“It was only one of those plays in which the actors, unfortunately, enunciated very clearly.” (Robert Benchley)
There have been many times over the last eight years that I have wondered why on earth I bother – with the acting thing, that is, not life in general. I don’t seem to like ‘the industry’ and what it represents. I don’t appear to have the killer instinct that is deemed necessary to make it, as I never seem to have the guts to really stand up for myself, or make a big enough noise to be noticed, and at many times, I think it would be much easier to have a small menagerie of children, live in a nice farmhouse somewhere and make greeting cards. It may be totally nauseating for some, but I love being a wife. I love looking after my husband and I think I would love looking after children too. Although having children probably makes auditioning for musicals seem like a walk in the park. But my current primary concern is that clearly, I am beginning to not care enough. I desperately want the audition, and then as soon as I get it, I begin to think of all the hassle there would be if I did get it; how it would ruin my nice evenings in front of the TV with my other half and I’d have to do some horrible commute into London every day. Then I don’t get the job, feel utterly useless and vow to assassinate all involved in the decision process.
Auditions are mostly shocking things to attend, due to the sheer volume of ego that exists in the waiting area, which is usually far too small an area to contain such vast self-importance. Rather too many people are doing their very best to bluster up to full pretension level, and talking FAR TOO LOUDLY about ALL THE WORK THEY’VE BEEN DOING. Excruciating – and frankly bloody annoying – who wants to listen to someone else doing well at anything? Famous joke:
“How many actors does it take to change a light bulb?
One hundred - one to change it, and ninety-nine to say, ‘I could have done it better’.”
But then, you do exactly the same when you spot somebody that you know, which makes you an equally offensive human being. Often when you go in, there will be a couple of people who say, “Good luck,” through clenched teeth, and maybe one or two who tell you how wonderful you were when you come out, whilst thinking – “Ha! You’re not going to get that job – it’s mine - all mine (insert evil laughter here).”
But sometimes, you have to blame the company for the way that an audition is structured. Once, a new musical of Little Women was advertised in The Stage – the industry’s newspaper, instructing people to send in their CVs.
I should at this point explain briefly about different auditions. A closed audition is when you – or more likely your agent - will usually have sent in your CV and photograph, and the casting people or director will request to see you to sing at a specific time. An open audition – usually for big shows and often dancers are found through this process – means that anyone essentially can turn up off the street and have a go. The queues for an open audition can be hours long and if it is for a West End show, you normally get to sing sixteen bars of music (about one page of a song).
So, back to Little Women and its advert: I sent my CV and photograph in (this was when I was sans-agent) and was e-mailed to say that I would be seen for an audition at 8.55am at the infamous Pineapple Studios (a dance studio near Covent Garden, where, as a singer, you were going to be humiliated anyway by the fact that there would always be a younger, thinner and more attractive girl bending her leg around her neck as you walked in). Good, I thought. The musical sounded like a good idea (although most musicals that sound like a good idea, probably are not. For example, the musical Fields of Ambrosia might have sounded like a good idea, but it was not – it was about a travelling executioner; similarly Out of the Blue - The Hiroshima Musical must have sounded like a good idea...) . I arrived full of beans to get ready to sing my song, when I saw quite a large queue of people outside. Oh dear, I thought. Those poor sods are obviously queuing for an open. I went to reception:
“Hello, I have a private audition,” I said smugly.
“For Little Women?” replied the receptionist.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Join the queue outside please”
What had happened was that this company in their wisdom had decided not to tell people that they were in fact attending an open. Everyone had been given the specific time of 8.55am.
Two hours later, we were then trooped in, in groups of about twenty, to sing in front of everyone else and they said there and then whether they wanted to recall you. When I sang, they asked me to come back for the recall. One would have thought that a newly-starting out, struggling performer would have been very pleased to be asked to be recalled. And then, for some reason, I said triumphantly that I was not prepared to hang around any longer, and I would not be attending the recall. The organisers shrugged and said fine. I left feeling pleased with my decision, and then about half way down the stairs, felt like a total prat – now I definitely wasn’t going to get the job.
I was slightly heartened though, to see that as I left, the queue had reached epic proportions, and there appeared to be some sort of riot going on with other auditionees berating the audition organisers for misleading us all. There were shouts of, “Disgrace!’ and “Equity (actor’s union) will hear about this!” Quite right, I thought, and made a hasty exit to the pub to drown my sorrows.
There have been many times over the last eight years that I have wondered why on earth I bother – with the acting thing, that is, not life in general. I don’t seem to like ‘the industry’ and what it represents. I don’t appear to have the killer instinct that is deemed necessary to make it, as I never seem to have the guts to really stand up for myself, or make a big enough noise to be noticed, and at many times, I think it would be much easier to have a small menagerie of children, live in a nice farmhouse somewhere and make greeting cards. It may be totally nauseating for some, but I love being a wife. I love looking after my husband and I think I would love looking after children too. Although having children probably makes auditioning for musicals seem like a walk in the park. But my current primary concern is that clearly, I am beginning to not care enough. I desperately want the audition, and then as soon as I get it, I begin to think of all the hassle there would be if I did get it; how it would ruin my nice evenings in front of the TV with my other half and I’d have to do some horrible commute into London every day. Then I don’t get the job, feel utterly useless and vow to assassinate all involved in the decision process.
Auditions are mostly shocking things to attend, due to the sheer volume of ego that exists in the waiting area, which is usually far too small an area to contain such vast self-importance. Rather too many people are doing their very best to bluster up to full pretension level, and talking FAR TOO LOUDLY about ALL THE WORK THEY’VE BEEN DOING. Excruciating – and frankly bloody annoying – who wants to listen to someone else doing well at anything? Famous joke:
“How many actors does it take to change a light bulb?
One hundred - one to change it, and ninety-nine to say, ‘I could have done it better’.”
But then, you do exactly the same when you spot somebody that you know, which makes you an equally offensive human being. Often when you go in, there will be a couple of people who say, “Good luck,” through clenched teeth, and maybe one or two who tell you how wonderful you were when you come out, whilst thinking – “Ha! You’re not going to get that job – it’s mine - all mine (insert evil laughter here).”
But sometimes, you have to blame the company for the way that an audition is structured. Once, a new musical of Little Women was advertised in The Stage – the industry’s newspaper, instructing people to send in their CVs.
I should at this point explain briefly about different auditions. A closed audition is when you – or more likely your agent - will usually have sent in your CV and photograph, and the casting people or director will request to see you to sing at a specific time. An open audition – usually for big shows and often dancers are found through this process – means that anyone essentially can turn up off the street and have a go. The queues for an open audition can be hours long and if it is for a West End show, you normally get to sing sixteen bars of music (about one page of a song).
So, back to Little Women and its advert: I sent my CV and photograph in (this was when I was sans-agent) and was e-mailed to say that I would be seen for an audition at 8.55am at the infamous Pineapple Studios (a dance studio near Covent Garden, where, as a singer, you were going to be humiliated anyway by the fact that there would always be a younger, thinner and more attractive girl bending her leg around her neck as you walked in). Good, I thought. The musical sounded like a good idea (although most musicals that sound like a good idea, probably are not. For example, the musical Fields of Ambrosia might have sounded like a good idea, but it was not – it was about a travelling executioner; similarly Out of the Blue - The Hiroshima Musical must have sounded like a good idea...) . I arrived full of beans to get ready to sing my song, when I saw quite a large queue of people outside. Oh dear, I thought. Those poor sods are obviously queuing for an open. I went to reception:
“Hello, I have a private audition,” I said smugly.
“For Little Women?” replied the receptionist.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Join the queue outside please”
What had happened was that this company in their wisdom had decided not to tell people that they were in fact attending an open. Everyone had been given the specific time of 8.55am.
Two hours later, we were then trooped in, in groups of about twenty, to sing in front of everyone else and they said there and then whether they wanted to recall you. When I sang, they asked me to come back for the recall. One would have thought that a newly-starting out, struggling performer would have been very pleased to be asked to be recalled. And then, for some reason, I said triumphantly that I was not prepared to hang around any longer, and I would not be attending the recall. The organisers shrugged and said fine. I left feeling pleased with my decision, and then about half way down the stairs, felt like a total prat – now I definitely wasn’t going to get the job.
I was slightly heartened though, to see that as I left, the queue had reached epic proportions, and there appeared to be some sort of riot going on with other auditionees berating the audition organisers for misleading us all. There were shouts of, “Disgrace!’ and “Equity (actor’s union) will hear about this!” Quite right, I thought, and made a hasty exit to the pub to drown my sorrows.
No comments:
Post a Comment