YOUR AUDITION STORIES
From Nick Coleman, NYC
I first came to New York intending to work in Musical Theater. I'd been the lead (or *a* lead) in nearly everything in High School, college, and community theater. I'd performed in multi-week, sold out houses of 200+ people. I'd performed in a 1,500 seat Broadway touring house. I'd auditioned for Les Mis at 18, with the casting director chasing me down outside the audition to tell me I wasn't right for what they were casting, but to keep in touch.
One miserable day at Chelsea Studios, I had two musical theater auditions back to back, literally across the hall from one another. After waiting my turn in a room on the floor above, I was ushered into a cramped audition space where the accompanist was obviously having a bad day. I handed over my selection (a Jason Robert Brown piece), and started to engage the casting team.
Suddenly, the accompanist starts shouting "No! No! No! Absolutely not! Don't you *dare* hand an accompanist a piece of music like this!" Jolted, and frankly a little scared, I grabbed my sheet music thinking I must have damaged it in some way or gotten the pages out of order. "No one can play this music at an audition. Don't you ever bring this piece to an accompanist ever again!" I was flabbergasted. Literally. Just didn't know what to do. The casting team didn't interject or respond in any way. They kept right on shuffling papers and talking to one another as though nothing were wrong.
After several more minutes of berating me, and a few seconds of me standing there thunderstruck, the accompanist let loose an enormous sigh and asked, "Do you know Guys and Dolls?" I nodded, and next thing I know I'm Sky Masterson. And just blowing it in there... just really stinking the place up because I'm so nervous. After what seemed like an hour (but was more like thirty seconds), I finish the audition and exit the room--where they're calling my name across the hall for the second audition.
With absolutely zero transition time, I cross into the next room, hand my sheet music to the accompanist, roll through the introductions in a haze, and find myself listening to the most beautiful rendition of "She Cries" I've ever heard. Seriously. The accompanist was just gifted, even *elaborating* on the score.
And I never sang.
I just listened to him play... and a few bars after I'm supposed to have come in, he sort of trickles off the keys and everyone stares at me.
"I'm sorry," I said, "My last accompanist told me no one can play that song on sight, and you just played that song better than I've ever heard it played. That was just... gorgeous. I don't think I can sing for you today. Thank you for your time."
And with tears in my eyes, I walked over, picked up my music, shook the hand of the accompanist and slunk out the door.
As I waited near the elevator, a casting assistant from the second audition caught up to me. Apparently, they felt bad, or were moved, or were just super confused about what had occurred and they wanted to do something about it. It seemed their office was also casting a play in another room upstairs, and they wondered if I wouldn't like to go on up and read. I took them up on the offer, read some sides for a play about Jason and the Argonauts, and received a callback for *another* play, Peter Pan (a staged adaptation of the book).
That single audition (I am not joking here) featured me reading a role in a Cockney accent, another role in an Upper class British accent, and then singing a song in the voice of Sean Connery while on all fours mimicking the physicality of a dog. And when I finished the song, they asked me if I wouldn't mind doing it again... while using a puppet. And they were serious! All that ridiculous effort for a children's show touring schools somewhere in the middle of New Jersey! And as it turned out, they weren't even casting any of those roles... they were casting a *narrator*, and were just curious if I could *do it*!
Something in me broke that day. My illusions (or delusions) or what it meant to be an artist, an actor, shifted. And I have never felt quite the same about this business. I realized how thick-skinned you have to be... and how little power an actor really has, especially when auditioning.
They offered me the role (the narrator who didn't really need seventy-five thousand accents), and I turned it (and my Equity card) down, almost on principle alone.
Luckily, that was not my last audition (nor the only crazy story I've had while auditioning)... and several years later, here I am... still in the city, a headshot photographer, a member of SAG and AFTRA, and somehow... magically... working as an actor.
Auditioning is a brutal, brutal affair. Care too much, and it breaks your heart. Care to little, and someone else gets the part.
No other business requires the same emotional investment, again and again, with the expectation of constant rejection. It's a miracle anyone keeps at it at all!
From Shari Behrens
My first audition was for a Sprite commercial. I was not part of the union yet.
I arrived extremely nervous. There were about a million other “California Kids” there. I had just signed with Nina Blanchard, as Shari Harper. I had no headshots yet.
I waited about an hour, then they called me and five other actors into the room. We stood in a line, and luckily they started with the guy furthest from me. I was the last. They all handed their headshots to the casting agent… except, obviously, me, and everyone stood at attention, as a young man pointed a video camera at the first guy and said “What’s your name and agency?” I leaned forward to watch, so that I’d know what to do when the camera came to me.
“My Name is Fred Smith (name has been changed – but, you get it). I’m 21 years old and with SBV.” One of the clients then asked “How long have you been skating Fred?” “About 20 years.” A chuckle arose from the group.
Wow, I thought, he must be pretty good. I guess they’re looking for jocks. That’s cool, I ride and play softball, swim…
The camera then went to the next person in line. A girl that looked like she posed for the Malibu Barbie poster. “Your name and agency.” “Sally Jones. I’m with the Gersh agency. I’m 19.” “So Sally, how long have you been skating…?” “Pretty much all my life.”
OK, I start to get a little more nervous now, because…. I don’t skate. I don’t skate at all. The one time I put on my cousin’s roller skates, I kept falling flat on my ass and swore never to try that again.
The camera then went to the next young man. Needless to say, he invented skating. And, so on, and so on. I was panicky… Do I lie? Or, tell the truth? This business is based on fantasy and tale telling…
“Your Name and Agency?”
Sweating, I let it out. “Shari Harper. Nina Blanchard. I’m 24.”
“How long have you been skating Shari?”
“Uh, well… I’ve never skated in my life…”
Everyone of those heads to my left snapped around and stared me down. I was freaked, but I remained composed, ‘til I got out to my car. I got in it and wept for about 30 minutes. I had never been so humiliated.
I went to a phone booth (didn’t have a cell phone in those days), and called my agent to tell them how horrible it was, and why was I sent out on something I was soooooooo not qualified for?
I drove home, mortified, whimpering. Even drove by a store that had skates for sale in the window, and started crying again at the thought. When I walked in the door, I saw the light blinking on my machine. It was the agency. “Get your skates and go to San Vicente Park at 4pm. You have a callback.”
I called knowing this was some humongous mistake. “No, they want to see you.” “But, I don’t own any skates. I don’t skate!” “Well. Buy a pair, or rent some.”
I went back to that store and asked the manager. “Is there any way I could borrow these for an hour or so?” I held in my hand a pair of low sneaker like skates with a picture of Scooby Doo on the side. I was working part time at Hanna Barnera as an asst. to the publicist, so I felt I had a slight affinity to them. I don’t know why, but they said “Sure.”
I went to the park, and there were 100 or so AMAZING roller skaters, all rolling around like they had just come off the set of XANADU. After all, it was the early 80’s when skating was just becoming all the rage. Four people walked around with clipboards, making notes on the skaters – sort of like a dance contest.
I sat on the bench, and put the Scooby Doo skates on. I stood up praying to God that by some divine miracle, I’d be able to skate like the rest. I fell flat on my ass…yet again. And, again, and one more time. Finally, after 20 minutes of making a complete ass of myself, one of the clipboards came over to me and said “OK, you can leave now.”
More weeping. I dried my eyes just long enough to take the skates back into the store.
“Didn’t work for you, huh? How about these???”
“No, thank you…”
I opened the door. That light was flashing. “Congratulations, you got the commercial. Be down in Santa Monica at 6am tomorrow morning, by the pier.
I thought, this is some hideous joke. Who would do such a thing? I called my agent, a bit miffed, thinking this was too cruel for words. Not to mention, I wasn’t SAG or AFTRA… But, they insisted that what ever I did, they loved it. SO, I schlepped back to the store and purchased the Scooby’s.
Now, I was concerned about who THOSE people were? Had they lost their minds? Didn’t they see me? And, are they now expecting something from me? Do they have hazard pay???
I arrived at 5:45 am, just to make sure they hadn’t gotten me confused with someone else that they were now going to have to try and track down. Nope, I was the one they wanted. “And, here’s your dressing room Miss Harper.” A HUGE winnie just for me. I walked in, and looked at the contract sitting by the make-up mirror.
“STUNT SKATER” was written on it. OH MY GOD!!! THIS IS A HUGE MISTAKE!!! And, somehow, I’m gonna get blamed for it. I opened the door and called to the P.A. “Excuse me, I think there’s a mistake here…” He told me he’d get the director. The director came. “What’s wrong?” I could feel the tears starting to well up in my eyes, but a sniffed ‘em back and said “I think there’s a mistake here. Don’t get me wrong, but, I’m not a skater. As a matter of fact, I’m REALLY a bad skater.”
“We know, that’s why we hired you. We wanted someone fresh and natural who is REALLY bad, who’s learning how to skate with their boyfriend, a young man named Donald Fullilove who’s a brilliant skater. You’re perfect.”
And, that’s how I got my SAG card. As a stunt skater. You see all of 2 seconds of me, falling into Donald’s arms. I did if 36 times, ‘cause the young girl that had all of the talking to do, kept messing it up. By the end of the day… I still couldn’t skate, but I was officially a member of the Screen Actors Guild, and my fee just covered my dues. It was grand! And, I kept the Scooby for years, but never wore them again.
From Dendrie Taylor
After graduating from NYU and studying in NYC to become a serious, classically trained actor, I came to LA to give it a shot. Through friends of friends I got the chance to have a meeting with an agent. I had never really learned to drive before I went to NYC, so driving in LA was challenging. I borrowed my Mom’s stick shift car to get from Pacific Palisades to Hollywood. I wanted to look my best, so I curled my hair, put on makeup and got dressed in a cream silk camisole top and a fuchsia suede mini-skirt.
It was a hot summer day and the car did not have air conditioning, so I started out on my big day with the windows down. After a terrifying freeway ride, which took all the curl out of my hair, I got off the 10 and went up La Cienega. I was confused, lost and already running late. The later I got, the more lost I became, and the more upset I grew. Finally, I was close, but found myself stopped on the steepest hill I had ever seen (where La Cienega meets Sunset) waiting for the light to change. I was scared out of my mind that I would stall as I tried to work the stick shift. I started to sweat. Flop sweat. I did stall. I started to cry as the long line of cars behind me honked furiously. Everyone missed the left turn. I didn’t know how to start the car and work the shift to get up that hill. I stalled again. Now I was really late. Finally I got up the hill and got to the meeting. By the time I walked into the agent’s office, my hair was straight, my makeup smeared from crying, my eyes puffy and red, and the lovely cream colored camisole that I had splurged to buy, was smeared in a fuchsia ring around my waist and up from the dye of the skirt mixed with an alarming amount of sweat.
I sat down in the agent’s office. He looked at me. Then he looked at my NY resume and said, “This is L.A.. In L.A. we hire beautiful girls.” He pointed to a headshot on the wall, “this is a beautiful girl.” He picked up my headshot. “ If you want to work here, you will have to change your nose, jaw and breasts.” I looked at the photo on the wall, I looked at my headshot, and I walked my sweaty, smeary self out the door. Some how I made it back to my mom’s house. I guess it was downhill. I decided to go back to NYC. But that day was just a stall on the big hill of my life in acting. I came back to LA a few years later, determined to make it on my talent, and keep my body just as it was. It has been uphill most of the time, but I have been working for 22 years in film and TV- in L.A. and I plan to do at least 22 more.
