither middle aged, nor plain, but someone who would make "an interesting choice". That way, everyone can feel good about hiring the real life middle aged plain secretary without feeling that they lack imagination because they did afterall consider "the interesting choice".

I am that "Interesting Choice". Very often. A bit too young for the role, a bit too different looking, dare we say a bit foreign? (As my agent always tells me: don't worry, the English HATE all foreigners.) So I was not surprised to receive an invitation to a casting session on Monday morning for a French ad campaign asking me to come in as a middle aged plain secretary who can give a good cry. (I'm very good at crying. I can cry - convincingly - on demand.)

I arrived - after a brief panic when I couldn't figure out how to get their front door open and had the entire reception desk staff miming "push" "bigger push" at me through the glass (apparently it had to do with the timing of the release button) to find a room full of middle aged but  relatively attractive and slender women (well, they all had to be Native French speakers...) and a few younger looking ones. I didn't stand out quite as much as I have in some other casting sessions, so I thought I might be in with a chance (especially when I heard one of the so called Native French speakers speaking in French in her best David Niven accent. Shame on her! The English may hate all foreigners but that pales in comparison with what us foreigners feel about Brits impersonating our nationality.)

I was in a foul mood: Brits passing themselves as native French speakers! Snooty French actresses being, well, French! One woman had even brought in her badly behaved toddler! (He wasn't badly behaved poor little mite, it's just that his mother had absolutely no authority over him whatsoever.) The heating was on too strong and I had my back to the heater! The waiting room was in a basement! I was being asked to play an ugly spinster with an unrequited crush on her boss! You get the picture, but I resisted the urge to run out and instead did my Alba Emoting breathing exercises (you can recreate any emotion through a particular set of breathing patterns and physical postures - hence my ability to cry on demand.) I did some neutral breathing, some happy belly laughs, and a bit of "erotic love" for good measure.

Everyone was auditioned in pairs (one younger one older). To be fair, the script did also include the part of a slightly younger woman who is seen consoling the older one. The last pair went in and I found myself alone in the waiting area. 20 minutes went by. "Excuse me?" The casting assistant, a pretty blonde who'd had the time of her life at a Halloween Party the night before (I heard her chatting to her mate about it on her mobile phone), looked up from her papers. "I'm afraid I have to leave at noon at the latest..." (It was 11:40, my casting call was for 11:20.) "Oh..." She knocked on the door to the casting room and asked if they could see me now on my own as I had to leave and they said yes!

And then the magic happened: I crossed that threshhold and felt happy and easy going. I had a nice chat to the casting director, and then we got on with it: I got to play the crying secretary twice, once without tears, once with, all the while improvising in French with the casting director improvising back in English... Then I left and went to Byron's in Covent Garden for a super double burger with fries (it was my celebration meal). For dessert, I headed over to Maison Bertaux at the bottom of Greek Street and had an almond croissant as big as my head.

And then I did what you should do after every audition: forget all about it. That way, if you don't get the job it doesn't matter, and if you do, it's a nice surprise. It's not as hard as it sounds, especially with a mouth full of almond croissant.

Move over Eve, it's all about Me!

I had my very first stage audition for a big play last Thursday, for a role of understudy. I love my agent! It was for a well known play, with an A list cast, in a big theatre in the West End (London's Broadway), for a proper 12 week run. The understudy role was to cover the two smallest female parts in the play and required a General American accent.

I had one and a half days to prepare for the audition...

I worked very hard... on character development, and my British accent still isn't completely back... but unfortunately, (whisper) I don't think that I got the gig.

Now. The Rule - as everyone will tell you - The Rule is that you prepare for the audition as best you can in the time you have, you do the audition as best you can, and then you forget all about it. If you hear back  - great! - it usually means you've got the part or at least a recall. If you don't hear back it usually means that you didn't get the part.

If you didn't get the part, everybody knows that you shouldn't take it to mean that you were bad or totally crap or just not as good as someone else because that is probably not the case. All manner of factors come into play when they make their choice: your size, colouring  and presence relative to the rest of the cast etc...

But the child in me thought:  it's an understudy role for the two smallest parts, and requires an American accent (to be judged by a British director/producer) so how many people could possibly be up for the part? Me and one other? That's a 50% chance of getting it! Me and two others? That's still 33.33% chance!

I don't know how many people they auditioned. Maybe 100. I thought I did ok (even though I started walking out half way through the audition because there was a lull and I thought I heard them say "we'll call you" but actually I'd misheard the assistant director's Welsh (I think) accent...) but the play opens in late May and surely they should be getting back to people soon?

I auditioned with the assistant producer and assistant director, both really nice and very friendly and future heavy hitters (it really is a huge production). They will need to run all their choices past the producer and the director and they were auditioning understudies for all the parts on Thursday, so maybe it's taking them a while to process things. And I've got a hunch that the smallest of the understudy parts was not at the top of their list. Or maybe (and this has just occurred to me) some key decision makers were stuck abroad because of the volcanic ash cloud and so the whole process has been delayed...

The truth is, I don't know. Anything. But with every day that goes by I'm more and more confident that I didn't get the gig.

Also, both parts are described by the playwright as "overweight/biggish women" and if that's what they were looking for, well that's just not me. Not even on a fat day. (Hey, there's always a silver lining!)

But let's not dwell on that (the not getting the part bit, not the part about not being overweight even on a fat day... I'm gonna dwell on that all day and use it as an excuse to have one of those delicious coconut macaroon from Apostrophe - or as I like to call it Apostrophee.)

The good news is that I'm going to be in a play in July at the White Bear in Kennington (South London). It's the UK premiere of Desire, a play by Josep Maria Benet I Jornet (an award winning Catalunian playwright who is about to receive a lifetime achievement award from his country- he's like Lorca, but alive) and it's a good meaty part and you can read all about it on my website: www.isabellegregson.com/desire.html

So onwards and upwards. It's not over until the fat girl sings!!

Bikini time!

I have some vague memories from history class about Bikini Island being blasted with a nuclear bomb at the end of WWII as a rehearsal before Hiroshima. (Actually, just googled it: it's Bikini Atoll, in the Marshall Islands, used as a nuclear bomb testing site by the US government in the 1940's and 50's. Now you know.)

Its namesake, the polka dot version, is just as explosive. Just the thought of it drives thousands of women (and I'm way at the front, ahead of the pack wearing both the yellow and the green jerseys) running away shrieking from various changing rooms. I don't care if it's got a super bra top that will "take the attention away from your hips" or a funky deeglo jungle pattern that will make everyone who as much as glances at me go temporarily blind... which ever way you look at it bikinis are terrifying.

The thing is, once I've been on the beach for a few days, and get a bit of a tan (that's a bit old fashioned, aren't we all supposed to rely on fake tan... or if we're really rich go for that ass milk 1920's pale look), everything starts to be and feel and look - well - normal. I don't know if it's exposing skin to the air, or salt water, or pool water (if you're on a proper posh holiday your pool water will be salt water) but everything tightens and smooths and looks just fine. Leaving me (and whoever else I've involved in the hysteria of bikini purchase and wear) wondering: well what was the big deal!?

The big deal is that before I get to that blissful stage, I have to purchase a new bikini. Why can't I wear last year's? Because I didn't go on a beach holiday last year (couldn't face buying a bikini) . The bikini at the bottom of my closet is at least 5 years old and what if it doesn't fit anymore?

- What, like it's too big?

- I wish! No, what if I can't fit into it anymore?

.... See?

So if I need a bikini, I have to buy a new one. And face my body at unflattering angles in a "fat" mirror with greenish lights that highlight every bump and every lump and every bit of orange peel and....

See?

The thing is, I'm not planning a beach holiday for the summer, but I may need to get into a bikini anyway. For work. Some auditions require you to pop into a bikini (what kind of auditions are these I hear you ask... well if you're playing a beach scene... they want to know what you're going to look like on camera...)

The thing is, I did buy a bikini last year, with two bottoms (because mine was so big... NO! one's a hipster and one's 2 little triangles tied with some string and beads). They had a 2 for 1 offer, I had a moment of madness.

So what's the big deal then? What's this all about?

I've gone on a diet. It's the 4 day diet. There are 5 diets in all. 4 days on each. Thats' 3 weeks of dieting, including 4 days where you're allowed chips (fries) and burger. For real.

That way, if I need to get into my bikini (for work or an impromptu prance around Lake Como):

a) I know i'll fit into it (both bottoms)

b) it'll look good... won't it? WON'T IT?

Full frontal or profile?

In case you're wondering what being an actor is about, it's mostly about going to lots of auditions (if you're lucky) and (most of the time) never hearing from them again. No two auditions are the same - ever - even if the same casting director is involved.

Sometimes they make you stand in a leotard (rare - unless you're a dancer).

Sometimes you have to improvise with another actor, or mime complicated scenes with no props or reference points.

And most of the time you have to do this to camera which is very unnatural.

As soon as I'm scheduled for an audition, I always assume that I've got the job. I know, it's weird. So it always comes as a surprise when I don't...The thing is, you only hear back if you do get the job. If you didn't, you're left to figure it out for yourself. I usually accept that I didn't get it when I see the ad on telly or the film being advertised. Then I discover who got the part I'd auditioned for and they usually look COMPLETELY different to me. And the cycle repeats itself.

Which brings me to the rummiest of auditions which I had yesterday. (Sorry, you've caught me in a Jeeves and Wooster moment.)

This was for a VERY BIG telecoms brand.

It was around the corner from where I live but I'd given myself plenty of time to find it (I'm a pro, me! Never be late, always arrive cool and collected and EARLY.)

This was a good thing because I must have stood outside the building for a good 5 minutes trying to find a way into it. (This included rattling locked doors and an aborted call to my agent.) Then I spotted the tiny doorbell.

Went in, was ushered through a large storage space (which 2 people were treating as an office), and down some industrial stairs into another storage space cum photo studio. It was very dimly lit. But there was a well appointed kitchen in a corner.

A young guy professing to know nothing about the project (but who presumably had been sent by the casting company) wrote my name on a piece of paper before handing it to me so I could fill out the form on the back of it. For some unknown reason (unknown to him as well as the rest of the universe) he had used a white board felt pen. It's 24 hours later and I'm still high from the fumes.

Anyway, I filled out the form and then after watching two very mumsy actresses having their pictures taken, it was my turn.

I had to face a light box, pretend I was sitting at a computer whilst the photographer took pictures of me in profile with various facial expressions (it was me making the faces, not him - in case you wondered.)

He took 4 shots. Maybe 5. And then that was it.

I raced back up the stairs, whilst another mumsy actress was ushered in, and then had to be let out because I couldn't figure out the childproof lock on the door.

This time, I really don't think I made the shortlist.

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.

It's Freezing!

Winter has officiallly arrived. With snow! Apparently, we haven't had October snow in London since 1934. So it's quite an event. I think we should celebrate with excess and great immaturity - following in the footsteps of BBC broadcasters Jonathan Ross and Russell Brand.Well maybe not stooping to prank calling but at least indulging in some form of childish lewdness. Maybe mooning. (Is it new moon yet?)

My agent called today and I have an audition tomorrow morning, to play a "rosy cheeked waitress who's been working in the same greesy spoon for the last 8 years and wonders what her life might have been..." So watch this space.

I am typing this wrapped in a tartan wool blanket, trying to keep warm, as I refuse to turn the heating on till after nightfall. I don't know why. It's a rule I've made up. And like all made up rules, there's no rhyme or reason to it, but also no way of breaking it. It's just not allowed. Maybe I'm trying to identify with the "fuel poor" and hoping to benefit from the tax windfall from the energy companies. How much do you get if your lips go purple? And pneumonia?

In preparation for typing up my expenses - foreplay for filling out my tax return - I did a huge clear out and some major filing yesterday. There's now a rather unruly pile of papers next to me, waiting to be processed. It has a rather resentful vibe.

There's also a dreadful, intermittent but recurring clanking noise outside on the street. I'm not too worried as I think it's coming from one of the building sites. Sounds like someone banging poles together. Maybe they're taking down some scaffolding. Let's live in hope.
The noise has stopped. Better get on with my expenses then... I've got a whole hour to kill before yoga class!

Do I look good on film?

A perfect stranger told me some lovely things yesterday. And it's not like he was after something. It was the other way around, I was auditioning for an acting job.

I should qualify "perfect stranger". Technically speaking, he was a stranger, as we'd never met before. But he was also a casting director so it wasn't as random as I make it seem.

Yes, I had a casting yesterday morning. For an established TV series. Tiny part in terms of screen time but a really interesting character.

I thought he was the sweetest man in the world. He thought I had a great look and that I looked fabulous on camera. And it was a good audition: he spent a long time with me and made me do it 3 different ways (I mean the scene). And he seemed really happy with me.

I was wearing my lucky shirt (pink and white Anne Fontaine). But I think I can take full credit.
I stepped out of Spotlight's offices with a skip in my step and spent the rest of the day being incredibly productive and pleasant to all around me.

It's a nice feeling. I'm going to try and make it last.

I should hear about the part by the end of the week or early next week.

Hope I get it...

It's not happening...

I can't believe Madonna and Guy are getting divorced. Or rather, I can't believe that it's actually affecting me. And that I'm writing about it. And that I seem to track the big events in Madonna's life as if they were my own.

I was sitting in the meadow at Mills watching the squirrels (it was lunchtime and I was helping a friend with field work on squirrel behaviour) when I found out she was divorcing Sean Penn. Back in the early 1990's.

For the record, I'm not a celebrity stalker or one of those sad people who hang outside people's homes or stage doors waiting for a glimpse of their idols. I'm not one of those people. One of those who cried hysterically when Princess Diana died, and left flowers and teddy bears at the gates of Kensington Palace. And that's not just because I was living in Australia at the time. I'm just not that kind of person. I'm a relatively well adjusted and intelligent human being with a healthy sense of identity and a LIFE. I don't walk around thinking that I know celebrities simply because they're being paraded in the magazines and on the internet.

But it's Madonna. And I grew up with her. Sort of. I mean I grew up with her songs. And because she is the queen of reinvention, I could identify with each new phase as I worked my way through adolescence in Paris, trying to die my hair blond with "Sun-In" , University, America, peep show dancing (inspired by her video for "Open Your Heart" ), relationships, Australia. (I don't think she's ever lived in Australia.)

But I moved to London first. And I found out about Skibo Castle before she did (although I didn't stay there.)

So we have a common history. Well, me and her music. And so when the news of her divorce flashed around the world yesterday, I went "oh..." and spared a thought for her.
I had my own bit of sad news yesterday. I found out yesterday that I didn't get the part in a sweet little pilot for a show called "Isabelle goes hunting". There's something a bit weird about auditioning for a part that shares your name. But they were lovely people (they actually called me to say I didn't get the part) and hopefully I will work with them on some other project.

So today is a new day.

Heck, if Madonna can perform her show in Boston in front of the press and hundreds of fans, a few hours after the announcement of her divorce, I think I can finish work on my website, go to my yoga class, do a meeting, apply for some new parts, and call the repair man if the fridge doesn't reset itself.

To infinity and beyond!

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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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.